The Caretakers (2011)

by Adrian Chamberlin

  Fear. John Franklin was scared of him.

  “I think, Mr Searles, that your head porter has been keeping a few things secret from you. Now’s the time to come clean, Franklin.” He took the shotgun from his shoulder and levelled it meaningfully at the head porter.

  The fury and hatred in Franklin’s face abated a little.

  “I’m hiding nothing, Hughes,” he said condescendingly. “I have been nothing less than a faithful servant of All Souls - and humanity. In fact, if it wasn’t for me, certain members of the Fellowship would have weakened in their duty so much as to make Andraste’s return inevitable.”

  Searles glowered but said nothing. Franklin continued.

  “Our Master grudgingly understands that I have been forced to take somewhat extreme measures to ensure the continuance of our unhappy but necessary duty. After the fiasco of last year I have made certain that Andraste will not be displeased again this year. We cannot - will not - allow you to jeopardise the propitiation tonight. Too much is at stake.”

  Andy’s grip on the shotgun tightened. “Extreme measures. Unhappy duty. That why you laughed as you tore Phil’s family to pieces?”

  “Mr Franklin has been rather heavy handed in his duties, there is no doubt.”

  Andy almost dropped the SPAS 12 in disbelief at Searles’ softly spoken words.

  “Heavy handed? Jesus wept!”

  “But I can assure you, all other aspects of the propitiation to Andraste are essential. We have no choice. See it from our point of view, Andrew. Every year we have to offer up two innocents to her. Not just take their lives, but tear them to pieces. Torture them to death. Do you have any idea of the effect this has on us? Do you really not understand that we would rather kill ourselves than perform this horror, year after year after year? What do you think this does to our sanity?

  “I can understand your anger that Jennifer has been chosen. But you must understand. Andraste chooses the offerings. Not us. Andraste commands, we obey. We have no choice.”

  “Crap. Everyone has a choice. You especially. You’re the Master. Lead by example, make the choice. Join the stones.”

  Searles glanced at Franklin. The head porter nodded slightly. Searles gestured to the meteorite on High Table.

  “Nothing I can say will convince you. So why don’t you see for yourself?”

  Andy followed Searles’ trembling finger towards the meteorite. In any light that thing would look mysterious. It was older than the Earth itself and it had travelled distances inconceivable to the human mind. And by sheer chance it had landed at this particular spot.

  But was it chance? Who was to say there wasn’t some unearthly power behind it, guiding its course?

  A judgement on human evil, a warning from God. Or, as the Fellowship believed, a grim gift and reminder from Andraste. A covenant between her and her appeasers. Proof from Andraste herself that they were doing the right thing. That they were not misguided and deceived murderers, they were saviours of mankind.

  For the love of humanity.

  “You’re being given a very great honour, Hughes,” Franklin growled. “Only Senior members of the College - those on the Council - are allowed to touch the rock, to commune with Andraste. The Master obviously thinks very highly of you to allow you near it.” He stared impassively at Searles. “Perhaps he understands your pain.”

  Perhaps it’s a trick. Franklin had edged closer than he had realised. Searles was to his right, a few metres away. The head porter had stealthily advanced and was mere inches away, his hand reaching open -

  “Back off.” The SPAS 12 was raised again.

  “Do as he says, Franklin. Give him room.”

  Even Andy was surprised by that. Searles smiled sadly and said,

  “The knowledge will only take a few seconds to enter your mind. But be warned - it will feel longer.”

  “Master…” Franklin shot Searles a glare. Searles glared back.

  “It is only right that he be warned, Franklin. It’s essential that he knows why we are doing this. Now do as he says…and back off!

  “Lay your hand on the stone, Andrew. Share the secret. Know the truth.”

  Andy waited until Franklin had walked towards the great double doors of the Hall before he looked at the rock again. Even Searles stood backwards, waiting at the far right side of High Table for Andy Hughes to commune with Andraste.

  The mineral traces glittered invitingly in the candle light. Only a few seconds. That’s all it’ll take to prove they’re all fucking loopy…

  He rested the shotgun over his left shoulder, his right hand free to touch the stone. No way was he going to have his back turned towards these two when he touched it. His right hand hovered over the rock. His fingers outstretched…and then he hesitated.

  What if?

  What if they were right after all? What if he was wrong - that he was sharing Jason Franklin’s delusion, even his madness? The Green Man in the van, identical to Jason’s vision of The Elder - surely a sign of madness, a symptom of a fractured mind.

  James Freeland - had he allowed his fear and doubt to get the better of him? He’d been traumatised by the murder of his mother. And Judith Cox? She’d been hospitalised in Fulbourn years back after a miscarriage and a breakdown.

  Perhaps it was the strongest minds alone that could survive the duty to Andraste. Single minded, unquestioning, obedient.

  But where’s the humanity in that?

  The candles flickered once more. A breeze rattled the windows as if demanding access.

  Andy Hughes held his breath and then lowered his free hand firmly on the top part of the ancient stone.

  It was cold, but not overly so. Certainly no colder than any piece of rock or stonework would be. The fusion crust was smooth. The mason who had dressed and polished this stone had done a good job. He pressed his palm harder onto the meteorite, and thought that it might have been the same mason who had carved the Green Man.

  Nothing happened. No visions, no dark whispers, no hidden secrets. Nothing.

  Andy stared across the empty expanse of the Great Hall towards the head porter. He smiled mockingly.

  And then it happened.

  * * * * *

  Jason Franklin noticed that Rob Benson’s hands shook on the Glock as he brought it to bear on the two figures running from the eastern side of the wood. Two bulky human figures that wore a matching uniform of black blazers with the All Souls crest upon the breast pocket. They broke back branches, crunching snow and frozen leaf litter underfoot as they advanced towards their prey.

  Jason’s lip curled. Not just porters, these were an unofficial private army, John Franklin’s dishonour guard. Hired thugs who had terrorised and beaten him when he had discovered the secret in the cellars beneath the chapel. His hand tightened on the temperature probe.

  The two men kicked up clods of snow as they thundered towards the vehicles. They either didn’t see the gun Rob raised or were unconcerned by it. Jason glanced upwards, frowning.

  Probably the former, he thought. The clouds were darkening, no longer the thick steel grey of snow clouds. Now it seemed that daylight was vanishing, the sun dying behind the clouds.

  They didn’t see it, but they sure as hell heard it. Jason Franklin stared at the driver of the Mondeo with new found respect. He was no stranger to firearms: that was certain - he was wincing at the effect of the recoil and the noise, but he knew what he was doing.

  The first shot went wide and hit one of the branches of the oak nearest to the left porter. Snow flurries appeared in the air, sparkling in the glare of the muzzle flash from the Glock. The first porter threw himself to the ground, rolling to his right and into the shelter of the tree that had taken his bullet. The second carried on running, his eyes narrowed with purpose as he saw Rob Benson struggle with the physical effect of the recoil.

  Jason tapped the fingers of his free hand on the steering wheel thoughtfully. In the glare of the van’s headlights he could see all too clearly the murderous
expression on the porter’s face. His eyes were the cold grey of gun metal, his thick lips twisting into a snarl. His hand reached into his jacket pocket, reaching for what Jason Franklin knew would be a gun.

  “Drop it, sunshine,” the porter barked. His eyes bored into Rob’s, his grip on the Browning steady and unwavering.

  Jason knew this porter now. The gruff Yorkshire accent and the jowls were those of Tom Ellis, who’d served alongside John Franklin in the Falklands. Another psycho - and just as dangerous as the man who had claimed to be Jason’s father.

  His eyes were fixed on Rob, trying to psych him out. Rob’s face was pale, his hands trembling. There was a gap of three metres and a barrier of green steel between them.

  Jason dropped gently to the ground. He was all too aware of the second porter hiding behind the tree - that would be Neil Street, one of the younger porters. Jason couldn’t remember too much about that one, but guessed he wasn’t as experienced in the use of firearms as Ellis.

  But he won’t be running away, that’s a dead cert. Jason knew he had to act fast. Ellis was the nearest, he was the most dangerous if Rob couldn’t pull the trigger. But Street couldn’t be ignored. It was only a matter of time before he brought reinforcements - maybe even the head porter himself.

  Jason smiled in anticipation. The man he’d called father all his life…oh, I’m going to enjoy watching you burn as well, Franklin! But, first things first…

  The standoff couldn’t last indefinitely. Someone had to give way. He saw Rob Benson’s eyes flick in his direction and cursed.

  Don’t fucking give me away, idiot! He dropped to the ground, hidden by the open door of the cook chill vehicle, but it was too late. Tom Ellis had seen him.

  “Street!” he heard Ellis bark. “There’s the other one. Get him!”

  Rob fired. This time he didn’t miss.

  The Glock spat fire. Sparks flew as the slug passed through Ellis’ knuckles and struck the trigger guard of the Browning. Ellis shrieked in agony and pulled the trigger.

  Jason broke cover and ran towards him. He raised the temperature probe above his head, the digital display box slapping the side of his head as the glade exploded in noise and light, the cannon-like roar of the Browning Hi-Power, the screams of agony from Ellis leaving him unable to hear the howl of rage and hatred that left his own lips.

  Left him unable to hear the thing that crashed through the frozen undergrowth behind him.

  Ellis turned, the Hi-Power slipping from his shattered fingers and falling to the blood soaked snow. His eyes widened in horror, his agony briefly forgotten as he saw Jason running towards him - and brought crashing to the frozen ground by the thing that charged into him.

  * * * * *

  Rob Benson was momentarily blinded by the muzzle flash that angled skywards. The booming report of the Browning was deafening, but he felt no pain. He knew the armed porter had missed. He dropped below the safety of the Mondeo, blinking frantically, trying to dispel the orange smears clouding his vision. The ringing in his ears merged with screams and shouting beyond Boyd’s car. His heart raced, adrenaline from the standoff coursing through his body, and he shook violently. With a nervous swallow he brought himself to a sitting position and wiped the cold, greasy sweat from the handgrip of the gun on his fleece. Then he twisted over, forcing himself to peer behind the shelter of the driver’s door.

  “Bloody hell…” he watched open mouthed as the former inmate of the Phoenix Unit nimbly spun away from the creature that towered over him, spinning his body through the hind legs of the beast and gracefully rising to a standing position behind it. Jason’s breathing was rapid but measured: his stance firm but flexible, ready to adapt to any move the boar might make next.

  The creature spun round, its jaws wide open, snarling and dripping something black and viscous. Jason watched it calmly, the steel temperature probe and its plastic readout hanging loosely in his hand.

  The boar raised its head to the darkening sky and howled. It was a sound Rob Benson had never heard before - not even from the boar he had fought in the Granta warehouse - and hoped never to hear again. This was a cry that belonged to no earthly creature. It was a long wolf-like howl, directed to the forces that surrounded it and gave it life - and death. It was a howl of rage and pain, of grief for its unnatural existence. It was timeless. It was terrifying.

  There was also a hunger in that cry. A desire for spilled blood and torn flesh. Even Jason hesitated in his advance. For a brief moment his eyes met Rob’s and a look passed between them. Rob shuddered and almost shrank behind the shelter of the Mondeo. That look would remain with him for as long as he lived.

  The co-existing fury and calm were still there. But there was also self-belief and reassurance. In that one brief glance, in spite of the events spinning wildly out of control, Jason Franklin was telling him that everything was going to be all right.

  Crazy. Impossible. I’ve killed three people today. Even if I get outta here alive I’m gonna be banged up for that. Not that that’s gonna happen, anyway. Another fucking boar and a gunman to get past - and then Franklin and Searles. And here I am feeling comforted by an escaped lunatic…

  But that reassurance was a tangible thing, a physical force that flowed into his body from Jason’s brief gaze. Rob Benson could finally see that this thing Jason called The Elder was indeed working through him.

  But it was a last-ditch attempt. Andy’s missus was going to be torn to pieces at any moment and then Andraste was going to break through. If they didn’t get out of the clearing in the woods alive, Andy Hughes was on his own.

  Rob Benson had the sickening realisation that despite the military cannon Andy carried, his chances of success were slim.

  Turning his eyes back to the beast, Jason tensed, putting his body into a defensive crouch. The probe was raised and glinted in the halogen glare of the headlights. Rob saw the beast’s solid black eyes narrow, almost human in its appraisal of its enemy. The ridge of bristles on its dorsal crest thickened, stiffening. Then it charged.

  Jason angled his body to his right, feinted with the probe. The beast hurtled in the direction it sensed the human was going, its trotters thundering on the iced ground as it charged.

  And then, when it was too late for the boar, Jason twisted to the left. The boar’s tusks missed him by inches and the probe went straight through the creature’s right eye, bursting it like a lightly-boiled egg. Jason withdrew it before the boar’s momentum tore the weapon from his hand. He grabbed the ridge of bristles with his free hand and jumped onto the back of the boar.

  Rob realised that the probe must have penetrated the creature’s brain. Its movements were jerky and uncontrolled, its body lurching spasmodically. Its maw and tusks were coated in black blood and viscous optical fluid which splattered glutinously onto the churned mud of the wood floor. Jason drove his knees inwards, his weight and the weakness of the boar combining to bring the beast to its knees. Holding the probe in both hands he raised it above his head and then drove it downwards with devastating force.

  The sound of the boar’s skull cracking was like the sound the Glock had made when Rob fired it. He winced, and then remembered the gunman.

  Rob jerked his head to the left, trying to locate the other man. There was the bloodstained Browning Hi-Power, kicked to one side by the charging front legs of the boar. Following the trail of dripping blood Rob saw that its owner had backed away, out of the clearing. He held his damaged hand to his chest, blood staining the white shirt beneath his blazer. There was a sickened and horrified expression on his face and when Rob turned back to see what Jason was doing he saw what had caused the porter’s horror.

  Rob had to physically turn away from what Jason was doing. The balance between calm and rage had shifted in favour of the latter. As if goaded by victory, his nostrils flared and a maniacal gleam was in his eyes as he wrenched the probe out and brought it down again, this time into the beast’s right flank. Again, and again, at times grating on the rib
s, most times effortlessly shooting in and sliding out again.

  Then the left flank. The same relentless assault. Rob couldn’t see it, but he could hear it. He saw the porter back away from the mutilation of the impossible beast.

  Don’t fucking blame you, pal. Then he saw the man’s head turn and a strangled cry of terror passed his lips, now the only sound in the clearing as the squelching and tearing noises Jason was making ceased.

  Perhaps his energy was spent, his hunger for violence temporarily sated.

  Or perhaps he was aware of the sight that captivated the injured porter and now Rob Benson. He dismounted and stood up, not even bothering to wipe the black blood from his face.

  The three men stared silently at the pack of four boars that had until now remained motionless, watching silently as their companion was hacked to pieces.

  Jason’s victim uttered one last blood-bubbled exhalation before the gleaming black light in its eyes dimmed, faded and died.

  As one, the four boars attacked.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  A stomach churning lurch, a shift in the ground beneath him and the air around him, and Andy Hughes was no longer aware of the piece of rock beneath his hand. Neither was he aware of the opulent medieval surroundings of the Great Hall, nor of his two companions. He certainly didn’t see the sly grin on the head porter’s face, nor the sympathetic grimace from the Master.

  He saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing. All five senses were dead, useless. He was in a complete state of nothingness, a limbo where he had neither bodily sensations nor any sensory connections to the world he knew.

  Nothing but darkness. A blackness so complete, so total, it had a physical presence of its own. Rather than a mere absence of light the darkness embodied an invisible and unknowable force, a destructive entity that was aware of his presence.

  Perhaps the sensory deprivation was a blessing. Andy realised that if he could smell this entity it would fill his nostrils and burn his nasal membranes with an unbearable stench of putrefaction, of boiled blood and incinerated flesh. Its touch would be arctic ice and desert sun encased in smooth silk and jagged steel, cutting and burning and freezing. The touch of death in a thousand and one guises, perfumed with the stench of ultimate decay. An evil that would need more than five earthly senses to comprehend it fully.