by Jacob Rayne
‘Can you get the doors open?’ Darren said. ‘Or even better, get me back to the ground floor like I asked for in the fucking first place?’
The operator stifled a laugh, then said, ‘Just a sec,’ before disappearing for what felt like an eternity.
5
Blood coursed from the split in Dwayne’s scalp and he landed on his back hard enough to jar his legs. For a terrifying second he thought he was paralysed, thought he was going to be forced to watch, helpless, as the angry villagers tore his children apart.
But he managed to move his legs.
‘Hey, the fucker’s over here,’ the man yelled, triumphant. The butt of the shotgun came down again, slamming into Dwayne’s head with a force that blurred his vision and made his stomach do a somersault.
He was certain he’d felt part of his skull come away and lodge in his brain, but this was the least of his worries. The man’s shotgun was already aimed right in his face.
Desperately, he fought to get back to his feet, but his legs were buckled and useless. His balance was all fucked up. He managed to get to his haunches, but when he pushed up from there, he pitched forward and landed face first in the mud.
He let out a forlorn cry as the man’s finger tightened on the trigger.
6
Left there in the gloom, Darren had time to think.
He focussed not on how he hoped George was doing, but on how he was going to take a baseball bat to the next lift he came across once he was out of his dire predicament.
‘Come on,’ he muttered, cursing under his breath more vehemently with each passing minute.
In the age the girl had been gone, he’d counted to three hundred, as this was his only way of keeping track of time since his phone was still attached to the charging cradle at home.
‘Five minutes,’ he said aloud. ‘Five bastard minutes she’s been gone.’
Suddenly the voice returned with such power that it made him jump.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Sorry.’ More sincere this time. ‘The supervisor was on another call.’
‘Someone else stuck in a lift?’ he snapped.
‘No. Erm, she said if you press the button underneath the one that says SOS it should open the doors.’
‘Any idea how to get the fucking thing back up and running?’
‘I’ll go ask, if you want to wait.’
‘No, it’s fine,’ Darren said, raising his hands in front of him. ‘I can’t stand another five minute wait. I’ll take my chances on this floor.’
‘There’s a short corridor to your right. Then there’s another lift that still seems to be working.’
‘Oh, please not another lift. I’ll die a happy man if I never have to see another lift. Isn’t there a staircase?’
‘Sorry, no, not at this time of night. Please use the lift.’
He cursed and pressed the button to open the doors, then slammed the sole of his foot into the control panel. Petulant, yes, but it made him feel much better.
The lights around here were much dimmer, presumably to avoid hurting the eyes of the workers who were unfortunate enough to have to brave the dubious delights of the lower levels. He longed to ask for directions but saw no one. The girl had hardly sounded sure of herself.
He reached the doors, noting a smear on the wall that, due to the inadequate lighting, wasn’t clear if it was shit or blood, and pulled them hard, relishing the burst of plaster dust as the handle hit the wall behind.
The lift awaited him on his right, and this one looked in better condition. The lights even worked. Still, it was with severe trepidation that he entered.
He paused for a second, wanting to make fucking certain that he hit the G this time, then poked it with his finger.
The G lit up before extinguishing, then the lift began to plummet.
7
Dwayne’s heart swelled with pride as the larger of the two twins darted in towards the gunman. His jaws came open, clamping tight around the gunman’s thigh and tearing loose a chunk of flesh.
The gunman’s jeans slowly turned black with the rushing blood and he cried out and began stomping down at the tiny creature doing its best to tear his flesh away from his bones.
The other creature took heart from this and ran in too. The gunman’s boot caught it full in the face and sent it flying back. A thick trail of blood droplets flew through the air after it.
Dwayne cried out, still powerless to stop the assault on his pride and joy.
But the little one was much sturdier than she looked. She got up and ran in, hissing in sheer hatred. The pair of them clamped themselves to the gunman’s leg with their claws and began sinking their teeth into his flesh.
The gunman screamed and fell to his back. His punctured femoral artery soaked the mud beneath him, as the hungry mouths pulled at the wounds, savouring the hot blood.
Dwayne managed to get to his feet, the world still painful and confusing.
Torch beams were bobbing around, making their way towards them at a pace he found frightening.
He pulled his young ones away from the gunman, who was now deep in the throes of shock. Their mouths dripped crimson as they nuzzled into him affectionately.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘But we need to get away.’ He pointed towards the torch beams.
They both seemed to nod.
Silently, they followed him through the woods towards the car.
8
Darren cursed, banged a hand on the control panel. His glasses were starting to steam up in his anger.
‘Do none of the lifts in this place work?’ he grunted, shattering the mirror behind him with a hard palm strike. ‘Fuck’s sake.’
Anger ebbed away instantly when the doors opened on the level marked SB.
‘Sub-basement,’ he muttered. ‘Just great.’
The air round here was rank. This must be where the bodies are kept, he thought.
Ordinarily he’d have expressed a macabre delight in being given access to something like this, but tonight he just wanted to return to his bed and play at sleeping.
A double door hanging off its hinges stood in front of him, again, what looked like blood or shit was smeared thickly across it.
It was his only option, so he was forced to go through it.
The room before him was as dark and silent as the grave, but his ears soon picked up faint noises in the distance, like those a decrepit boiler might make as it fought to heat its watery load.
Or something struggling to draw breath, his mind taunted.
The sensation of eyes crawling across his skin struck him with frightening intensity, strong enough to make him scratch the back of his neck.
Something moved in the darkness ahead of him.
‘Hello?’ he cried out, ashamed by how timid the echo of his voice sounded.
Shuffling sounds in the gloom made his skin crawl.
The light coming from the far end of the room was insufficient to reveal whatever shared the room with him, but he was sure he could see a prone form on a gurney with a blood-stained white sheet slung carelessly over it.
‘This is where they keep the bodies,’ he said aloud, suddenly more confident of his surroundings. There was nothing in here that could hurt him, just the dead and the cold secrets they kept.
‘How the fuck do I get out of here?’ he muttered.
Again something unseen shuffled.
He moved closer to the thing on the gurney and now he got closer he thought he saw it moving, thought he saw the blood-smeared sheet slowly rising and falling.
When he saw a tiny eye flicker open he cried out and ran, tripping over a loose piece of flooring and landing in a screaming heap on the floor.
9
The young creatures had already proved themselves in battle, though they were still too small to deal with the onslaught they’d face if the villagers caught up with them.
They reached the car Dwayne had hidden in the woods
.
Good job I was prepared for this, he thought with a sigh as he got into the car. Keeping the lights off to avoid detection, he sped away from the farm towards an uncertain future.
From there, they’d moved from place to place, always skipping one town, maybe two if they had enough petrol and food to last them.
Trying to keep their movements unpredictable was the key to avoiding detection.
Then fortune had smiled upon him. He’d found a group of degenerates just as desperate and hungry as he was. They’d needed minimal persuasion to start feeding on human flesh.
After all, anything was better than starving, wasn’t it?
The events at the second farm had made Dwayne much more cautious and he had come to savour the discretion offered by sneaking through the sewers.
One night, he’d been leading a few of his new friends on harvester crew duties, when they’d stumbled across a trapdoor which had led up into the bowels of the hospital.
In there it was quiet and dark, with easy access to the blood bank; everything a proud father could need to nurture his growing kin.
The blood bank had been a godsend. His babies were weak as kittens until he’d managed to smash his way into the blood depository and suckle them into the warm, glistening bags like babes at their mother’s teat.
The bags were enough at first, but the blood sped up their growth. As their bodies grew, so did their appetites.
The masses of dead bodies lined up like a buffet table were the next boon his new environment offered. His two young offspring feasted on the clammy dead flesh in spades.
He was amazed by how impressive they had become.
Soon they had begun to crave living, warm flesh, so he and his harvester crews were pleased – never a chore, nothing was too much trouble for his beautiful monsters – to descend upon the towns and drag screaming, struggling victims back to their sanctuary.
Soon, Dwayne realised that there were easier ways of providing fresh feasts for his young charges. Rigging the lift controls for one. That had been a masterstroke.
10
Darren’s eyes failed once more to pierce the darkness, but he felt sure he could see the thing under the sheet trying to rise from the gurney.
After promptly deciding he’d seen enough, he hauled himself to his feet and charged for the door, his breath coming in ragged bursts, his heart seeming loud enough to hear in the silent room.
Backing away from the doors, not taking his eyes off them even for a second, he tried his pockets for anything that he could use as a weapon.
Failing to find anything, he continued to back up.
By the time he neared the lift doors he became aware of low, laboured breathing behind him.
The scent of fresh blood overwhelmed his other senses.
Wide-eyed, he spun to face his companion in the lift.
The body of the pale, bearded man looked almost wasted but his eyes burnt darkly. Thick clumps of matted blood stained his beard, twisting it like bloody dreadlocks.
He exposed teeth that looked as though they’d last been cleaned when Thatcher was in power and pulled a long, curved blade from the waistband of his filthy tracksuit bottoms.
‘Well, hello, stranger,’ he said, his voice as filthy and disturbing as his appearance. ‘Am I glad to see you. We got hungry mouths to feed, and you showed up just on time.’
Before Darren could process the words, or raise a finger in defence, the dirty man had swung the blade in a wide arc.
The lights in the lift winked off the blade before it tore into Darren’s throat, carving his larynx clean in half and sending gouts of blood pulsing over his shirt.
As Darren’s hands clawed uselessly at the gushing wound, his head lolled back on his neck, further widening the wound and spraying thick torrents of gore onto the tramp’s face and chest.
Had Darren’s eyes not been rolled all the way back into his skull, he would have seen the man lick his lips and rush in, would have felt his mouth press against the vast wound and greedily slurp at the liberated crimson.
And he’d also have seen the much larger, paler shape that emerged from the broken door and took its place by the bearded man’s side.
As Dwayne watched his two proudest moments muzzle deep in the innards of the bespectacled man who’d been the latest unfortunate to make his way down into the darkness of their killing field, he wiped a tear from his eye.
His children were getting all grown up.
11
Former policeman Thomas Campbell hung up the phone with his counsellor.
More lip service, more money in his trust fund account, he thought bitterly.
They’d talked for hours and hours, almost entire days he’d spent in therapy, trying to forget the loss of his son and the mangled wreck that had once been his wife.
Failing to erase his horrific recollections of what had happened that day at the farm.
But talking did nothing but stir up the past.
He felt like the only way to erase the nightmares would be to take a power drill to his forehead, set it on full tilt and drive the memories out of his skull in a blizzard of flying blood and bone shards.
This horrendous image made him smile until nausea overwhelmed him.
It’ll get better, son, Osmo had said. Trust me all this will be behind you one day.
‘What did he know? Crazy bastard,’ Campbell spat, tears already forming in his eyes.
It seemed he’d done nothing but cry since the day he, Osmo, and Baz had shuffled out of the barn, blood-soaked and exhausted like a maniac’s version of the three musketeers.
He slammed his palms into his temples, trying to force the memories from his mind.
Finally he ran to the gun safe and pulled out his sawn-off shotgun.
The daily ritual, pushing the gun to his temple, daring himself to pull the trigger.
Staring himself in the eye, the gun wedged into his temple hard enough to bruise the pale flesh, he whispered, ‘Do it.’
His finger trembled on the trigger.
‘Do yourself a favour. Pull the trigger.’
Still his finger wavered.
‘Pull. The. Trigger.’
He took the gun away, closed his eyes a second, took a couple of deep breaths.
‘You fucking coward,’ he said, jamming the gun in hard again, leaving an identical mark next to the previous one.
An image of his wife’s mutilated corpse hanging over the arm of the abominable ‘Thing in the barn’, struck him like a sledgehammer blow.
‘It should have been me,’ he cried out.
His finger slipped from the trigger guard and he knew it wasn’t going to happen, not today.
‘It should have been me,’ he sobbed, collapsing to the floor in a flood of guilty tears.
12
The night after Darren Banks’s grisly demise, Gary Jameson had started work at the hospital as part of the cleaning crew.
He’d hated the job since his very first hour on shift, when he’d been called to the bedside of an obese old man who’d had a rectal hernia burst in a veritable shower of blood, pus and shit.
The responsibility of cleaning up the delightful Mr Thornton had fallen squarely at Gary’s feet.
He reflected bitterly that he’d had the grades at school to do anything, just his parents had been skint, so he’d been forced into dead-end job after dead-end job until he’d ended up in the shit-filled delights of this hospital.
As he pushed the cart containing the bags of soiled linen to the next ward, he caught a whiff of the shit-soaked blankets mere inches from his nose.
‘Fuck’s sake,’ he muttered, when he noticed there was a wide split in the bag and that part of Mr Thornton’s last meal was smeared across his overalls, clean on not even an hour ago.
His shit-covered finger jabbed the button for the sub-basement, and he felt his nerves jangle a little.
He’d heard the stories not to go down here alone.
Had dismissed
them as so much bullshit.
Apparently that had become the new initiation ritual around here, sending newbies like Gary down into the dark, blood-stinking wasteland with the corpses and the furnace with a never-ending appetite for skin and bone.
‘Fuck ’em,’ he said, raising his middle finger to the camera at the top of the corridor in case any of the pricks who’d sent him down here were watching.
As soon as he got out of this stinking basement he was going to march right into his manager’s office – fat prick that he was – and slug him right in his donut-munching jaw.
Gary smiled as he pictured the scene.
While his boss floundered he was going to tell him to stick his job up his fat arse and boot him in the gut.
‘Yeah, that’s how we roll,’ he chuckled. 'Is this bloody lift gonna open any time soon?’ he muttered, slamming a hand into the control panel in an attempt to kick start the doors into opening.
The SB light winked out then the doors finally opened.
As the dim lights of the corridor illuminated, he saw a door hanging off its hinges immediately in front of him.
‘Damned place wants redecorating,’ he said, hawking and spitting a lungful of mucus on the floor.
As he mashed it in contemptuously with his foot, he noticed a thick smear of what looked like dried blood.
‘I don’t want to fucking know,’ he said, spitting again, aiming for the blood spot this time.
As he neared the door that seemed to be his only option, the wheels of the cart creaked ominously.
The hairs on the back of his neck rose up as the darkness overwhelmed his senses.
Water drops fell from the ceiling all around him, echoing in the shadows.
‘The furnace is all the way in the back,’ the boss had told him between greedy mouthfuls of a pie that looked about as appetising as what had sprayed from between Mr Thornton’s flaccid butt cheeks. ‘Be careful down there.’
There was a dim light at the far end of the room and Gary took this to be the furnace’s pilot light.