by Lex Sinclair
General Straub didn’t believe in ghosts and ghouls or any other supernatural bullshit. After listening to a story about Detective Inspector Sark reading a phantom letter by his superiors, he had done well not to snort derisive laughter.
Was everyone going crazy? How could they believe such nonsense? All that was happening were a group of no more than four mentally disturbed guys getting together and taking sick pleasure in murdering innocent people, terrifying them by ripping the hearts from their bodies, a harrowing ritual so that the authorities would know it was their kill. This crap about there being dead bodies buried here once upon a time a century ago was good old-fashioned Joe-public shit-stirring. They find themselves a gory yarn and spread it around town like wildfire, and every so often someone comes along and adds another bit to the tale to make it even worse than it actually was initially, to cause gossip and panic.
Dead people didn’t come back to life; otherwise they were never dead in the first place. Fact. Furthermore, the black shapes on the screen were created by faulty tape that had missed a few seconds footage. Then there was the question he had asked that none of his superiors could answer: How do ghosts rip out someone’s heart and take it with them. If there were such things as ghosts, then they couldn’t very well harm you physically: hence why their unspoken theory was complete and utter bullshit.
General Straub was fifty-two years-old. He didn’t have the time or the patience to be naïve, and let other people’s paranoia leak into him. The reason he’d been hired to be in charge of this special operation was because his record was perfect. Every national crisis threatening citizens lives he’d been involved in had been a complete success. This was because he didn’t let his mind conjure all kinds of nonsense he believed ninety percent of the time was influenced by late night horror films and implausible rumours.
Yes, this was a serious predicament they found themselves in. The perpetrators were very well trained, experienced and highly intelligent; there was no denying that. The adversary so far had yet to slip up. But sooner or later they would make an error that would give him and his platoon the opportunity to take them out. Case closed. Record still in tact.
When you started getting involved on a personal level it was game over. Straub didn’t give a flying fuck about the residents of Willet Close. If he saw them lying in a hospital bed crying out in agony he’d pretend he hadn’t heard them and carry on like nothing had happened. Their lives were only important to him, because if any more individuals died at the hands of these maniacal bastards then it would be his neck in the noose. He could kiss bye-bye to the early retirement he was looking forward to. Perhaps selling his property and moving out to sunny Florida.
Inspector Sark was no bloody good, because his partner had died. Straub didn’t have partners, just colleagues. If they died, sure it was a shame, but he didn’t go back to bed at night and cry like a baby; to do so would please his adversary, immensely. If the enemy saw him weeping uncontrollably, they’d laugh their cocks off. He knew that, just as he knew the sun was warm on his back in spite of the chilly breeze. Because if he saw his adversary crying due to the fact that he’d killed one his men he’d do exactly the same.
Being ruthless was General Straub’s forte. He wouldn’t hesitate in putting a bullet through someone’s head, nor would he lose any sleep over it afterwards. Kill or be killed. Like it or lump it. Pick the bones out of that. That was his motto.
Behind him news vans were parking on the side of the main road from all the well-known channels, wanting to report the news and film footage of a cordoned-off Willet Close, and perhaps interview him for the six o’clock news bulletin.
These reporters and journalists pissed Straub off no end. They were like vultures, running about like headless chickens for the next BIG story so they would get themselves into the news headlines. It was even better if there were deaths involved. Deaths, particularly gruesome ones, sold newspapers, made average people tune in and turn the volume up. They would proclaim how dreadful it was in front of the camera running a live feed to show sympathy and compassion, but deep down all that mattered to them was they furthered their careers. Off camera you would ask how they really felt and they’d say, Hey, people die everyday. I’m just doing my job and letting the public know about it. But that wasn’t what Straub thought made them obnoxious; it was the mere fact that some of the idiots actually thought they were being magnanimous, just by doing their everyday - not to mention, well-paid - jobs.
The residents had been staying together for the night in one of the neighbours’ homes. Straub had watched as a man and woman from CID had gone to explain the situation to them. He wondered how they’d take the news of having their freedom taken away from them - albeit for their own benefit. If someone came to his house, preventing him from leaving the street, he’d go ape-shit. Yet, when he saw a couple of men emerge from the house and stood on the lawn, they appeared desolate. They looked as though they’d been through hell and physically survived, but not mentally.
The two CID officers explained that last night someone broke the window to a gentleman’s house opposite where they all were currently staying, which needed investigating. Crime Scene Detectives would examine the broken window to see if maybe this time there were any traces of the evasive perpetrator.
The general may not have believed in ghosts, nevertheless, not one person could explain how Hugh Green had died, with the ICU secured and monitored 24/7. If this elite group of savage murderers could move in and out of a hospital without a trace, then this was going to be one hell of a battle. A battle that threatened his perfect record and an early retirement plan.
The scorching sun and white beaches of Florida was the last thing on Straub’s mind.
***
Michael and Joe stood on Martha’s front lawn, their trainers wet with dew, staring at the two army-coloured trucks blocking entrance and exit from either side. They had just listened to two immaculately dressed officers telling them about the events going on their street. They were assured that whatever fears they had of being kidnapped or murdered were no longer necessary. In spite of seeing armed soldiers protecting them, Michael still couldn’t get rid of the unease inside him.
‘Is this a good thing or not?’ he asked, not taking his eyes off the news vans parked up on the kerb; cameramen hoisting their filming equipment onto their hefty shoulders.
Joe sighed. ‘I dunno any more, Mike. Quite frankly, I don’t feel I know anything. But I don’t think that assault rifles are going to stop or dissuade the Acolytes of Doom, nor the thing with the goat’s head, one iota. On the other hand, I could be wrong. And I hope to God that I am.’
‘Me too.’
‘Did Naomi tell them about Brian?’
Michael nodded. ‘Yeah. But she just said that he’s gone missing. She didn’t mention the incident; otherwise she might get separated from Corrie if they think she’s mad.’
‘Jesus Christ. This is all so surreal. If I do survive this somehow, I think I might take residence in the Cefn Coed Mental Institution.’
Michael was too exhausted to laugh; instead he gave weak half-hearted smile.
‘At least now we’ve got a legitimate Neighbourhood Watch.’
When the cameras turned in their direction, both men decided they didn’t want to see themselves on national television, quarantined in their own homes due to a special military operation, for their own safety. They were too scared of mentioning to the CID officers that there were supernatural forces committing these heinous crimes, in case they were taken someplace where they’d never return. Better and wiser, not to say a word, just let the events unfold and do their best to stay out of the way and pray that this ordeal would be over very shortly.
The others stopped talking and turned to the two men as the came back into the room.
‘What’s going on out there?’ Emma wanted to know.
&
nbsp; ‘The media are crowding up on the other side of the perimeter. My house, and all the other houses on this street are going to be examined by Crime Scene Detectives and forensics, looking for any clues - not that it’s gonna to do them much good. Then we’ll just have to wait and see, I guess. What else can we do, huh?’
‘Maybe they won’t make an appearance now, ‘cause they know the military are out in force,’ Jake said, sounding doubtful.
Martha had showered and dressed into clean clothes after vomiting violently last night. Also, she, Emma and Sherri had made breakfast for everyone, so that they didn’t disperse with all the commotion going on outside. It also took their minds off the surreal situation they suddenly found themselves in, by merely living in the wrong place at the wrong time, and like a lot of victims were suffering through no fault of their own.
The old lady turned the TV on, and although she ought to have expected it, she was still taken aback by the image of their very own street on the screen behind an elegantly dressed, red-haired reporter holding a microphone to her mouth. She grabbed the remote control and put the sound up so they could all hear what was being said that concerned them.
‘... are being quarantined till further notice. At the moment, exactly what the operation objectives are unclear. But what we do know is that the military do believe this to be the work of a cult, performing a sacred ritual; although no one is quite sure why this once peaceful suburban area has been targeted by this group. However, the threat is very real. The number of deaths relating to this incredible story is increasing day by day. And what may appear to be drastic measures behind me are necessary to protect the innocent and to hopefully capture this cult that has sent shock waves through this small town that will never forget this day. I’m Natalie Cooper reporting for ITV News.’
The image cut to the newsroom where the newsreader said that there would be update news on the story that not only sent fear into Wales but the whole of the United Kingdom, too.
Martha killed the signal using the remote, then leaned back in her recliner. After a couple of moments contemplating everything they’d just heard from the live broadcast, it made everything that had happened all the more real and harrowing. How could this be happening to them? There was no reasonable answer to that question or any others similar to it. Like all catastrophes that had landed in the lap of ordinary people, it was a case of deal with it or become crazy living in denial.
‘Corrie,’ Martha said. ‘What did you want to tell me last night?’
Corrie shook her head. ‘It’s too late now.’
‘What’s too late? she pressed.
The little girl hesitated, glancing at her mum before saying, ‘In my dreams I saw where they came back to life.’
Martha didn’t speak for a while. Corrie was right, though. If she’d listened to her last night, perhaps they could have gone to this place and confronted the evil there once and for all. But now it was too late, because they were being vigilantly watched, not just by the military but also by the media, who at this very second had their cameras pointing at their street, their homes.
‘Where was that?’
‘Where me and Mum and Dad walked by the canal,’ she said in her soft voice, breaking at mentioning her recently deceased father. ‘There’s a hole in the bank by the canal, isn’t there, Mummy?’
Naomi’s eyes had a distant look as she stared at nothing in the room she was currently in. ‘Yeah... I remember,’ she said. ‘That’s what you were pointing at when we were walking behind you. I wasn’t paying attention because I was listening to your daddy telling me about beating his addiction and coming to terms with all the bad things he’d done.’
‘And that hole leads to their lair?’ Martha prompted.
‘Uh, huh.’ Corrie nodded. ‘That’s where they took my daddy, too. They nailed him to a cross, just like Jesus. Then they set fire to him. When they took him away again, they ate him.’
Naomi’s face drained of colour. Hearing her own, innocent daughter talk like this, explaining to them all in graphic detail how the victims had died churned her stomach. But Corrie wasn’t finished.
‘They ate his liver. They ate his pancreas and the crispy flesh flaying from his bones.’
‘Corrie, stop!’ Naomi yelled.
‘They’re telling me what to say!’ she protested.
‘What do they want, Corrie?’ Martha asked.
‘They want the world to remember them; not just remember, but shudder with terror every time they drive past this unholy ground and hear someone talk about this case. They want to put fear back into the world...’
‘No. What do they want from us?’
Corrie fixed a cold, unblinking gaze on the old woman and spoke in a deep, guttural voice that was nothing like her own. ‘To tear your souls apart!’
***
Thunderclouds formed in the sky over Willet Close, hanging low. The air grew heavy, yet in the ensuing hours no thunder rumbled; no brilliant forked flashes illuminated the sky, and no raindrops fell. Instead the foreboding mushroom clouds remained present, obscuring the daylight, causing everyone to arch their heads back and watch open- mouthed as the darkness in the sky climbed into the monstrous clouds, growing bigger and bigger. No one dared say so aloud, but thunder had not been forecasted by any of the weather programs; not even a hint of rain or cloud. This was nothing to do with Mother Nature, though, this was something far more powerful and malevolent. Something no one could put into words even if they had an extensive vocabulary. Furthermore, in the distance the sky was blue and cloudless. Only did the mushroom cloud hang over the suburbs, creating the manifestation of two separate worlds: one depicting colour and light - a world of hopes and dreams that were fulfilled. The other one depicted gloom and misery for those who lived there - a world of continuous deaths from malignant, incurable diseases, where no one had dreams. Hope didn’t exist, only perpetual suffering. An everlasting purgatory. That world was where the residents of Willet Close were in right now.
The Crime Scene Detectives and forensics had gone through each and every home in the street. They didn’t find any evidence that could give them a break in their investigation. What made matters worse was angry protestors had crowded the streets in the town centre, demanding to know why the criminals hadn’t yet been apprehended. After all, they were paying the people in authority their wages. It had been months since the first disappearance in Thorburn Close and still there were no leads.
Members of the public were calling them incompetent, overpaid and uncaring. To add to the problems they had to use more manpower to keep the protestors away from the suburbs - the venue to these awful, unexplainable crimes.
General Straub was beginning to think that this whole operation was a waste of time. The attackers wouldn’t show while the media filmed day-to-day footage of them patrolling the area. This cult or whoever they were weren’t stupid. They had effortlessly kidnapped and murdered normal people, a detective, a Jack Russell and somehow or other managed to get into the Neath and Port Talbot General Hospital without being spotted by anyone or any of the security cameras and brutally killed a recovering patient. To a certain degree, Straub had respect for these cold-hearted bastards. Whoever trained them, trained them well. They would make the Special Forces’ team no problem, if they could move in and out of places like shadows undetected. There was a good chance that unless they went on a mad killing spree that these trained criminals would take a lot more lives before this thing was over. If it ever did come to an end.
But more than wondering what this cult or whoever was going to do next, Straub had grown more and more unnerved by the dark grey mushroom cloud hanging directly overhead that refused to empty itself and disperse. He wasn’t worried if the torrential downpour drenched him, or lighting split the sky in two, or if thunder rumbled so loudly it threatened to crack the foundations they stood upon
. He’d been in guerrilla fighting situations which were practically death traps in all weather. (On one of these occasions he and his platoon found themselves trudging through a gulley waist-high in freezing water when the heavens opened. The inexorable sheets of pellet-size raindrops reduced visibility to a blur. Then the familiar sound of gunfire cracking the air around them broke the silence, followed by bullets whizzing inches past their heads.) No, what caused him to keep staring at the cloud with increasing wonder was why it had materialised out of nowhere on the day they’d arrived, like a bad omen. Furthermore, Straub would have bet five hundred quid that if he and his platoon and the media departed, the mushroom cloud would disperse and drift away. He would also bet another five hundred quid, that as soon as they all left and the mushroom cloud evaporated into the blue sky in the distance, the disappearances and fatalities would continue after the interval, delayed by their interference. The deaths and disappearances would be rapid next time, because of the delay, too.
He’d phoned his superiors and told them this. They’d take it into account, they told him. But for the time being, General Straub and the special military operation had to sit tight, keep their mouths closed and their eyes and ears open at all times, ready for action.
He looked over his shoulder at the news vans parked behind the barricade, sneering in utter contempt at them. It was due to their live broadcasts that the killers were most likely sitting at home this very moment with their feet up, drinking cold beers by the fireside, amused and delighted by the panic they’d induced, loving the spectacle, fingers crossed that the monstrous mushroom cloud opened and drenched them - the icing on the cake, so to speak.
‘C’mon you motherfuckers! Have some spine... show yourselves!’ Straub hissed under his breath, not realising that for the first time since he was a young man, he was expressing his inner emotions, breaking the cold, blank stare he gave everyone when he was on duty.
***
On the sixth day of being quarantined, Joe got up early, having slept fitfully, shadowboxed for a full thirty minutes without a break. He had so much anger and frustration swelling inside him he’d jump back in the ring in a second and fight like a wild animal; not like a skilled boxer, using his stinging left jab, pumping it like a piston through the guard of his opponent. He wanted to swing with fury only a madman would understand.