The Lychgate

by Devon De'Ath

  14

  Seeking Sanctuary

  Assorted, lumbering human silhouettes appeared and disappeared in the drifting mist. One pale, rotted hand reached down to grasp a green plastic cannister resting on a box of tools near several parked vehicles. It lifted the container of sloshing liquid, twisted and limped off towards where its companions drew closer to the barn.

  “Get away from him, or I’ll slap you silly.” Marie Saint leaned against one wall of the quaint agricultural structure, arms crossed.

  Constance Creek hesitated in a half crouch at Martin Bradbury’s side. “His mouth is bleeding where your boyfriend hit him. I’m going to mop it up.” She pulled out a handkerchief.

  Marie’s eyes flashed. She pushed off from the wall with one foot. “I said-”

  “Angel, no. Check on the kid. She’s way overdue now.” Jason grabbed her arm. He gave Connie a slight nod to proceed. “Touch his bonds and Dinger will blow you both away.”

  The woman eyed the robber for a split second, then patted at crimson ooze seeping from one corner of the thatcher’s mouth. She kept her voice low. “How far did you get?”

  Martin gulped back some salty blood. “Right down to my boat. Someone’s smashed it up. Pretty Boy over there wasn’t far behind. Had it been the other one, I’d have ended up sleeping with the fishes, no doubt. We’ll be losing the light soon. There’s no chance to get out now, even if the boat was okay.”

  “You think this crew were responsible?”

  Martin winced as Connie dabbed at a purple swelling on his left cheek. “Jason claimed they had nothing to do with it. Odd thing is, I believe him. He seemed genuine; surprised, even. But that leaves us with another worrying dilemma.”

  “You mean: who else would sink your boat?”

  “Yeah. And why? I was hoping to be away by mid-morning at the latest, to report Tim’s death.”

  “Did you check the boat first thing?”

  Martin shrugged. “No. Why would I?”

  “No reason. I’m trying to work out if they might have smashed it overnight. The obvious flaw with that theory being: we took them by surprise at the hut. They didn’t reckon on any of this.”

  The thatcher wrinkled his nose. “That’s the real puzzler.”

  “Is it raining again?” Robert Mason lifted his head to squint at the barn thatch. “I thought I heard a splashing sound.” Something wet tinkled against the roof in the stillness. “There. Did you hear that?”

  Abigail Walters shivered and rubbed her arms. Hairs rose on the back of her neck. “We need to get out of here, Bob.”

  Peter Leonard sniffed. “Wait. That smells like petrol.”

  Marie Saint reached out ready to unfasten one of the barn doors. After procrastinating a while longer, she’d been given marching orders to find Sarah Claridge in no uncertain terms.

  Thick, heady smoke seeped between rafters, beneath the fruit of Martin Bradbury’s labour. Its reed covering glowed orange, then blackened in several places.

  “The roof’s on fire,” Daniel Charter shouted.

  “Fuck. It’s that kid.” Darren Clements span like a wild top, clutching his shotgun. The assembled hostages flinched and ducked to avoid any accidental discharge.

  Jason stepped up beside him. “A teenage girl wouldn’t do that, you numpty. Not with her parents still in here.” He coughed at the thickening cloud of fumes, then waved his handgun to get everyone’s attention. “All right, stay together. We’ll move over to the church. Don’t even think of making a run for it.”

  Connie began helping Martin to his feet. Jason arrested her progress with a firm grip. “I’ll escort this one. You fall in line with the rest.” He shouted at Darren. “Dinger, keep an eye out for whoever started this blaze. Any sign of trouble, shoot first.”

  “Got it.” The thug backed towards the entrance, still training his weapon on their prisoners.

  Marie unbolted both doors and opened them wide. Precious fresh air wafted through the gap as the descending cloud of smoke vented outward. Billowing mist poured through the space like an overblown dry ice machine at an amateur rock concert. Several paces beyond the doorway, a slight, male silhouette stood clutching a burning torch made from a thick branch wrapped in fuel-soaked cloth. Tongues of licking flame from the sputtering makeshift device, danced about its bearer’s head. An amber glow illuminated the pale face of a boy with empty, ivory eyes.

  Peter and Margaret Leonard froze. The farmer’s wife clamped both hands in front of her mouth. A shrill exclamation faded beneath a roaring inferno that engulfed the thatch. “Tim.”

  Peter grabbed his wife and shook his head in vigorous movements. “This can’t be happening, Maggie. Tim’s dead. He died; we saw his body.”

  Maggie released a sob. “It’s our boy. He’s… He’s come back to us.” One trembling, outstretched arm broke free of her husband’s embrace to point with shaky uncertainty at the lad.

  Daniel Charter stared in open-mouthed disbelief; a state common to everyone crossing the threshold of that burning structure. “What’s wrong with his eyes?”

  Tim Leonard remained rigid, clutching the burning torch.

  A shapely teenage girl staggered down the bank beside him.

  “Sarah. Thank the Lord you’re safe.” Michaela Claridge broke ranks. She almost skipped towards her daughter but came to an abrupt halt. Brown sludge coated the girl’s clothing and clung to her copious - once well-maintained - blonde locks. Eyes rolled back in their sockets, fixed on her mother. A pair of pouting lips retreated. Her mouth opened with bulging cheeks. She spat out fragments of chunky, nut-coloured faecal matter, then formed a sad o-shape like a naughty child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Two limp hands lifted as if inviting a hug.

  “Baby, what’s wrong?” Michaela pinched her nose at the awful stench.

  Her daughter shifted closer. “I’m so frightened, Mum.” Part of the voice belonged to Sarah Claridge. Her movement quickened. That sad face morphed into a maniacal look of glee. Mouth wide, she launched herself at Michaela. A cackle of delight ended like a crying baby held close to suckle. Sarah’s teeth clamped around the woman’s right breast, head twisting and tearing. The teacher screamed in agony, pushed the girl away and toppled backwards into the mud. Dean Claridge ran three paces to kneel at her side. Blood stained his wife’s dress in a growing blot at the point of injury.

  “Oh my God. Who the fuck are they?” Darren Clements pointed at a series of closing torso shapes that loomed out of the mist. At their head, a semi-skeletal figure with glowing green lights for eyes ran its gaze across the crowd stood before the burning barn.

  Naomi Hargreaves let out a shriek. “It’s the missing skeleton.” She almost fainted and was caught by Daniel Charter before a full swoon could take her.

  Sarah Claridge roared, her face elongating almost beyond the range of human capability. She regained her balance and charged her parents.

  One barrel of Darren’s shotgun barked a sudden discharge. Sarah’s right leg blew off below the knee, shredding into tatters of flesh and dropping the girl to the ground. Dean gripped his wife and stared at the robber. “That’s my daughter.” The words came empty, uncertain and lacking in force. Whatever bit his wife’s breast couldn’t be Sarah, however close a facsimile. “No.” The expression escaped in a breathless gasp. His posture hunched over Michaela. The teenage girl hopped up on one leg, as if she’d suffered only a mild stumble.

  Tim Leonard snarled and ran at Darren Clements, waving his torch in a tightening, claw-like grip. The robber let go with his second chamber, blasting the boy’s right arm off at the shoulder. The billowing torch fell to the waterlogged ground, but the farm boy kept coming. Marie Saint screamed in panic. Jason unloaded three rounds from his handgun in rapid succession, their repeated force toppling the charging lad in a dazed heap. Margaret Leonard wailed a heartsick cry. Figures in the mist drew nearer. Thatched roofs on the surrounding hovels sparked up one after another. A semi-circle of rising fire fought wit
h the foggy blanket for dominance.

  Darren’s arms stiffened. “They’ll destroy the fucking money.” He reloaded his shotgun, spitting in fury.

  Constance unfastened Martin’s ropes with strong and hasty determination.

  The thatcher watched his work go up in literal smoke. “They’re burning everything, Connie. Whatever they are.”

  From one of the ancillary farm buildings, two Suffolk punch horses whinnied in terror and were forever silenced.

  Stephen Colefax grabbed Jason’s arm to lower the weapon. The vicar struggled to tear his wide-eyed gaze away from the glowing, green-eyed living manifestation of his nightmares. A manifestation made flesh at the edge of that swirling fog. “We should get to the church. It’s our only hope. Whatever your plans were, we must all work together now.”

  Dean dragged his wife away from the leering figure that had once been their daughter. It stood on one leg, regarding them with sick fascination. The butcher looked from person to person. “We’ll need something other than our fists if we’re going to put up a fight.”

  Daniel Charter helped the couple up. “I’ve some sharp tools at the smithy.”

  Dean clapped him on the back. “There are blades in my hut. If I can fetch them without burning to death or being attacked by…” His unfinished sentence hung for a moment in midair, like the wreathes of smoke encircling them.

  Martin Bradbury cleared his throat. “Right. Everyone make a break for it. Grab whatever you can find and get to the church ASAP. Let’s hope they’re not waiting for us there too.”

  The crowd dispersed in a frenzied dash, except Peter and Margaret Leonard who flopped down on the earth, drained of any will to go on. Nobody saw them remain.

  “Is he dead now?” Maggie rocked on the spot; wet, chilling mud penetrating her clothing from beneath.

  The farmer watched his toppled son twitch. “That might be a muscle rea-”

  Tim Leonard sat upright. His head rotated and clicked from side to side, vacant stare falling on his parents.

  Maggie scrunched up her face. Mucus dripped from her nose and mouth in an expression of unmanageable grief. “What’s happening, Pete? What’s happening?”

  “I… I don’t know. I’ve nothing left to give, Mags. My heart is empty. I can’t go on anymore.” His voice broke.

  The boy clambered to his feet. Sarah Claridge hopped over to join him. Several more shambling silhouettes approached from either side of the barn.

  Peter Leonard kissed his wife’s head and stroked her face. “Close your eyes, Maggie. It’ll all be over soon.”

  Dean Claridge dragged his wife along behind him with one hand. She stumbled and shook, face returning repeatedly in the direction of the barn where they’d left Sarah. The bloodstain spread down her dress. Pain from that angry bite wound burned like the fire engulfing hovels all around them. To their right, Robert Mason’s roof raged in a thunderous conflagration; most likely the first home set ablaze. The historian darted inside Abigail Walters’ hut behind the curious psychic herbalist. Dean plunged his head into a barrel of rain water outside their own home. He shot his wife a quick, determined glance. “If one of those things appears, yell. If I’m not out two seconds later, run for the church and don’t look back.”

  Michaela’s head span. The tell-tale warm and pulsing sensation of the panic attacks she knew so well from her breakdowns, warned of a potential collapse.

  “Kyla.” Dean shouted at her. His wife snapped free of her rising episode. “I need you to focus. We don’t have time to lose.”

  Michaela nodded with a sheepish expression.

  Dean barrelled through the front door, as close to the ground as possible. Flames danced and writhed as burning clumps of reeds fell down from the burning rafters. He darted from table to table in a crouch, reaching for whatever his hands could discover in the choking interior: a meat cleaver and a large knife. The butcher tumbled outside into the damp and semi-visible air; coughing and gagging with a stench of smoke filling his nostrils. Michaela helped him regain his balance.

  Dean pressed the cold steel of the knife into one of her hands. “Keep it close. Strike fast and hard against anything that attacks.”

  Michaela clutched at its handle. “What if it’s Sarah?” Her eyes watered.

  The man lowered his darkening stare, mouth grim. “Then you’ll know it’s not our Sarah. Whatever those creatures did to her, you might bring our beloved girl peace. I don’t know. Come on, we’ve got to keep moving.”

  Jason, Darren and Marie splashed through furrows of mud leading to their respective huts. Plumes of white smoke and dancing orange sparks rose like a monster devouring the thatch. All the money from their robberies remained in the leather holdalls at Darren and Marie’s. The hothead kicked open their door and stepped clear. A ball of flame blasted outward across the threshold, causing the others to perform a rapid side-step. Darren ran inside. His voice fought to carry above the uproar. “The walls are alight, but the money’s still here.”

  Jason followed him. “Pass them over. I’ll hand the bags out to Angel.”

  One by one, the holdalls went from hand to hand. Marie tossed them on the ground clear of the blaze, one fist coiled before her coughing mouth. A sharp, ice-cold hand gripped her shoulder from behind. She whirled about to face one of the white-eyed, reanimated corpses. Partially re-grown organs hung from a mouldy skeletal form, ragged with sinew and rancid flesh. She had no idea who it was. Some member of a community that dwelt here long ago, perhaps? The horror of something so obviously dead not only coming back from the grave, but seeking to attack them, left the woman paralysed with a fear beyond logical reasoning. She shook herself free and backed away. Two more hands wrapped around her midriff from behind and clamped fast. Marie released those overwhelming internal sensations in a deafening scream. Jason appeared in the smoke-filled doorway. His gun came up to lock on the flesh-encrusted skull of the thing that held his sister. He didn’t see the first beast to grab her, standing to one side of the hut entrance. A twinkling glimmer of flame reflected on the curved blade of a sickle as it came down in the creature's hand. The metal sliced into Jason’s arm. Blood pumped from a vicious laceration and the handgun fell from his grip into the mud. The blond robber staggered outside, clutching at this bleeding arm with the remaining good one. The monster fell on top of him, slashing with devastating blows as the farm implement hissed through the air. A jet of crimson spray burst from the fallen robber’s sliced throat, soaking his screaming sister like a victorious racing driver wielding champagne. An ear-splitting crack interrupted the discordant blend of screams and persistent sea of flame. That wild, hacking corpse straddling the mutilated criminal, blew apart in the middle. Darren stepped clear of the burning building. Additional smoke rose from one barrel of his raised, sawn-off shotgun. The creature clutching tight to his girlfriend, released her with a roar. What once appeared to have been a human man, lurched towards him. “Angel, get clear.” Darren aimed at the attacker. Marie hit the ground flat. An immediate follow-on blast from the shotgun shattered her assailant’s fear-inducing head. Its torso lingered a moment then toppled over backwards.

  Marie crawled through the quagmire to her fallen brother. Jason lay, head supine with his throat ripped open. A puddle of dark blood spread around him like some perverse halo. Arms, legs and centre mass were all torn with repeated slashes from the frenzied attack that ended his life. The girl clutched at his body. Her chest heaved with unrelenting emotional trauma. “No.” She sobbed and pawed his form, tears flowing unrestrained. “No. Jason. Jason, why?” Her eyes lifted to the heavens; an instinctive gesture for the grief-stricken in search of answers that never seem to come.

  Darren ejected both spent cartridges to reload. His dark eyes surveyed the bloodied form of his onetime partner in crime. Off to the left and right, a squelching in the claggy earth caught his attention. Top and bottom halves of the corpse his weapon cleaved in two, began to twitch and move. Its head rose, arms pulling the upper por
tion of the body towards a waist and legs now attempting to stand. Portions of flesh and bone - pulverised by the spray of shotgun pellets - twisted and knitted back together. “Oh shit. Angel, we’ve got to go.” Darren picked up the fallen handgun and stuffed it into his waistband. He grabbed his girlfriend by the arm to pull her away. Above the din of burning buildings, a nearby shriek cut the living to the quick.

  Marie clutched tight to her deceased brother. “I-won’t-leave-him.” Those words merged into one almost incoherent sound amidst her sobs. She stroked his cheek and the faux hawk peak of blond hair that had always charmed the ladies. The shriek sounded again. Both Jason’s eyelids flicked open, revealing their whites. Marie recoiled, grief and fear taking intermittent turns at dominance on her vacillating countenance.

  Darren grabbed her again. “We can’t help him, Angel. We’ve got to go. Now.” The hothead gave one last tug to wrench her free on the final word.

  Marie became compliant. Her face never left the torso of her brother as it sat up where he’d fallen.

  Darren shook his head and grimaced. “Decaf, I love you man. But if you come at us, I’ll use this.” He pointed the shotgun with one hand and grabbed a holdall with the other.