by Stephen Laws
He said: “Nothing. I’m just spooked.”
“Come on,” said Annie again, tugging at his sleeve.
Alex hesitated, looking back at the meat mart.
“Your wife needs you,” said Lisa. “There’s nothing I could do to get her out of that store.” She took the boy’s hand, and the next moment Annie had joined them as they headed back in the direction of the park. Alex nodded then, and with a last look back at the meat mart set off hurriedly after them.
Gordon grabbed two cans of petrol and hurried back up the ramp into the building. The weight of the cans, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the darkness, the rancid smell—all physical evidence that these things really were happening. But he still felt as if he were acting a part. Since he’d played that lament over the mound of rubble that was his aunt’s grave, he’d felt himself turning inside out. Was it the grief that had done that to him? His relationship with her had been far from easy. But nevertheless, she was the only person he’d been able to relate to. And even though his bedroom seemed to have become a prison for him, cut him off from his peers, part of him wanted to be back there again. In the real world. Had he wished too hard to be free? Was that the reason why his wish had been granted with such spectacular success? Not only was he free from his bedroom/prison, but that prison…that house…hell, the entire town…had been blown apart.
Suddenly, Gordon wanted to drop the cans and run.
He’d suddenly realised what they were about to do.
Pour petrol over dozens of dead people.
Set them alight.
His stomach tightened. Fear clutched in his chest and throat.
Shaking his head, Gordon ran on ahead, the petrol sloshing inside the cans.
Jay was standing in the sliding-door aperture, staring into the charnel house. One hand was braced against the edge of the door, and there was something about his stance that made Gordon’s stomach lurch again as he banged the cans down behind his silhouette. Was Jay ill? Gordon didn’t look into the storeroom. He kept staring at Jay, waiting for him to say something.
Jay, he wanted to say. Jay, what’s wrong?
Nothing would come.
Do something, Jay. For Christ’s sake, do something. Or else I’m only going to be able to stand here and do nothing.
Jay opened his mouth. But the fear inside made it impossible for him to speak.
And then Jay turned to look at him. His face seemed terribly white in the darkness, like one of the dead people lying in there.
“Hit me,” said Jay, in a blank voice.
What? Gordon’s mouth formed an “O”, but he couldn’t ask the question.
“Do it,” said Jay.
“What…?”
“For Christ’s sake, Gordon! Just do it! Hit me!”
Jay’s voice stabbed in the darkness, shocking Gordon.
“HIT ME!”
And this time Gordon stepped forward and smacked Jay hard across the face, galvanised by the fury in Jay’s voice.
“Again!”
Jay, what…?
“Again, damn it!”
Gordon hit him again, with the back of his hand, snapping Jay’s head back. It hurt Gordon’s hand where he had caught his knuckles on Jay’s teeth. When Jay turned to look at him again, his eyes were glittering. There was blood on his lip. Gordon stood back, convinced that Jay was going to attack him. Jay wiped the blood from his mouth and nodded.
“Good.”
The anger was back. Jay was roused from his immobility. Stooping, he grabbed a can and unscrewed the top. Stunned, confused, Gordon watched the top clatter and roll on the cold concrete of the floor, hypnotized by its glittering motion. When it stopped, he looked up to see that Jay had moved down into the storeroom. Step by careful step, he was moving over bodies and scattering plumes of glistening blue petrol over the bloodied corpses. The pungent smell masked the other rancid smell, and suddenly Gordon wondered whether the smell of decay had been coming from the racks of meat swinging back in the storeroom or from the dead people in here. He reeled to the wall at the thought, bile rising in his throat. When Jay had emptied the can, he stood for a long time, not looking at anything in particular. Did he need hitting again?
Suddenly he gestured up at Gordon, without looking round at him.
Gordon realised that he needed the other can. Still shaken, he grabbed it. Holding his breath, he stepped carefully down into the storeroom—and stood on an outstretched leg. It felt hard and solid; more like a piece of wood than human flesh. Clutching the can, he cried out, staggering. Then Jay had moved quickly forward to take the can out of his hands.
“Go and get the rest,” he said, without looking at Gordon. His face tight, he unscrewed the top. “And the matches. Don’t forget the matches.”
Was it getting darker in here? Was the grey deepening to black?
“Hurry up, Gordon. And where the hell are Damon and Wayne? Tell them to drag those three bodies from the dump truck in here.”
Gordon clambered back out of the storeroom. Head down, he ran back across the warehouse, dodging the hanging carcasses, to the ramp. Both doors of the dump truck were open. The remaining cans from the rear had been stacked at the bottom of the ramp. But there was no sign of Damon and Wayne. Gordon looked anxiously around, but they were nowhere to be seen in the yard.
It was getting darker, no doubt about that.
And it was getting darker fast.
Gordon clambered into the driving cab and grabbed handfuls of matchboxes. They were the big domestic kind. Stuffing them into his pockets, he ran to the back of the dump truck, saw that the three bodies were still there, seized up another two cans and ran back into the warehouse.
Something clattered and bounced, making him flinch as he ran. Were Damon and Wayne in the warehouse somewhere? But there were no signs of movement in the deepening shadows as Gordon reached the storeroom once again. Jay was waiting for him, both hands braced against one of the walls, marshaling his will and his strength. Gordon saw the second can lying against the wall where Jay had thrown it in anger or disgust, or both. That had been the sound he’d heard. Jay reached for the next petrol can.
“Where are the others?”
“No…no…” Nowhere. “Gone.”
“Gone?”
“Can’t. Find. Them.”
“Shit!” Jay took his arm and they ran back to the dump truck.
“Ready?” Jay turned from the back flap and looked Gordon hard in the eye.
Gordon nodded.
“Right!”
Between them, they dragged the bodies up the ramp, through the storehouse and rolled them over the door track to join the others. Jay unscrewed the cap from another can and staggered around the horrifying pile of bodies, scattering more of the petrol, trying not to get it on himself. “Wayne and Damon. I might have bloody known. This is down to you and me now, Gordon.”
Again, the flaring of fear in Gordon’s guts. Gritting his teeth, he twisted the cap off the remaining can and jumped down into the storeroom. He couldn’t bring himself to look as he began pouring the petrol on the dark, huddled mass. He kept telling himself that these weren’t real people any more; they were abstract shapes. He tried not to look at the white and ghastly faces; terrible indeed if they were recognisably human, worse still if by accident he should see a face that he thought he knew. The smell of petrol made him choke. He could hardly believe that he was in this nightmare, or what he was doing now. What if they were wrong? What if the rescue services were landing right now? What would they say about what they’d done, about what they were doing? Only Jay’s strength was pulling him through. He had to believe in this nightmare, had to do something about stopping it. Sitting still and covering his head with his hands wasn’t going to make it all go away. He staggered when something caught the hem of his jeans. Gordon pulled, not wanting to see what he’d stood on this time. The material remained snagged. He would have to lean down and pull it free. He stooped and turned.
He
looked, and saw…
Oh God…
A ghastly white hand from the entwined mass of bodies had caught in the hem.
Gordon looked over at Jay, who was still scattering petrol. Should he call for help?
No, he’d try to be strong. Not let him down.
Gordon grabbed at the hand, yanking hard.
The hand would not come free. It felt cold and hard, like stone.
Christ…
He couldn’t understand how the fingers had caught like that. They were gripping the cloth tight. Some kind of muscle spasm caused by rigor mortis? He would have to pry the fingers off one by one.
But this time, when he reluctantly picked at the claw-like fingers, the hand suddenly let go of the hem.
And fastened on his wrist.
Gordon couldn’t breathe.
Instinctively, he scrabbled at it with his own free hand, lunging backwards. But the grip was tight, and as he lunged he saw with horror that he was pulling the hand’s owner out of the contorted jumble of bodies on the storeroom floor. It was a man. Or what had once been a man. He was wearing a dark business suit, smeared with dried blood and concrete dust. His hair was matted and straggling, with a wound in his centre parting, wide enough to show a grey-red mass of exposed brain. Gordon yanked again, this time succeeding in pulling the corpse out completely. The hand would not let go. But the sound of the movement had drawn Jay’s attention. Gordon’s eyes locked on his; Jay looked as if he was suddenly about to say: What the hell are you doing?
The corpse braced its other shredded hand on the bloodied storeroom floor and, still holding Gordon tight with the other, raised its head to look him full in the face.
Gordon stared at the white, blood-streaked mask and saw that where there had once been eyes were now two small orbs of glistening blackness. It was the very same blackness that had come up from the Chasm to inhabit these dead shells and reanimate them. He could not move, could only stare, as the corpse smiled up at him; a horrifying, leering death-mask…and then the other bodies heaped in the storeroom began to stir.
Someone or something within the hideous pile moaned. Arms and legs began to writhe, hands clutching at the air. The dry slithering of fabric, the rustling of skirts, the scuffling rasp of shoes on concrete.
Day had suddenly become night once again in Edmonville.
And the dead were returning.
Gordon watched the dead man clamber awkwardly to his knees, retaining his grip on him.
The blackness in his eyes seemed to swirl and bubble like black geyser mud. His teeth were clenched, as if he had lockjaw, the face smeared with a dried bloody mudpack.
Gordon knew that the corpse was going to take him to Hell.
Jay vaulted over writhing bodies and brought the petrol can down hard on the thing’s arm, breaking its grip. Gordon staggered back. Jay caught and steadied him, at the same time planting his foot on the corpse’s chest and shoving hard. Without a sound, the dead man fell back amidst the churning mass of newly awakened bodies and thrashed, trying to rise as Jay dragged Gordon to the doorway. Gordon was free of his enervation as they clambered out of the storeroom.
“Matches!” yelled Jay. “Where’s the matches?”
Gordon didn’t know, couldn’t think. Christ, had he let them fall back there in the storeroom?
“Gordon, think!”
Inside the storeroom, figures were beginning to rise; pulling themselves out of the hideous pile and staggering to stay upright as others awoke and began clambering from their entanglement.
“Gordon!”
There was a box of household matches on the floor beside the sliding door. Gordon couldn’t recall leaving them there, but snatched them up, hands shaking. The box opened in his trembling hands, scattering its contents on to the concrete floor. Moaning, he dropped to his knees and tried to pick them up. His fingers were too large and clumsy. He felt as if he were wearing thick gloves.
The corpse of a young woman braced its hands on the concrete edge before him. Her long dark hair was matted and straggling, her eye sockets bubbling with black liquid. She opened her mouth and hissed at him, like a snake about to strike. Once again, he couldn’t move. The woman began to climb towards him, raising her face as if she wanted him to kiss her.
And then something flared beside him, a burst of bright light.
The dead woman reared back from him, white claw-hands covering her face.
Jay lunged forward with the handful of matches he’d scooped up and scraped on the concrete floor. The corpse’s petrol-soaked sleeves and hair ignited with a rippling Bunsen-blue flame. Shrieking, the woman blundered back into the rising mass behind her, arms flailing as she became a stumbling pillar of fire. The fire surged and roared on the floor, leaping and enveloping the dark, shuffling mass. It gobbled hungrily up the walls on all sides, racing to the ceiling. With a coughing roar, the storeroom suddenly became a raging furnace. Within, arms and legs flailed; figures staggered and spun in a fiery danse macabre.
Heat blasted Gordon’s face, singeing his hair and eyebrows.
Then something had him by the collar and pulled him away. Yanked to his feet, Gordon swung around to see Jay’s white face.
“Help me!” shouted Jay, lunging away to the sliding door and beginning to pull it across the aperture.
Gordon felt weak. His eyes were drawn to the furnace.
“Help ME!”
This time Gordon managed to drag himself from the awesome sight and throw himself at the sliding door. Together they yanked it closed. The roaring of the fire from the other side was muted now. Smoke began to curl under the door.
They staggered back.
“Jay. Those pee-people. What if…I mean…maybe…alive?”
“No! Don’t think about it. You saw what they were like. Saw what happened last night, didn’t you? They’re dead.”
“But…”
“They’re dead, not alive! It’s the Black Stuff. Didn’t you see it in their eyes?”
Gordon nodded, wiping a trembling hand across his mouth.
“Come on, let’s get out of here, and back to the others. We’re not safe yet.”
Together they ran back towards the ramp, knocking the swinging carcasses out of their path. Both remembered the sight of the black flood swarming over the park like some serpentine living animal. Perhaps, with the advent of darkness once more, it was already gushing through the ruins towards them.
Something screeched behind them; a grating crash. Heat blasted against their backs and suddenly the meat mart was awash with flaring yellow light; their shadows leaping gigantically ahead of them. They looked back as they ran.
Jesus, Jay…
“Keep running, Gordon! For Christ’s sake, keep running!”
The burning dead had dragged the sliding door back open.
Flames crackled and leaped into the factory from the storeroom; smoke gushed and billowed as the first of the blazing shapes staggered out of the inferno. The air was filled with a multitude of shrieking voices, the same insane cacophony that they had heard on the night they’d thrown the blazing torches at the approaching shapes in the darkness.
Gordon slithered on the factory floor, regained his footing and looked back again.
The first of the terrible burning figures had fallen to its knees. Was it the woman? Flame-wreathed arms clawed at the burning mass that had been her head. And then something deep inside the blazing shape burst, and black, steaming liquid erupted from a dozen places; from the head and mouth, from the torso, the pelvis, the arms. The liquid spattered on the concrete like incandescent mercury. Globules swarmed and gathered into one glistening pool. Hissing, it streamed quickly away from the blazing mass, desperately hunting for the safety of darkness. The burning husk of the woman tottered and fell face forwards on to the concrete.
But the other burning shapes behind the woman were even now staggering past the lifeless corpse, blazing arms outstretched towards Gordon and Jay as they came. As they blundered agai
nst the hanging carcasses, flaming handprints transformed the wildly swinging meat into dripping balls of fire.
“Gordon, don’t stop!” yelled Jay.
And Gordon turned to follow him as they ran for the ramp.
The meat mart was filled with the blazing flames of Hell.
Like the very denizens of Hell itself, the lurching pillars of flame that had once been the citizens of Edmonville came after them.
Chapter Thirteen
The Ordeal of Juliet DeLore
Juliet flung a shopping trolley out of her way as she ran once again across the supermarket carpark. For an instant, she considered running back into the supermarket, finding somewhere to hide. But it would be like running back to the prison from which she had escaped. And perhaps there were bodies in there…
Glancing back over her shoulder, she could see that Trevor was not in pursuit. She couldn’t see him at the glass frontage of the radio station, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t see her. Ducking behind a car, Juliet paused to get her breath. She had to find somewhere to hide. It couldn’t be long before help got here. If only she could find somewhere to keep out of Trevor’s sight. She sneaked a look around the corner, keeping on her haunches. Still no sign of Trevor. But she was far from safe here. She dipped down again, moving hand over hand behind the car, looking around the carpark and beyond to see if there was anywhere she might have missed.
And almost fell over the body that had been lying beside the car.
Juliet retched, turning quickly away. There was no time to tell whether the bloodied mass had been a man or a woman. But he or she had been hit by a flying fragment of concrete.
“Don’t!” Juliet hissed, a hand over her mouth as she looked away. “Come on, Juliet! Keep cool. Don’t make a noise.”