And missed.
Nigel turned and ducked the blow, countering with a punch of his own. The man’s large, meaty fist connected with Damien’s ribcage with an echoing thud! The air flowed out of him like a whistle on a steam train; a drawn-out, strangled wheeze that seemed to go on forever. Damien fell to his knees and tried hard not to lose focus completely as the pain urged him to lie down and give up.
Nigel stomped towards him like a greasy-haired rhino, grunting and snorting. There was still too little air in Damien’s winded lungs to launch an effective attack, and he was just about to resign himself to the oncoming onslaught when he spotted something.
Damien snatched at the poker that lay strewn at his feet. It seemed to glow in the soft light of the fire like a gift from the Gods. It was his salvation; his chance to knock the greasy haired rapist to hell and back. Damien rose up, sweeping the poker up and over his head.
The clanging sound that filled the room as the thick iron poker struck Nigel’s skull was the most beautiful thing Damien had ever heard. It was music. Head banging music.
Nigel staggered backwards, half-conscious, legs wobbling like a beaten boxer’s. Damien watched the whites of Nigel’s eyes roll back into his head. Watched as his hulking body crumpled. And watched as Nigel fell backwards into the fire.
With an agonising scream, Nigel’s eyes rolled back into their normal position as his mind was forced back to lucidity. His head lay in the fire like it was a pillow; a pillow that quickly roasted and blistered his skin. Like a greyhound out of the starting gates, Nigel shot forward, leaping away from the fire like it was trying to consume him whole. The flames had died down to embers; most likely the only reason Nigel wasn’t a human fireball right now. The whole thing happened so quickly that Damien couldn’t think fast enough to react to Nigel’s enflamed body hurtling towards him.
When the knife entered, it felt like a bee sting, followed by a huge amount of pressure. Damien thought it was ironic. About time I found out what this feels like. I always thought it would have been sooner
The pain was unbearable.
###
“What in the blue hell is happening tonight. I mean FUCK!” Harry felt like he was going to go insane, smash the place up like a coked-up rock star. He’d just watched a teenage boy get ripped to shreds like minced beef on a taco. This on a night where the world was being consumed by a never-ending torrent of snow and hooded demons stalked run-down English council estates for kicks. On top of everything, it all seemed to have something to do with him. They had called Harry ‘the sinner’.
“Seriously, can anybody tell me what is going on? I just watched Jerry get ripped apart by God-knows what, and now we’re trapped in a pitch-black supermarket surrounded by a bunch of homicidal monks.”
“I don’t think they’re monks,” said Kath.
“No shit,” said Harry.
Lucas walked over to the front fire door and looked out into the snow. There seemed to be movement outside. He turned around and faced Harry. “I think it would be shrewd if we thought a wee bit less about what they be and a lot more about how to get passed them and back to the pub. The others need us.”
Harry let air flow slowly from his lips, trying to calm his beating heart. It didn’t work and left Harry feeling even more anxious. “We’re fucked, you know that?”
Lucas nodded. “Aye, but better to take a shagging standing up than to bend over and take it.”
Harry couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve obviously spent some time in prison, right?”
Lucas grinned. “You could say that, Harry Boy, and you wouldn’t be too far from the truth.”
“Okay,” said Kath. “Can we just do what we’re here to do? It’s even colder here than it was outside.”
Harry nodded and started moving. “Okay. Let’s get the coal, painkillers, food. Anything we need to take back, let’s get it all piled up over here.”
Kath and Lucas nodded and got to work. Before Lucas ran off into the darkness he saluted Harry and said, “Right away, Major Jobson.”
It was then that Harry realised something important; something he’d overlooked earlier. He’d never told Lucas what his surname was and he was sure no one else had either.
Which begged one question for Harry: How does Lucas know me?
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jess finally managed to take a breath. It succeeded only in making her nauseous. The sick feeling was due to watching helplessly as a badly-burned Nigel hacked his knife into Damien’s mid-section. Jess was powerless to intervene as Nigel heaved a Steph’s groggy body onto the chair that had earlier held Damien captive.
Jess scanned the floor for a weapon, looking for a solution. The only thing she could see was the trusty fire poker, but it lay several feet away, next to a wounded Damien, who writhed on the floor and gritted his teeth against his pain.
Poor Guy!
Despite Damien’s unscrupulous activities around the local estate, Jess genuinely hoped that he would pull through. As things turned out, he wasn’t as bad as people made out. Wishful thinking aside, though, Jess still had to make it over to the poker without being spotted by the 18-stone rapist currently taping Steph to a chair. Even worse, she had to do it despite the cold sending her shivering body into awkward spasms.
So I have to be silent and stealthy while chattering like an over-excited monkey. Jerry would just love this. I’m sure they’d be a film reference that would fit perfectly.
God, how she would just love for Jerry and the others to come barging through the pub’s doors right now to save her from this wretched nightmare. But if tonight had taught her anything, it was not to hope for the best because things had a habit of getting worse.
Without realising it, Jess had started to move, crawling carefully on her hands and knees, shivering every time she took her arms away from her body. The chill was bad enough that even the fibres of the carpet had begun to freeze over; sharp and brittle, like tiny pine needles digging into her palms. Up ahead lay the poker, and perhaps her only chance to protect herself from Nigel. She looked up at the big man and saw that he was now trying to stir Steph from her fuzzy haze. “Rise and shine, sleepyhead,” he was saying. “I want you to be awake for this. No fun if you sleep through all the fun.”
Steph opened her eyes and managed to focus on him. She spat at Nigel. “Screw you!” As soon as it had arrived, the fight seemed to leave Steph again. She was too bruised and broken to keep it up. Nigel slapped her hard, the sound filling the room and bouncing off the walls.
Jess closed her eyes and winced, but continued crawling forward, the poker just a few feet away now.
Nigel slapped Steph again, this time a backhand. “Spitting is very unladylike,” he shouted, “and anything ill-befitting of a lady will not be tolerated. If I wanted a bloke for entertainment then I would have tied Damien back up in the chair. Speaking of which, how are you big man?” Nigel turned to Damien who was still moaning on the floor. “Not so hard now, huh?” Then he took a run up and booted the lad in the chest. The air exploded from him like a car backfiring. Jess winced again, glad she wasn’t on the receiving end. She carried on shuffling towards the poker. It was nearly at arm’s length now.
Almost there.
Almost…
Jess cried out as a heavy work shoe crunched down on her hand. She knew right away that she’d blown it and that she would most likely pay for it with her life. Nigel twisted his heel and pushed down harder, cracking and bruising the small bones in Jess’ hand. She wailed in agony and struggled to get free. Nigel laughed sadistically, the sound more chilling than the cold night air. Jess’s screams increased as she felt a rough hand tangle itself into her hair and yank. The pressure removed itself from her hand and she was hoisted to her feet, finding herself face to face with Nigel who was snarling like a feral beast. She tried to pull away.
“Not so fast, sweetheart. Now that Steph is nice and comfortable, you and me have some time on our hands.”
She
fought to twist herself free, but it was like being held in a vice. “The others will be back at any minute,” she warned him. “You’re going to get your arse kicked, you sicko.”
Nigel smiled. “By who? Harry, the alcoholic? Jerry, the loser? Or Lucas, the thick mick? I don’t think so, sweetheart. They’re probably already dead, and if not then I’ll see to them later.”
The thought of Nigel killing the other’s filled Jess with rage. She decided to take a leaf out of Steph’s book and spat. Nigel flinched as the saliva missile hit his cheek and she used this opportunity to try and get free, driving her knee as hard as she could toward Nigel’s groin. The blow missed the intended target but still managed to plant firmly in his mid-section. He staggered backwards, releasing her, as the air escaped from his lungs. Jess used the time to make a grab for the poker, diving to the floor and reaching out with her hand. Her fingers closed around the metal and Jess’s heart skipped a beat as she realised she’d actually managed to get the weapon. Now she had to use it. She leapt to her feet and turned around, poker in hand, ready to let Nigel have it.
But he was gone.
Jess did a double take of the room. She knew that Nigel was hiding somewhere, waiting to pounce. But from where? With the poker held out in front of her, she took a tentative step forward, expecting an attack at any moment. Her nerves were tattered and frayed by the constant jolts of fear. If she lived through tonight, Jess decided she should write a book. The Winter Rapist? The Ice Killer? She’d have to think about it later.
Moving past the sofa, she prepared to swing with all her might, sure that Nigel would jump out at her any second. She moved carefully, watchfully, deciding that the most effective hiding place for a serial killer would be behind the bar. There was only one entrance to the area behind it so, if she was quick enough, she could take Nigel out before he could manage to do anything to her. Jess slowed her pace, not relishing an encounter that was life or death.
The bar loomed closer, lit by a number of dwindling candles. The struggling light shone on the liqueur bottles that lined the shelves, making them look like rows of crocodile teeth. The final few steps were nerve-wracking and she had to come to a halt before she reached the bar fully. Deep breaths, Jess. Nigel must be behind there, but you’re going to be ready for him. Armed and ready. She squeezed the poker in her right hand, anxiety forcing her to check it was still there even though she knew it was. Okay, here goes.
Jess took the final steps towards the bar area and quickly sidestepped to see behind it. As she suspected, Nigel was crouched and waiting for her. What she hadn’t expected was how quick the big man would be – and how much it would hurt having a vodka bottle smashed over her head.
Straight away, Jess felt the blood cascade from the top of her head. It ran into her eyes, blinding her, and then into her mouth. She could hardly believe she was lucid enough to even taste the coppery, metallic taste of it, and that somehow the blow had not knocked her out. It had certainly dazed her.
She teetered backwards, legs folding as she hit the floor. Her ears picked up the heavy clunk of the poker skittering across the floor. How many times is that thing going to get dropped? Despite everything, Jess found herself laughing at the thought. No need to lose her sense of humour now, not when she needed it more than ever. She collapsed onto her back, too dizzy to get back up. Not that it would have mattered because Nigel was on her like a shot, pinning her arms down with his knees and straddling her chest. Held to her throat was the broken remnants of the Vodka bottle.
Nigel sneered at her. “Time to die, bitch.”
Jess sneered right back, blood covering her teeth. “See you in hell, you small prick mummy’s boy!”
The comment seemed to hurt Nigel and Jess started to laugh again. Right now, the over-sized, sexual predator looked like an insecure little boy. She would take that satisfying image to her grave happily. Even as the jagged bottle descended towards her throat, Jess continued to cackle out loud, closing her eyes and waiting for it all to be over.
Jess had expected a sharp, ragged pain, but instead was jolted by a heavy force hitting her instead. She opened her eyes tentatively and at first could not understand what had happened. Then she realised that Nigel had collapsed forward, her face now buried in his stomach. What the hell? She punched and prodded at Nigel’s lumpy body, trying to move it, but when it didn’t budge, it became obvious that he was unconscious.
What the hell happened?
After several attempts at rolling the dead weight aside, Jess finally managed to slump Nigel over to one side and slide out from under him. She still didn’t understand what happened. At least not until she saw…
“Peter! You’re okay?”
Her friend was standing over her, gripping the poker that now dripped goblets of blood from its tip onto the floor. He smiled at her, although his ruined face made the expression look ghoulish and grim. He released the poker and dropped to his knees, letting out a long breath. He managed to speak. “Are you…okay…Jess?”
“Yes, yes. I’m fine, Peter. Thanks to you, that is.”
Peter nodded and his smile widened. Then he lost consciousness, pitching forward and hitting the floor face down. Jess felt like doing the same.
Chapter Thirty-Three
When Harry found a pile of children’s sledges he thought that things were looking up, but only slightly. Sure it would make getting the coal and other supplies back to the pub easier, but it didn’t change the fact the supermarket was surrounded by god-knows-what. To make matters even worse, Harry had just realised that Lucas was not who he said he was. Before Harry said anything, however, he’d decided to complete the task they’d come here for. Between the three of them, him, Lucas, and Kath had managed to pile up more than enough coal to keep the pub going till morning and beyond, along with a bag full of over-the-counter painkillers. They’d even found a couple of torches and two dozen packets of batteries. Now that they were done and ready to go, Harry was ready to confront Lucas about the secrets he was keeping.
“Hey, Lucas? How do you know my surname?”
Lucas turned to Harry, confusion on his face. “What’s that now?”
“I said how do you know my surname? I didn’t tell you.”
Kath huffed. “Do we really have time for this, Harry? We need to get going.”
Lucas shrugged. “I didn’t realise it was such a secret, fella.”
“It’s not,” Harry admitted, “but I never told it to you.”
“The demon monks outside said it, didn’t they? They said, HARRY JOBSON YOU ARE THE SINNER. Or something like that.”
Harry thought for a moment. “No, Lucas, you knew before that. You called me Major Jobson earlier at The Trumpet.”
Kath looked pissed off, but at the same time seemed a little interested also. It appeared she wanted to see what Lucas’s answer would be.
But he gave none.
Harry took a quick breath, trying to stay calm. “Lucas, I asked you a question.”
The Irishman scratched at his head before letting his arms loose to swing by his sides. “Do you really want to do this now, Harry Boy?”
Harry’s stomach churned as he wondered whether he really did want to do this now. He really had no idea who Lucas was, what he was planning, or what he was capable of. Harry swallowed. “Yeah, I want to do this right now. Who the hell are you and how do you know me?”
Lucas walked over to the cash register and hopped up onto its surface, then took a long, deep breath. “Who I am is something we really don’t have time for right now, but how I know you is a little easier.”
“Well, get started then,” Harry demanded.
Lucas nodded. “I know you, because you’re the sinner. Same reason them outside know you – who, might I add, have nothing to do with me.”
“You expect me to believe that? You must have something to do with them.”
“I really don’t. You have my word, for what it’s worth. What happened tonight was going to happen whether
I turned up or not.”
Kath stepped towards Lucas. “Who are you? What’s going on?”
Lucas looked tired of the questions already, but he still gave answers. “Both questions we don’t have time for. All I can say is that the fellas outside came for Harry. Does the ‘what’ or the ‘why’ really matter?”
“It fucking does to me,” said Harry. It felt like his stomach was going to burst open and release his organs onto the floor. The scar on the back of his hand throbbed; it always did when he was losing control, as though it were trying to remind him what could happen when he let his anger run away with him.
The Final Winter: An Apocalyptic Horror Novel Page 19