by Devon De'Ath
The thatcher fixed him with a determined stare to show he wasn’t afraid. “If you put that gun down and step outside with me.”
Saint laughed. “How gentlemanly. This group is so old fashioned. I don’t think so, Martin. I’m no coward, but I’m not stupid either. Why would I surrender my advantage? We’ve places to go. No time for chivalry, games, fair play and all that.” He spoke with a deliberate mocking, exaggerated and clipped, faux-posh English accent.
Martin nodded at the storm through the window. “You’re not going anywhere, arsehole. No-one is.”
The bad-boy blond shrugged. “It’ll pass in time.”
Marie pressed her nose against the cold glass window next to the front door. “We’ve got company.”
Darren stomped across to look. “Gunshot must have roused them.”
Marie eyed the steel-grey skies. “Thank fuck there’s no mobile phone coverage in this dump. Never thought I’d hear myself say that. No chance of anybody stitching us up, though. I can’t wait to put my foot down on the way outta here.”
Connie folded her arms. “And there I was thinking you were nothing more than an attractive seat cover.”
Marie slapped her across the face again, leaving a cruel red mark. “Bet I can drive rings round you, hippie trollop. Even the chuffin’ rozzers can’t keep up, with me behind the wheel.”
Jason waved the barrel of his pistol towards the door. “Let’s round everyone up and herd them into the barn. It’ll be the best place to wait out this storm. There’s food and drink in there for the Halloween bash. An easy space to control. We'll dispatch any wannabe heroes who try to make a break for it.” He watched Martin Bradbury for one extended moment.
13
Held Hostage
Dean Claridge held tight to Michaela and Sarah as they were all frogmarched into the barn at gunpoint by Jason Saint. The teenage girl wriggled to get a better look at the firearm. She whispered to her father. “I thought handguns were illegal in this country.”
The butcher gave her a squeeze of reassurance. “I don’t think these people are bothered about the law, darling.”
Darren Clements moved his sawn-off shotgun in menacing sweeps across the assembled crowd. His girlfriend Marie lingered nearby. Martin Bradbury, Daniel Charter and Constance Creek stood near a trestle table bedecked with food for the intended Halloween party. Peter and Margaret Leonard talked in hushed whispers with Abigail Walters and Robert Mason underneath the hayloft. Reverend Colefax sat holding the hand of Naomi Hargreaves, who wept in loud, uncontrollable fits of heaving sobs.
Darren Clements scrunched up his face and barked at the minister. “Can’t you shut her up?”
Naomi’s meek and now tear-stained eyes flared. She beat her fists against flexing knees where she sat. “You murdered my husband.” Her face reddened and screwed tighter until it resembled a prune. “You monster. You murdered my Joe.” Her voice trailed away into another bout of crying.
Darren made a point of cocking the hammers on his weapon with an intimidating click.
Jason Saint pulled the barn doors shut to keep out the raging storm. “Easy, Dinger. Let it go. She’ll quieten down in time.”
Marie glowered at the hysterical new widow. “Want me to shut her up, Bro?”
Jason shook his head.
Maggie Leonard sat down on the other side of Naomi to offer some support. Both grieving women embraced. The farmer’s wife followed the blond criminal around the barn with her eyes. “What have you done with my son? Where’s Tim’s body?”
Jason looked her up and down for two seconds. “We haven’t touched it. Now, sit quiet and everything will work out, in time. You’ll be free to look for him soon.”
Darren kept the crowd covered and took a step closer to his male partner in crime. “I don’t get it. Aren’t we going to off the lot of ‘em?”
The ice-cold, calm robber massaged the bridge of his nose. “Come here, Ding.”
His hot-headed pal approached within subdued conversational range. “What?”
“Do you want to add mass murder to the list of charges against us? It’s bad enough you killed the builder. We don’t need any more deaths on our hands. What do you think will happen if we get caught? You wanna get life? Fancy a never-ending stretch at Her Majesty’s pleasure?”
Marie sidled up to them. “So what are we gonna do?”
Jason cast a glance across her shoulder at the bedraggled community members. “Once the storm eases and the roads are clear, we’ll bar them in here. They'll be okay. There are enough strong hands to break out in time, but not for a while. If we slash their vehicle tyres on the way out, we’ll be long gone before anyone can raise a fuss with the law.”
Marie crossed her arms. “How long do you think that will be?”
Darren elbowed her. “Your brother’s not a bloody weatherman, Angel.”
The woman sneered. “Oh piss off, Ding. He might have some idea.”
“Could be awhile. It’s not only the storm. Those water levels will need to subside. Might even be a couple of days,” said Jason.
Marie coughed. “A couple of days? Fuck that.”
Her brother squinted. “If you know another way to get our motors out of here, I’m all ears. Otherwise, settle in for a long haul.”
Marie slouched off in a sulk.
The day wore on past lunch into late afternoon.
From the rear of the barn, a pretty blonde teenager raised one timid arm.
A half smile crept up one side of Jason’s face. He projected his voice for all to hear. “Nice to see somebody has the right attitude. What can I do for you, sweet cheeks?”
Sarah Claridge fidgeted. “Please. We’ve been here for hours. I need to use the loo.”
Marie laughed. “No way.”
Jason strode into the middle of the barn and scowled at his sister. “You want her to hold it a day or two? Would you like her to go right here, in the place we’ve got to sit tight? We’re gonna have to make toilet arrangements.” He beckoned Sarah closer. “Of course you can use the loo.” When she stood before him, Darren stroked the underside of her chin with his left index finger, eyes caressing her developing womanly curves. “My, but you’re a pretty young thing, aren’t you?”
Dean Claridge took a determined step forward, halted by the sudden attention of Darren’s shotgun. He thrust a finger in the air towards Jason. “You keep your hands off my daughter.”
Jason snorted. “Easy pops. My intimate tastes don’t run to children. Even ones as full of heavenly promise as yours.” He flicked the index finger up to make Sarah lift her head as he released his touch. Those cold, grey eyes peered into her light blue attractive stare, which lacked its usual power. The robber’s voice was calm, but heavy with menace. “You can go to the loo on your own. But, if you’re not back in ten minutes, daddy won’t have any kneecaps left. He’ll never walk again. Do you understand me?”
Sarah’s eyes watered and her jaw quivered. “Where do you think I'll run off to?”
Jason drew back. “That’s my girl. As long as we’re clear.”
The teenager lowered her head. “We’re clear.” She walked towards the door with the slumped posture of a concentration camp prisoner, devoid of hope.
Outside, the rain softened into light, patchy drifting cloaks. Invisible ghosts of precipitation that could soak you through without the driving impact of their predecessors. This slackening downpour gave rise to a bank of heavy mist sweeping across the site from its surrounding watercourses. Thatched roofs appeared and disappeared in drifting layers of fog. Spectral white shapes that looked for all the world as if clouds had come down to dwell on earth. Sarah Claridge ascended a slippery rise to the toilet hut. One of the first constructions built out of necessity at Deeping Drove, it comprised three, open-fronted cubicles inside a rough wooden shed. Dividing walls between each cubicle sufficed to obscure any neighbouring visitors, but only just. The toilet itself featured a flat board with circular holes on a raised, box-l
ike area so the occupants could sit. All three holes from the cubicles were suspended above a cesspit. One reason for the lack of internal doors, was to help the sometimes overpowering aroma find an exit whenever somebody opened the shed. The teenager allowed the entrance to bang shut and made for the middle cubicle. Rough sheets of surplus paper hung from a nail in the dark wooden walls. She had become used to roughing it in the family’s new, basic living environment. But recent events made her yearn for the old comforts of home. The girl shivered, unfastened her jeans and lowered her panties to sit down. News of Tim’s body going missing, the killing of Joe Hargreaves, and now their present hostage situation caused her stomach to fold over in knots. An uncomfortable blast of wind vibrated from her buttocks through the bare wooden planks on which she sat. A pat, pat, pat noise squelched in the mud outside. Sarah strained to listen, her eyes adjusting to the dim interior. A lantern dangling from a ceiling hook had not yet been lit to chase away the afternoon gloom. Small wonder as she was the first person in here since morning. Is that an animal? Oh no, what if it’s the puma? The shed door latch raised. Not a puma then. Don’t say one of those pervy robbers followed me over here. She pressed her knees together. Another blast of anal wind trumpeted its challenge to the rising stench from below. The door creaked open at an agonisingly slow rate. Tendrils of mist crept in around the jamb. A shadowy human silhouette standing against the cloudy backdrop could not be that of an adult. It shuffled inside, feet dragging on the wood. A musty stench, laced with hints of rotting meat and dirty water, gave the cesspit a run for its money in the worst smell awards.
Sarah grabbed her nose, then let it go with a limp flop as her mind comprehended a familiar outline. “Tim?” She gasped. “What’s going on? How can it be you?”
That shuffling figure reached the cubicle wall. In the limited light, Sarah noticed the boy’s eyes rolled back to only show their whites. His cheeks appeared pale and bloated. Flakes of decaying flesh dropped from his forearms like crumbling layers of an old ice cream wafer. The girl gripped onto the toilet plank and dug her fingernails into the wood. A squirting noise from her buttocks ended with a distant plop in the semi-liquid catchment area beneath. Another pat, pat, pat noise shuffled to the main door. Tim’s lips pulled back over yellow teeth that grinned with insane delight. When his voice came, it hissed and slurred. The boy’s recognisable tones were there, but mingled with something else. Something harsher.
“You wanted to see my friend Howie.”
A new figure crossed the toilet shed threshold with a bizarre clicking noise. Mere bones strung together with strands of flesh, the creature appeared to be decaying in reverse. Partial organs formed inside its ribcage. Milky eyeballs grew in the sockets of a flesh-draped skull. His voice also evidenced that odd blend of timbres. “Hello, Sarah. Would you like to meet my parents?”
The teenage girl opened her mouth to scream, without result. She found herself able to emit sound from only one orifice. It made the toilet seat plank vibrate. That wouldn’t bring anyone running to help her. The floorboards juddered. Repeated slamming impacts beneath them caused the terrified girl’s feet to bounce in the air, like the transmission of momentum and energy through balls on a Newton’s Cradle. Their wood splintered into rotted fragments. Two semi-skeletal pairs of hands with dripping muscle and flesh fragments, poked through. Sharp, bony fingers gripped onto both of Sarah’s ankles and yanked. The toilet seat and box gave way with a resounding crack. Sarah dropped backwards into the dark, reeking pit; a vomit-inducing plunge into a six foot deep lake of faeces and urine. She kicked to keep her head above the surface, voice finally finding vocal force in unending screams. The two rotting creatures who precipitated her descent, splashed up either side. Their marble eyeballs fitted in wild spasms before her. Open-mouthed gnashing of cruel delight became guttural roars. Shredded hands pulled the girl under. Her eyes, nose and mouth filled with decomposing sewage. She choked and spluttered. Recent excretions forced their way down the panicked teenager’s throat. Chunky brown splashes from her windmilling arms drenched the sides of the filthy pit. From the destroyed toilet box above, two pairs of young, pupil-less eyes peered down with satisfied glee. Their combining laughter cackled in the manner of cartoon crones, way too pleased at the execution of some diabolical scheme. Sarah’s coughs became shorter, ending in a dull, swallowing sound. Her arms slowed to a rest. All movement and resistance ceased. The child’s torso hung floating in that stinking hole of viscous excrement.
Jason Saint tapped the barrel of his handgun against the bezel of his watch. “Where is that girl?” He glowered at Dean Claridge. “If she’s not back soon, you’ll wish you’d taught your daughter to be punctual.”
Michaela wrung her hands. “She’s a child. Why don’t you let one of us look for her?”
Darren growled. “And lose another of you? Not bloody likely.”
Jason opened the barn door and peered outside. Sarah Claridge was nowhere in sight. “Rain’s eased off. Angel, be a love and run up to the toilet block. See if you can bring the kid back without too much fuss.”
Marie Saint folded her arms. “Why don’t you do one? What did your last slave die of?”
Darren lowered his shotgun into one hand and grabbed his girlfriend’s elbow with the other. “For God’s sake, Angel. You’re a girl; she’s a girl. Besides, we need to stay here with the guns.” He dragged the woman over to their companion at the barn door. “Just do it, will ya?”
It was the moment Martin Bradbury had been waiting for. While their backs were turned in that instant, he ran, dived and rolled at their legs. The shock knocked all three to the ground; Jason and Martin scrabbling to keep hold of their weapons. Martin picked himself up and kept running out into the misty weather. He dodged and weaved between huts, hoping the encircling white vapour would mask his fleeing frame from a direct shot.
Darren started to run but Jason caught his arm. “I’ll get him. You stay here with Angel.”
“What about the girl?” Darren asked.
“We’ll worry about her once we’ve got that scumbag secured. Sit tight.” Jason slipped out, shifting from side to side with catlike grace. His gun pointed between each building. No way was he going to let the thatcher ambush and take the weapon off him. He didn’t want to kill Martin, but wouldn’t hesitate if it became necessary. This guy was becoming a serious pebble in his shoe.
Martin stumbled past Dan’s forge, casting a glance over his shoulder every few seconds for signs of pursuit. Only the bank of rushes ahead of him, then he’d reach his favourite mooring spot. His intended mission to go for help had never felt so pressing. Whatever happened to Tim Leonard’s body, they must report the death. But now he needed the authorities for a more pressing reason none of them foresaw. The sooner he got police out to Deeping Drove, the better. His imagination conjured images of a tense barn stand-off between tactical firearms officers and the besieged criminals with their hostages. What if Connie, Reverend Colefax or one of the others are hit during the raid? Thank God for Sarah Claridge. She’ll never know what a solid she did us by dragging out her trip to the loo. I hope she’s all right. He brushed the swishing rushes aside and stopped dead on the bank. Splintered fragments of his vessel poked up through the water at assorted angles. The boat had been split apart with controlled and calculated ferocity. Whoever took an axe to it, knew what they were doing. “What the hell?” Martin slapped his forehead. The ratcheting sound of a cocked handgun broke through the misty stillness.
“Now that wasn’t smart, was it, Martin?” Jason Saint’s ice-cool voice thrust between the vegetation to meet him.
The thatcher stared down at the water, mourning the loss of his trusty vessel without turning. “I see you three considered every avenue of escape.”
“You think we did this?” Jason asked.
Martin wheeled on the spot. “Who else would smash my boat up?”
The blonde robber studied the shattered craft. “You’re right that it would have been a smart pl
ay. But we had nothing to do with it. Everything happened too fast once you guys showed up early at our hut.”
“Then who?” Martin wrinkled his nose.
Jason shrugged. “Our resident body snatcher, I guess.” He pointed the gun in the thatcher’s face. “Now, if you so much as stumble on the way back to the barn, I’ll blow your fucking brains out without another word. Got it?”
Martin’s eyes narrowed. “That would make you a real hero, wouldn’t it?”
“Shut up.” Jason waved the gun back towards the buildings and the pair set off.
“You bastard.” Darren dumped the shotgun into Marie’s hands and delivered a right cross to Martin Bradbury’s face when he stepped back through the barn door. Their recaptured prisoner went down like a rock. The assailant’s foot connected with the fallen thatcher’s solar plexus in a rapid series of vicious kicks. Martin clutched his stomach, curled on the floor in the foetal position.
Jason shut the door. “Get some rope and tie him up, Dinger. This one’s trouble. Another word and you can slot him.”
Darren grinned. “Got it.” He retrieved a length of rope attached to a hook on the barn wall. Two minutes later Martin lay trussed up in a sitting position with his hands tied behind his back. “There. That should hold him.” He collected his weapon from Marie.
Jason scanned the occupants of the barn. “No sign of the girl?”
Marie’s eyes narrowed. “Not a peep.”
Something stirred beneath the sod in St. Guthlac’s churchyard. A call went out, like some final trumpet in spiritual realms. But this was no second coming of Christ. Turf shifted and bulged before the tumbledown tombstones. Hands, feet and skulls pushed through crumbling earth to part the thick greensward. The surface bubbled like blistering sores on an infected face. Their pus: hideous, once-human creatures with white eyes and shambling, limping gaits. Hands hung loose from decaying, outstretched arms. Like Howie, each appeared to display the signs of reversing decomposition. Howard Spencer’s tomb already lay open with no visible occupant in sight. Some unseen power rose the dead like Lazarus from the grave. Yet their restoration transformed into a twisted, corrupt and altered state of being. Pale imitations of what they'd been in life, the resurrected torsos gathered about their master at the lychgate. His body also mixed flesh and bone; spine and ribcage visible through strands of cloth still clinging to his form. About the creature’s neck hung a leather pouch. His head presented the appearance of wearing some demented crown. Shrill commands and expressions of long-repressed pleasure hissed from a putrid, semi-skeletal mouth. Unlike those gathering minions, this thing bore eyes of a different composition. Two emerald green lamps shone from the skull and surveyed that new gaggle of souls under his control. A withered left arm stretched to point beyond the churchyard boundary, in the direction of the community barn.