Hunting Angels (Box Set) (The great horror writers (Masterton, Saul, Herbert) and now Jones)

by Conrad Jones

  “I haven’t got the time to fuck about.” I patted his pockets and took out his wallet. Flicking it open with one hand it revealed that I’d been wrong again. “Dale Robinson?”

  I took his mobile and stepped back. There was a tear running from his eye down his right cheek as I shouldered the shotgun and squeezed the trigger. The close proximity of the blast blew the front of his face off. Jaw bone and splintered teeth splattered the others. Blood and grey goo clung to their faces and clothes. There were bubbles appearing where his oesophagus once joined his throat; his dying breath leaving his ruined body.

  “Fucking hell!” Hughes began to cry. His face twisted as if in agony. “He’s the temple master.” He pointed to man I’d originally identified as Gaskin with a shaking finger. “I’ve only been a few times. I didn’t fully understand what the fuck was going on.” He blubbered. “I didn’t want anything to do with them but they threatened me!”

  “Shut your mouth!” Gaskin snarled at him. “Pull yourself together!”

  “What exactly do you want?” The man with the hammer and carving knife asked. His voice quavered with fear. I hadn’t heard him speak until now. He was of no consequence to me or my objectives. I aimed the gun low and squeezed the trigger again. The maelstrom of shot ripped through his right leg tearing chunks of thigh muscle and knee ligaments from the bone. He screamed and grabbed at the wound, a thick jet of blood spurted between his fingers, the femoral artery severed. “Agh! My leg, you bastard!”

  Hughes buckled at the knees; fear stripped any resolve he had left. He cowered on the floor with his hands covering his head. “Please don’t hurt me; I’ll tell you whatever you want!” His eyes pleaded for mercy. I thought about the innocents who were killed at the farm. I thought about how they must have pleaded for their lives while they were being raped, tortured and murdered. Any shred of sympathy disappeared. There was no mercy left in me. Not for them anyway.

  “I’m bleeding to death!”

  “Shut him up,” I shouted at Hughes.

  “Get an ambulance!”

  “Where can I find Jennifer Booth?” I ignored the screams and pointed the gun at Gaskin.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Everyone thought Dewi Critchley was the temple master didn’t they?”

  Silence but their eyes belied the truth.

  “Max Blackman blabbed before I kicked the chair from underneath him.”

  Silence again. They exchanged a nervous glance.

  “Did you believe that he killed himself?”

  Only the moaning of the injured man and the crackling of burning wood answered me. The flames were tickling the rafters and I knew it wouldn’t be long before the roof started to burn. I stepped closer and gestured with the gun. “Kneel down,” I picked up the petrol and held the canister against my thigh, twisting the lid from it with one hand while I kept the gun aimed at him with the other. His face was ashen as I poured the stinging fluid over his legs and feet. I spilled the rest over Hughes, which pushed his wailing to a new pitch. “If you think that I’m fucking around here, then I suggest you take a look at your sicko friends. He’s dead and he’s bleeding to death. Geraint here is about to feel what hell will be like before he actually gets there, aren’t you, Geraint?”

  “Oh Jesus, please don’t burn me!” He blubbered. Snot ran from his nostrils and saliva dribbled from his chin. He looked like a giant baby with a cold. “Tell him where she is, you stupid bastard!”

  “Shut up, Geraint!” Gaskin hissed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Jennifer Booth?” I spoke slowly and pronounced every syllable. “How do you keep in touch with her?” I replaced two shells into the Mossberg. Gaskin held my gaze. There was still no fear in his eyes. That shook me a little. Most men would be crapping themselves but he seemed completely calm. I had to make him realise that his knowledge was the only thing keeping him alive. The man with the injured leg was screaming incoherently. I turned the gun towards him and fired. The blast ripped the top of his skull off. His body twitched violently as his brain spilled onto the concrete. Grey and crimson mingled as it puddled in a balloon shape. Hughes retched and his vomit splattered across the floor. The smell of urine, excrement and vomit joined with those of burning timbers. “Last chance, where is the bitch?”

  “What do you think you can achieve by finding her?” A thin smile crossed his lips. His eyes had a glint in them. “Do you have any idea what she is?”

  “Yes, I know what she is,” I shrugged and pulled the lighter from my pocket. I knelt down near to where Hughes was cowering. He was still trying to empty the contents of his guts onto the concrete. His face twisted by terror as the flame neared him. His mouth opened and closed in a silent prayer. “She’s a sick fucker just like you.”

  “What you call ‘sick’ we embrace. What you loath, we love. Do you think I fear death?” He smiled again. “I know what awaits me when this mortal shell has finished breathing. I also know what she has planned for you. You don’t need to find her; she’s coming for you anyway!” He rocked his head backwards and laughed like a lunatic. “You can do whatever you want to me. I’ll never tell you where she is.”

  “Empty your pockets,” I had to regain control. His lack of concern for his own life knocked my confidence.

  “What?” he frowned. His eyes flickered. It was the first sign of weakness.

  “Empty your pockets.”

  “Fuck off!” He sneered. His eyes dared me to near him. “Come and empty them yourself.”

  He didn’t want me to get my hands on something which he had. I guessed it was a mobile or a notebook PC of some kind. “Empty his pockets, Geraint and throw it all here in front of me. Do it now and I’ll let you walk out of here.”

  Hughes looked at me trying to gauge if I was telling the truth. “Why don’t you just tell him, for fuck’s sake?” He muttered as he stood up. “He’s obviously fucking mad and I’m not prepared to die for her!” He walked over to Gaskin and began to dig into his jacket pockets. “Just tell him where she is!”

  “You always were a spineless bastard,” Gaskin smiled.

  Hughes shook his head, scoffed and removed a wallet and mobile phone from his left hand pocket. He tossed them onto the floor. Gaskin reached into the other pocket and held something up in Hughes’s face. “Do you need a light, Geraint?” He flicked his Zippo and Geraint Hughes turned into a human torch. His clothes and hair blackened quickly and he flailed around like a burning windmill, staggering towards the inferno at the rear of the cutting shed. His screams were cut short as he inhaled the flames and the delicate tissue of his mouth and windpipe frazzled. Gaskin laughed as his fellow niner stumbled headlong into the flames. A cloud of sparks and burning embers erupted into the air as he crashed into the fire. His limbs flapped for long seconds before death took him. I was tempted to put him out of his misery using the shotgun but part of me wanted them all to suffer before they died. “Sorry, but I couldn’t resist that!” Gaskin snorted. “And to be fair, I think you were about to set fire to him anyway. Why have you only put petrol onto my legs?” He shrugged. “You’re going to set fire to me too and hope that the pain is so bad that I tell you where she is. Well go ahead and see what happens.” He really had no fear of me. I had to accept that he wasn’t going to be frightened into parting with Jennifer’s whereabouts. That left me few or no alternatives.

  “Maybe killing you is the wrong thing to do,” it was my turn to smile. “But I need to make sure you don’t get to molest any more children.”

  I aimed the Mossberg at his groin and squeezed the trigger. For the first time, fear flashed in his eyes. He tried to cover his genital area with his hands but he was too slow. The shot ripped two fingers from his left hand before it shredded the soft flesh of his penis. A second blast ripped the remaining tissue away leaving a ragged bleeding maw where his reproductive organs once lived. His screams still echo around my mind today. They all do, but the screams of the
ir victims drown them out sometimes. I didn’t choose this path, they forced me down it.

  “How does that feel?”

  “She’ll tear your heart out and make you eat it!” He wailed and writhed across the concrete on his back as if he could outrun the pain between his legs.

  “Maybe she will and maybe she won’t, but she had her chance and she blew it. This time will be different.” I knelt beside him and frisked his clothes. There was a second mobile in his jeans. He weakly tried to stop me taking it but there was no strength in his efforts. His fingers searched for something beneath him. I grabbed the mobile and stepped back as he raised his Zippo. He smiled at me again and the twinkle in his eyes was back.

  “I’ll see you in hell,” he laughed as he ignited the petrol on his clothing. His laugh seemed to reach an unbearable pitch as the flames took hold and seared his flesh. The lower half of his body was alight; from the waist up, his clothes were untouched. His eyes widened in horror and his face was set in a permanent grimace as he watched his legs frazzle, blister and burn. “Shoot me!” He screamed.

  “Give me your hand.” I held out my left hand and gripped his right. Pulling him roughly away from the other bodies, I dragged him burning to the incline. I let go and walked up the incline away from the cutting shed. The roof was alight; flames leaped and jumped through the slate tiles. A billowing tower of white smoke climbed hundreds of feet into the night air. The helicopter would spot the flames within minutes now that the roof had caught fire. I turned to walk back to the truck.

  “Where are you going?” Gaskin screamed. His burning legs smelled like a drunken barbecue late in the evening when the only food left is charcoaled. “Shoot me!”

  “Fuck you,” I shouted as I jogged away across the slate shale. “Burn you sick fucker; the police will be here soon, they’ll put you out!”

  “Don’t leave me like this please.....!”

  His words turned into a sickening wail. He had a good chance of surviving his wounds although life without legs and a penis wouldn’t be much fun for him. Jennifer Booth might even go and see him some day although I didn’t think she’d be too pleased with her flock in Carrog. Her contact details were in the second mobile. I didn’t know how I knew but I did. I climbed into the truck, feeling tired but motivated. I had a direct link to her. If I could find somewhere safe to rest up, I could use the internet to trace her mobile number. There were plenty of sites offering to ‘ping’ mobile numbers to gain a location. Some of them even hacked the number for you. I had had a successful night. Six members of the Order of Nine Angels were dead, or in custody. I had a direct route to find Jennifer Booth. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do once I’d cut her head off. Life wouldn’t have the same purpose after that. At least that’s what I thought then. The cutting shed was totally ablaze as I pulled out of the slate works and headed towards the mountains; thousands of burning embers spiralled skywards. The world seemed like a safer place for a while although it wasn’t a feeling which lasted very long.

  Chapter 21

  After leaving Glynn Gaskin and his cronies, I drove west all night until eventually I reached coast. The sun was climbing fast as I reached the sea. Barmouth is one of those places whose name belies its beauty. Craggy mountains and rolling hills descend to some of the widest beaches I’ve ever seen. The sand dunes are almost white, spotted with razor sharp, lime green grasses. The sea is crystal clear and the three storey Victorian façades which line the promenade are painted in pastels, giving it a postcard quality. As I arrived, the piercing whistle of a vintage steam train echoed across the bay. Plumes of smoke and steam gave its position away. I watched its progress across a cast iron bridge, a mile wide, which spanned the mouth of the river Mawddach. The old town is raised and I could see a mixture of steep steps and slate-roofed cottages on the side of a mountain. Couples walked hand in hand enjoying the morning sunshine. The harbour looked beautiful and I wished I could walk across the Barmouth Bridge holding hands with a woman who loved me. I thought of the women who had shared my life and wondered how different things would be if I hadn’t been so selfish. My determination to become a successful writer had landed me where I was. I had ignored their feelings and ploughed on, regardless of how my blind and stubborn determination affected them. I wanted to stop running. I wanted to stop hiding. I wanted to go back in time to when my life was normal, but the truth was none of them would look at me sideways any more. I was but a shadow of the man I was then. The killing didn’t worry me but the loneliness was crippling my soul; whatever soul I had left, I mean.

  As I reached the coast road, the resort was waking up. Tourists walked along the seafront and shopkeepers were setting out their wares on the pavements. Little cafés were filling up with hungry holidaymakers looking for the cheapest fry-ups in town. The clear skies promised that a perfect day by the seaside was on its way, although anyone familiar with Snowdonia knows better than to take the weather for granted. It could be warm and sunny one minute and monsoon-like the next. The close proximity of the mountains next to sea creates its own unique weather patterns.

  The smell of bacon mingled with the salty air was stimulating the hunger receptors in my brain. There is nothing on this planet that makes my hunger neurons jump like the smell of bacon. Except maybe the vinegar aroma outside a fish and chip shop. The cafés used chalk boards of various shapes and sizes, listing all the ingredients of their ‘special’ breakfasts which added to the discomfort of my empty stomach. Bacon, eggs, sausages, black pudding, beans, toast, hash browns and mushrooms, every syllable teased me. The sight of a man with a newspaper tucked beneath his arm as he entered a little café, which had a faded blue and white awning, made me think that risking breakfast could be suicide. I envisaged my face on the front page of every newspaper. The thought of getting halfway through a belly-buster breakfast, before being surrounded by armed police almost seemed worth it.

  I pulled the truck into a parking space outside a camping shop on the seafront. The owner was pulling wire bins full of flip-flops onto the pavement. Had it been raining, I guessed the bins would have been full of plastic-macs and collapsible umbrellas. Today it would be beach balls and buckets and spades. I turned off the engine and climbed out of the truck, checking both ways for any sign of the police. The sound of seagulls calling above me settled my nerves. Even back then when I heard the flying scavengers on the air and smelled the sea, I felt like I had arrived home. I still do.

  I walked quickly into the shop and grabbed a tweed flat cap and a pair of £1.99 imitation designer shades. Putting them on, I scanned the shelves and came up with an idea. The smell of rubber Wellington boots and Gortex reminded me of the many camping trips that I used to go on with friends from my local pub. We used to pull up, pitch up, then get pissed up. I grabbed a four-man dome tent and a cocoon sleeping bag, a Calor gas stove and some mess tins. There were plenty of remote camp-sites along the coast. I could mingle into the woods and trees for a few nights while I selected my next targets. The owner coughed nervously behind me distracting me from my thoughts.

  “The hat fits you okay then?” He said sarcastically. His features were angular as if his face had been chiselled from granite.

  “Yes and the glasses fit too,” I replied in a whisper. I put my finger to my lips. “Its my idea of a disguise. I came down here to get away from the missus but I’ve heard she’s coming down to try and find me.”

  “Oh, I get it, disguise it is then,” he tapped his nose and nodded conspiratorially. “I split up with my missus five years ago. The bitch took everything and she still haunts me now. You can have the glasses on me.”

  “Thanks,” I smiled.

  “The hat is £9.99.”

  “Absolute bargain,” it was my turn to be sarcastic. “Like I said, thanks.” I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. “I’ll take this lot too please.”

  “Right you are,” he rubbed his hands together before keying it into the till. I noticed his hands were strong. They looked scar
ed around the knuckles. The total increased as each item was added. Each addition seemed to lift his demeanour. He looked out of place working in a camping shop. “Seventy five, ninety nine, where are you thinking of heading for?”

  “What?” I asked suspiciously.

  “I assume you’re going to a camp-site?” he nodded towards the tent and accessories and smiled. “I just wondered which one.”

  “South, I think I’ll see the west coast,” I lied. I wanted to head north towards Harlech. I handed him four twenty pound notes. “Where’s the best place for breakfast around here?”

  “If you want to stay out of the way, there’s a greasy spoon down the next street,” he smirked. “It’s not the best but it’s cheap and cheerful.”

  “I’ll give it a try.”

  “Have you seen the news at all this morning?” His eyes narrowed.

  “No,” I picked up my purchases nervously. Maybe I’d pushed my luck too far.

  “You might want to have a look at it.”

  “Why is that?” I could feel my face tensing up and although I couldn’t see myself, I knew that I’d gone red.

  “You might have a little more than your ex-wife to worry about.” He shut the till drawer and stepped back slightly. “According to the television, more members of that cult from Carrog were found dead near Betws-y-Coed last night. Papers said there was a ‘Massacre in the mountains!’ Sounds like they got what they deserved to me.”

  “I’m not sure what you mean, but thanks for the glasses.” I turned to walk out of the shop. Obviously the events of the night before were public knowledge.

  “It probably doesn’t mean much but I’m right behind you,” he half smiled. “The police are linking the murders to all that shit that went on in Carrog. They’re nothing but paedophile scum. Whoever killed them should get a medal. Paedophile scum and nothing more than that.”