The Damned

by Tarn Richardson

  “Look at us?” muttered Doughty, in a hushed voice. “Right pair of turkeys. There’s nothing here?” he said, standing taller and holding up the lantern.

  A dark shape moved across the room at the very edge of the lantern light. “What the bugger was that?” hissed Wrigley, his eyes wide.

  Another dark shape loped across the lantern light, followed by a low, animalistic growl.

  Wrigley was stepping backwards, tugging hard at this mate’s arm. “What the fuck was that?” he asked, urging Doughty away. A dark shadow lunged towards them. There was a splattering sound, like that of a heavy object being thrown down into water. Wrigley was aware of the light of the lantern moving, moving up the wall, now across the ceiling, now over in an arch towards the floor. As it flew past, it caught the soldier in its full glare, Doughty’s headless corpse, blood pumping down his uniform from a neatly severed neck, turning and falling, following the lantern down onto the floor of the tunnel.

  Wrigley tried to scream, but nothing escaped from his mouth. He turned and ran, thundering back up the tunnel into the pitch black, charging headlong into the end of the passageway, his hand flapping wildly to find the corridor on the left in the utter dark. His head crunched hard into the dip in the ceiling of the tunnel, stars swarming, a sharp stinging pain on his forehead. The young private crumpled backwards onto the floor, stunned, the black entombing him like a casket. He felt warmth and wetness on his forehead, in his eye socket, on his face. He turned himself onto his hands and knees and scrambled forwards, wherever that was, lost in the pitch black, weeping, finding the wall and scurrying along it like a lost child. From behind him came the crunching of bones and of flesh, the tearing of uniform, a blood curdling howl. And then feet, many many feet, scrambling after him.

  At the end of the tunnel, Private Wrigley could see a grey tinge, the grey tinge of light from the hole down which they had first slid. The light of the few torches they’d left in the trenches and the glow of the full moon, just ahead, just around the corner. He rose to his feet and leapt forwards. A sharp pain jammed hard into his left leg. He felt something rip into his left thigh and then the pain came, too great for him to think of anything else. He fell forward, mud encasing his torn limb. He cried pitifully but it was almost a mercy when jaws settled and with a crunch bit the top of his head clean off, flecking the dark mud with white.

  Out of the hole they tore, feral wolves, terrible and crazed, their grey and brown hides caked with dirt and a lifetime’s filth from their world below. They tore out into the trench, the moonlight stinging their burning red eyes, glinting on their flashing talons and blood red jaws. They charged down the trench, gashing and gnashing at soldiers as they went, decapitating, amputating, disembowelling, mortally wounding with single blows from their vile claws.

  The sound was terrible, like a host of berserk dogs high on the scent of blood and half-starved by their wicked owners, unleashed and sent after a desperate fleeing prey. And no prey could run from such a terrible enemy.

  Amid the cries of the butchered and the howls of the wolves, blood gushed, organs flew, bodies fell and were dashed into the earth or crunched and consumed in seconds by the following feeding pack. A cry went up, a gun fired, its bullet buffeting harmlessly into the wave of insatiable blood lusting beasts. Further up the trench a bell was rung desperately.

  Alarm! Alarm! Enemy in the trench! Enemy in the trench!

  Soldiers scampered out of dugouts and scrambled from the outskirts of Fampoux, tumbling down into the trenches, rifles and bayonets at the ready, expecting to find the Hun, only to be dashed apart like seeds beneath a threshing machine, their bodies torn open, their blood and body parts showering the trench walls. Those who tried to flee were caught after their first few steps.

  Henry saw a soldier stumble out of his trench and watched wide eyed as the wolves he was hopelessly trying to flee engulfed him. The first bite took the soldier’s head and part of his shoulder clean off, the second swallowed his lungs, ribs and most of his organs. Not a single morsel was left.

  Henry turned the machine gun down the length of the trench and pulled the trigger. He watched as the stream of bullets thudded into the head of the wave of wolves leaping and howling along it. But it did little to halt their merciless drive up the trench’s length under the hail of bullets, snapping and devouring all in their path. The lead wolf leapt up at where Henry was positioned, his jaws snapping hard down on the muzzle of the gun. The beast was huge, the size of a lion, long limbed, stinking and emanating evil from every strand of its fetid coat, every inch of its terrible, taut body.

  Henry pulled the trigger. The gun exploded, blasting him backwards into the gunner’s hole, showering him with shrapnel, as tumbling rocks and debris fell on top of him, throwing the wolf back down into the trench, dazed and burnt, wilder and more wrathful than ever. Henry fell, seemingly for an age. The back of his head hit something hard and sharp. Everything went black and the world faded to nothingness.

  EIGHTY

  19:07. THURSDAY, OCTOBER 15TH, 1914.

  THE FRONT LINE. FAMPOUX. NR. ARRAS. FRANCE.

  Tacit stopped dead in his tracks as he strode through the village and turned his head urgently to the cacophony of horror coming from the front. His eyes were wide and full of alarm.

  “What is it?” Isabella cried, her hands to her mouth.

  “Someone has opened a door to hell,” roared Tacit, trundling into a run. He charged to the end of the road, where the ground rose and gave them a better view of the front line, two hundred yards away. He stared and without a word ran on through the village, Isabella racing after him, using the buildings for cover. The howling of the wolves and the cries of the soldiers were dreadful to hear, as if countless wild packs of dogs were snarling as they closed on helpless prey.

  “Where are you going?” Isabella cried. “The wolves aren’t this way.”

  “I am well aware.”

  Tacit thundered up the battered side street and turned into the main square, charging across its broken stones to the crumpled remains of the hall. He reached the main doors and dug into a coat pocket.

  “Here,” he said, handing a silver coloured revolver to the Sister. “Six rounds. Use them if you need to, but use them wisely.”

  She took it and held it in trembling hands, as if it were a thing of terrible mystery. These weapons were part of the sacred arsenal, passed down from Inquisitor to Inquisitor for generations. Tacit put his hand up on the door of the village hall and thrust his way inside. There was no sentry to be seen. He stormed across the room and pushed at the doors on the far side of it. They were locked. He raised a boot and kicked it hard, busting the doors open. Behind the desk, the figure of the Major jumped and he flinched backwards into his chair.

  “You’ve got a problem,” Tacit growled, striding to the desk. He put his immense fists down on the table in front of him. “You can’t solve it. Only we can.”

  “This is the British Army. Of course we can solve it!” Pewter spat back, but his eyes didn’t look at Tacit. Instead, they were fixed to the window and the trenches far off in the distance, to the howling and the chaos unfolding outside. He shuddered and it looked as if tears were forming in his eyes.

  “You can’t beat them,” replied the Inquisitor grimly. “Trust me.”

  There was a sudden noise from the door of the hall and Ponting ran inside, his eyes half-crazed, his face drawn and very white. He had lost his cap and his hair was wild with haste.

  “Sir, it’s your horse, sir!” he announced, hopping anxiously from foot to foot, as if the ground was on fire. “It’s been killed!”

  “My what?”

  “Your horse, sir.”

  “Good God, she was a beauty!”

  Isabella scowled. “You’re more worried about your horse?” she cried. “Major, you’re losing entire units out there.”

  “Help us,” Pewter stuttered, swallowing hard on his dry throat. “Help, God damn it. Help us.”

  “
It might be too late,” Tacit replied, staring at the window. “Seems you have tunnelled into hell.” He looked back at the Major, who cowered under the Inquisitor’s gaze. “Give the order to pull back. There is nothing you can do out there tonight.”

  “Pull back? Are you mad? If we pull back, we’ll give the Boche our trench! I won’t allow it. If they take the trench, they’ll be able to take the village! No, I’m sorry, I won’t allow it.”

  “You’re going to lose the village whether you stay in your trenches or not. Tell your men to retreat back to the village. They need shelter. They need to get indoors. Lock themselves in. If you want to stay and fight, you’ll die. You asked for my advice. You have it. Pull them out of there.”

  Tacit levered himself back and strode swiftly from the room, Isabella in his wake.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Pewter desperately, tears running down his cheeks. All his dreams lay in tatters.

  “Me?” replied Tacit, stopping at the door and looking back to the window. “Sleep. There’s nothing that can be done, not during night time. Not with this many of them.” He stepped past the sentry and pulled out another silver revolver, opening the chamber and checking the silver bullets were in place. “Just pray they’re not still hungry by morning.”

  PART FIVE

  * * *

  “And praise be to God Most High, who delivered your enemies into your hand.”

  Genesis, 14, Verse 20

  EIGHTY ONE

  05:23. FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16TH, 1914. FAMPOUX. NR. ARRAS. FRANCE.

  Safe within the tunnels beneath Fampoux, all night Sandrine had listened to the wolves stalking through the ruined village, searching for any prey who had managed to escape the trenches and attempted to find refuge amongst the ruins. The sounds had been dreadful. Only with the very first rays of light did the creatures and their savage and terrible howls recede and then vanish.

  Sandrine pushed the flagstone of the tunnel mouth aside and peered out into the fresh light of a new day. She’d heard a wolf sniffing and scraping at the tunnel’s entrance last night but by morning there was no trace that they had come, save for the multitude of immense pad prints deep in the dewy dust of the road.

  She pulled herself out into the thin light of the morning and tumbled from the tunnel like a rag doll, her limbs heavy, her footsteps clumsy and slow, as if she couldn’t walk through the village for fear of what she would see, what she might find. But she was unable to turn away from the task. She had to find Henry.

  There was no debris left from the night time’s hunting in the street in which her ruined house stood but, turning into the main street which ran from it, Sandrine began to encounter the evidence of the dreadful feeding frenzy which had taken place in the village and the outlying lands last night. Trails of blood were everywhere, splashed across roads and up walls, splurged from bodies as they fell or from jaws as they shook the flesh from their victims’ bones. Bits of bodies, torn uniforms, broken weapons, detritus and mess lay across every street down which Sandrine walked. She expected to see a few numbed souls, soldiers staggering and faltering in the cool dawn, but the village was deserted, like a ghost town.

  She wept, clawing at her chest and tearing at her clothes to witness such scenes, for she knew the ones she loved, her people, had been the architects of such devastation.

  Sandrine reached the main square. She looked across the village hall, long ruined and broken from its once fine appearance. She looked across the square in the opposite direction to where the trenches lay and the worst of the onslaught had taken place. Sandrine forced herself in that direction, wandering slowly towards the butchery which awaited her. She didn’t even know what she’d discover, if she’d find the remains of Henry. All she knew was that she had to try. She owed him that.

  “Is there anyone alive?” called a small voice from behind her. She immediately knew its owner without even turning to see. Tears of rage welled in her eyes. Why him? Why did he have to live when Henry and all the others had been taken?

  “No.”

  It was all she could bring herself to say to him.

  Realising he had survived, Pewter’s eyes flashed evilly. His plans lay in tatters, his promotion gone. But he had survived. And there was still hope. He could go back to the support trenches, commandeer another unit, bring them to the village. It could call be done by lunchtime.

  But what would HQ say when he returned alone, with none of his men? He’d be ridiculed, ruined, probably put on trial for desertion, cowardice. He knew his career was over. But not all was lost.

  He leered at Sandrine and swallowed slowly.

  “You and me then, again?” he said, licking his lips. “That’s good.” He said it with a light now coming to his voice, which made Sandrine feel wretched to the core.

  “What’s that meant to mean?”

  “My horse,” he mused sadly. “They killed my bloody horse!” The Major dragged a hand across his scalp and held it there, clutching tight to his skull.

  “They killed your men,” Sandrine hissed. “Fuck your horse!”

  She turned her back on him and stepped away. She could feel the Major’s eyes on her as she walked. She felt violated by his staring but she refused to turn back and look, to give him the satisfaction of turning around. At the lip of the trench, she stopped and peered into it, her hands on her mouth and across her stomach. She wandered along its upper bank, looking down, looking for anything which might identify Henry, but there was nothing to distinguish the remains of one body from the next. Everything was bloodied and spoiled. Not one single identifying element remained. A cold wind blew fluttering paper and waste across the barren landscape. The silence seemed almost utter. Even the crows had fallen silent.

  A wretchedness grew in the pit of her stomach. The desolation was total, all life having been choked out of this stretch of earth. She imagined even the worms were dead.

  She turned and walked back to the village, aware of a strangled choking sound, like weeping which failed to come. She realised the sound was coming from herself. She was relieved to see that the Major had vanished. She wished never to show him any sign of weakness. She hoped she’d never see him again. However, as she stepped up into the square, he appeared from the doors of the hall grinning. A cold shiver drew across her. Pewter had a small pack upon his back and a cigarette was smoking between his lips. He removed it and blew out a big cloud of smoke.

  “Failed to find anything?” he asked, smirking.

  Sandrine ignored him, and walked on by.

  “It’s a mess down there,” Pewter called. “A bloody mess, quite literally. They did more than rip the bloody heart out of this unit. They ripped the bloody unit apart.” He sounded almost remorseful.

  He watched Sandrine stride out of the square and turned to follow her, throwing his cigarette away. He was suddenly aware of being watched himself and looked up to see the boy with the china white teeth staring at him from the edge of the square. The boy was grinning, but there was no joy in the smile. It was a smile of immorality and licentiousness, like the leer of a gargoyle on a castle wall.

  “What do you want?” the Major called to him, unsettled by the stare. “Thought you’d have died last night. More’s the pity. Thought I was the only one left. Is there anyone left?”

  The boy stared at him.

  “Come on, speak up! What’s the matter? Lost your tongue?”

  “Les loups ont pris tous vos hommes!” the boy called

  “No, that’s no good,” Pewter replied, stepping over to him. “You’ll have to speak English. Can’t be dealing with all this froggie nonsense.”

  “Vous auriez du écouter ce que vous avez dit.”

  “What is it?” asked the Major hotly. He rested the palm of his hand on the grip of his revolver. “Do you speak no English at all?”

  “Maintenant vous devez vivre avec leur sang sur les mains.” The boy crossed his arms and for the first time the grin was replaced with a scowl.

  “N
o need for that,” hissed Pewter. He looked to where Sandrine had walked and went to step after her. The child caught hold of his arm as he turned to go. Immediately the revolver was in the Major’s hand and a deafening bang bounced amongst the walls of the square. The child’s head rocked backwards and he slumped to the floor, a gaping hole in his temple. Slowly blood began to draw down his face, into his mouth and seep across his perfect white teeth.

  Pewter felt sickened. He knew he was too important to have to do the dirty work of killing children in this war. He turned his mind and eyes back to the woman. He recalled the smoothness of her thighs and hurried in the direction she had gone.

  No wind had reached the depths of the village, but the air was still cool, the sun only just beginning to rise above the horizon, casting long shadows. Sandrine’s brown skin prickled as she thought of those huddled in the cold and the damp of their underground lair the day before. She shivered. How cruel a fate that those she loved had taken someone who …

  She shook her head and tried to chase any thoughts of Henry away.

  Through the pale morning light, she stared at the imprint of a bloodied figure, dashed against a wall of the village, his final violent ending captured in crimson on the white stone of the building. Fampoux was a very different place to the one she had left a month ago. It was a very different place to the one she had returned to just a day or so ago. The silence was dreadful. Then a single sudden gunshot shattered the bubble of calm. Sandrine stopped dead in her tracks and looked behind her to where the noise came from. The square. She hoped the Major had done the decent thing and his brain had been the bullet’s final destination.

  “Not leaving without saying goodbye I hope?” Major Pewter called to her from the end of the ruined street. Her heart sank.

  He stepped over beams and mortar, which had fallen from the house on the corner, and made his way towards her.