by Finch, Paul
Eight paragraphs of detailed text followed.
I read them with trepidation, which soon felt justified. In fact, I didn’t want to believe what I was seeing. I wanted to scoff, to wave it aside as superstitious mumbo-jumbo. Yet it all fell so perfectly and horribly into place.
I dropped the book and glanced sideways to where Rob lay unconscious. He might be out for ages yet. It left me no choice. I had to go back to the camp alone, and I had to go quickly. It was imperative I get them out of there and back here to the safety of the house.
If safety could be found on such an occasion as this.
I blundered down the hall towards the still-open front door. Outside, I cut across the drive and the lawn, making for the wall of black and silent trees. So panic-stricken was I that I hadn’t even thought to bring the electric torch, which must have been lying around in the kitchen somewhere. Having a source of light would have been more than useful, but my mind was too filled with other things; namely the passages I’d just read on that open page – the passages that described the lemures in such hideous detail.
The lemures .
The ‘baleful dead’.
In more specific parlance: those unquietly or ruthlessly slain; those murdered or massacred; those for whom there was no memorial or justice. Most often, it had referred to Roman soldiers killed in battle, particularly if that battle had been a defeat, because then no sacred offerings would have been made at the end of it.
I followed the path like a madman, sweat stinging my eyes, blinded by the dark yet weaving my way among the groping trees with unerring accuracy.
I didn’t believe it, I told myself. I didn’t believe any of it.
Yet could it really be coincidence? That we were here on this day … the day of the lemures , on this very spot, the ancient battlefield where several cohorts of the Second Legion were annihilated? Or that we were beside the Lamuratum, which Thomas Ryder-Howe had erected as a glorification of those who fell? (For was it not also written in that book that the lemures , if suitably honoured, would grant boons from the afterlife? And in the case of Thomas Ryder-Howe, hadn’t those boons been spectacular indeed?)
“Troy … you can not be doing this!” I jabbered. “You can’t! You mustn’t!”
Don’t get me wrong. I was born a Christian, but I’ve never lived a Christian life. The only god who ever mattered to me was Mammon. At one time, I’d have knelt at a heathen shrine if it meant a fabulous reward. But this wasn’t so simple. Not according to the book I’d just read. For the ‘baleful dead’ were not called baleful for nothing. Doffing your cap, muttering a few prayers, even raising a circle of standing stones would never quite be enough for them. No, to win their favour, a greater, more terrible restitution was required.
I came stumbling to the edge of the camp, and stood there on the rim of the firelight, glancing around. Nothing appeared to be moving. All the tents, with the exception of my own, were zipped up, closed off against the night.
The sweat poured off me. My heart thumped. But in truth I wasn’t entirely sure what I’d been expecting to find: perhaps Troy behaving like some maniac, creeping around with God knows what implement in his hand? It was all nonsense, I told myself. It had to be. Yet, a few moments ago, the horrors inscribed in that book had seemed so real that they’d prompted Rob to make a phone call to the police, and had caused me to come dashing back out here …
Helpless, I surveyed the scene. No-one had been disturbed. The silence I could hear was the silence of sleep. In which case, would they thank me if I woke them on a whim, and an apparently nonsensical whim at that?
I deliberately held myself back, my palms slick on the haft of the croquet mallet.
Then I heard something.
A rustle in the undergrowth.
My nerves went taut as cello strings. I stalked across the camp to the far side, from which direction the sound had come. It was only Dutch courage of course, a bravery inspired by the fight-or-flight mechanism. By the time I entered the bushes, fresh sweat bathed my brow. My hair was a sodden mop. My belly flopped over and over. I pressed on, thrusting my mallet through every mass of vegetation that came in front of me, ready to swing it like a sledge-hammer at the first sign of danger. And because I was so wired, I barely noticed when a figure came casually up through the dimness behind and stood alongside me.
I turned wildly, a scream stuck in my throat.
But it was Joe. He gazed at me over the red tip of his cigarette, puzzled.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“What am I doing?” I wanted to sit down. I needed to. I overbalanced and had to support myself on a tree. The croquet mallet slid from my grasp. “I could ask the same bloody thing of you.”
He took his cig out. “I’m having a stroll.”
“A stroll?”
“Yeah … just making a quick recce.”
“You’ve been out here all this time?”
“A few minutes, yeah.”
“Jesus Christ!” I almost laughed. “You’re telling me it’s you I’ve just heard?”
Joe frowned. “I don’t get you.”
“I thought I heard someone prowling around. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Well that’s why I came out too?”
“Eh?”
“I thought I heard something.”
“Well it can’t have been me,” I said. “I’ve only just arrived.”
He took another drag on his cig. “Well, it’s alright. It’s probably nothing.”
It didn’t seem likely that it was nothing , but at that moment I was too relieved about finding Joe there to give it much thought. Even a split-second later, when we both heard the almost infinitesimal snap of a twig, we dismissed it. In fact, we looked at each other and grinned.
That was when the javelin came hurtling through the moonlight.
It flew silent and deadly. The first I knew, a blur of glinting steel had passed my eye-line. Then I heard a heavy, sickening thud as it struck home; as it hit Joe in the left shoulder, driving him backward and pinning him bodily to the trunk of a tree.
13
At first Joe was too stunned to react. Then he gave a hoarse scream, which rose rapidly to a shockingly shrill crescendo.
I grabbed the javelin with both hands and tried to yank it free. Joe writhed in agony, but remained firmly spitted. I ended up having to plant my left foot against the trunk, and lean back with all my weight to dislodge the missile. When it finally came, there was a loud thunk and an even more intense shriek from Joe. I fell backward onto my arse. Joe hunched over. His screams broke down into a series of gasps and pants.
I clambered back up, gazing at the weapon, perplexed. It comprised a trimmed wooden shaft with a weighted metal head now slick with gore. But there was no time to examine it properly. Joe glanced up, and even in the half-light I saw the eyes bulge in his tortured face. A strangled shout burst from his lips.
I turned stiffly.
The smell was the first thing I noticed, though it wasn’t overwhelming – a mingled aroma of earth and forest mould. But then I saw them.
Or at least I saw their shadowy forms, as they emerged from the foliage and spread silently but clumsily out to encircle us. They were spindly, stiff, scarecrow-like, and there were a huge number of them. I couldn’t make a head-count, but even as I watched more and more came hobbling through the trees.
I heard Joe whimper.
They attacked.
Again I was ready for fight-or-flight. It wasn’t a matter of courage. It was a simple chemical reaction inside me, and it virtually exploded.
As the first one lunged in, I drove the javelin point-first at its chest, running it through and shoving it backward. But as I did, I saw things that I’ll never forget: shrivelled limbs that were bones wrapped in withered flesh; tarnished metal plating; bare ribs glinting through rotted leather.
I’d grabbed up the croquet mallet and whirled it around my head.
I landed blow after blo
w – massive, cranium-shattering impacts – and figures went down left and right. There were dry crunches , hollow cracks , bell-like clatters as the wooden hammerhead impacted on aged iron helms; but every time the ghastly things were quickly back on their feet. Even the one I’d impaled was unhindered. It lurched towards me and slashed with an edged weapon, which sheared clean through the haft of the mallet. I flung the useless fragment way, spun around and caught Joe by his collar.
We stumbled rather than ran, and all the way clawing, twig-like hands raked at our faces. Directly in our path, an upright, convex shield appeared, hung with rotted hide. Behind it, fleetingly, I saw a face that was more like a mask cut in parchment. We buffeted it aside. Spears were driven at us; there was more clawing, more scrabbling. We responded in kind, kicking, punching. Even Joe, wounded as he was, snarled and spat and lashed out with his good arm. And now the camp was ahead, looming through the trees, and there was movement there. Our screams and shouts had sounded the alert.
It was total confusion as we scrambled among the tents. Charlie and Barbara, dishevelled but awake, had risen first and were now piling fresh fuel on the fire.
“What’s going on?” Charlie said.
“For Christ’s sake!” I panted. “We’ve got to get out of here now … right now! ”
One proper look at the state of us – Joe was staggering, his t-shirt and denims running with blood, while I’d blanched white with terror – was enough to show them how deadly serious we were.
“We’ve got to wake the others,” Barbara said.
I couldn’t believe they hadn’t already woken. I pushed Joe into Charlie’s arms, dashed to the nearest closed tent and yanked the zip down. But what I saw inside made me recoil in shock even under these circumstances.
Troy and Miss Ryder-Howe were already awake and fully dressed. Troy was kneeling upright, our hostess cowering behind him. The eyes were gigantic behind the lenses of his glasses; his brow was furrowed and beaded with sweat. What really shook me, though, was that he was fending me off with what looked distinctly like a Luger pistol.
It only took a split-second for the full penny to drop.
“You son of a bitch!” I roared. “You knew this would happen! You even came armed!”
He cocked the pistol. “Get back, Rick. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“You fucking son of a bitch!”
“Get back!” he said again, shooing me out as he crawled forward.
I retreated to afford him room. “It’s you who’d better get back,” I said. “Back to that God-damned house. Those things are all over the sodding Plantation. You bastard …”
What the hell is going on?” Charlie demanded. He clung hard onto Joe, who looked ready to faint. Barbara was assisting as best she could. Blood dabbled all their clothes.
“Don’t ask.” I ushered them across the camp. “Just get back to the house now.”
“Joe’s mumbling something about Halloween costumes,” Barbara said.
“I wish!”
I’d have liked to tell her more, but other things were distracting me: Troy for one, frantic-eyed, soaked with sweat, and wafting the Luger around as though ready to shoot everyone; and a renewed thrashing in the undergrowth on all sides of us. We glanced towards the Lamuratum, where all manner of twisted, ungainly shapes were moving amid the rib-like monoliths. Troy didn’t wait to see more. He pointed the Luger and fired a single shot, which crashed and crashed in the clearing, and ricocheted with a scream as the bullet rebounded from one of the pillars.
And then he was off, zigzagging across the camp, abandoning us almost as callously as he’d brought us here, aiming straight for the quad bike, which was standing alone behind one of the tents. He leapt upon it, dug the key from his pocket and jammed it into the ignition. The machine thundered to life and Troy was away, leaning forward over the bars yet handling the machine deftly, so deftly that I thought he must have been practising, which might well have been the case, the treacherous bastard!
He skidded across the clearing, taking one of the tents down, fishtailed on the dewy grass, and then accelerated onto the path. In an instant it was over. He’d gone and we were alone, hemmed in by the rustlings and the cracklings and the repeated slithering of steel as it was drawn from a hundred ancient scabbards.
The most startled among us was Miss Ryder-Howe. Clearly she and Troy had cooked this scheme up together, yet now, at the critical moment, she was being left behind. I couldn’t help but think: Welcome to the rock world, love .
She began screaming hysterically. So much so that I slapped her face. Not that any of us were cool or level-headed. We turned en masse, and scrambled off along that benighted trail in a disorganised scrummage, knocking into one other, tripping, cursing, egging each other on – not just verbally, but with pushes and shoves. And all the while I sensed the pursuit in the surrounding undergrowth. Horrific images spun in my mind’s eye: bare ribs under ragged mail, yawning sockets emptied of eyes. I wanted to scream. But the thought of getting even with Troy kept me focussed. Somewhere ahead in the darkness, I could hear the whining of the quad bike as he negotiated every twist and turn. It spurred me on.
But it’s astonishing how when you’re really fleeing for your life, it’s genuinely a case of every man and women for themselves. I wasn’t aware whether anyone was assisting Joe or not, and he’d lost so much blood that he surely needed assistance. But I wasn’t doing it, and in my panic I made no effort to look for him to check. We just shunted each other along, jostling, shouting, not stopping to help anyone who fell. When we finally saw a glimmer of the star-lit lawn ahead of us, we broke for it, charging pell-mell out into that open space, where Troy was waiting for us, still saddled on the quad bike.
He’d made a wide circle, and was now bearing uncertainly back towards us, the engine revving, the headlamp playing over our wet, chalk-white faces.
“You bastard!” Miss Ryder-Howe shrieked, running at him. “You left me!”
He wove the bike around her, pulling up alongside the rest of us. “Everyone here? Okay, quick … we’ve got to get back indoors?”
There was a demented gabble of voices, and further agonised groans from Joe. I shoved my way into the middle. “Everyone shut up! I’ve got to make a head-count.”
It didn’t take long to work out that we were one short.
“Shit!” I hissed. “Oh shit! Oh fucking shit … Luke! Are you fucking dipsticks telling me no-one thought to bring Luke? ”
There was a stunned silence. Everyone gazed accusingly at everyone else.
I rounded on Troy. “Gimme the bike!”
I swear I saw the whites of his eyes as he stared back at me. “Are you crazy?”
“Gimme the bike!” I held out a shaking hand. “And the gun!”
“Rick, he’s gone, man … leave him.”
I stuck my fist under his chin.
He flew backward, landing hard on the grass. I heard the air whoosh out of him, and then wild, angry exclamations from the others. But I ignored them. I snatched up the Luger and jumped astride the vehicle, which still throbbed with life.
I hadn’t ridden any kind of motorised bike for several years, but even if I say so myself, I initially handled that four-wheeled hog like a past-master. I tore along the wooded path at breakneck speed, leaping over ruts, swerving and skidding through the mud patches. Again though, I was acting on pure instinct. If I’d actually been thinking , I’d probably have headed the other way. Not that a sense of horror and dread wasn’t slowly overwhelming me. The deeper into the Plantation I rode, the more I saw the grotesque figures darting back and forth ahead of me. I kept going, hammering the throttle, the sweat streaming cold down my face. Then I glimpsed firelight between the trees – our firelight; more of the figures were milling around in it.
I wanted to shout to Luke to hang on.
But Luke shouted first.
Or rather howled , like a wolf – that long, low, delirious ululation that was so familiar.
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A bolt of ice went through me. Tears blurred my eyes as I saw him again in the midst of the mayhem, being carried head-high by the frenzied crowd at the Free Trade Hall.
And now I did shout: “Luke! Luke …wake up man!”
But it was too late. Because suddenly they were onto me, ragged hordes of black and ragged things swarming out from either side of the path. I ploughed into them, crunched headlong into their midst as though driving through a cluster of saplings. There was a grinding of metal, a tearing and snapping of fibrous limbs, and then bodies were being hurled aside or going down flailing beneath my wheels. The next thing, the world turned upside-down: the quad bike flipped over and I was flung hard onto the verge. I took the brunt of it on the right shoulder and the right side of my head. It knocked me senseless, and for some time I lay grovelling in the leaf-rubble and what I assumed was a pool of my own vomit. But even groggy, I knew that I wasn’t alone.
With agonised dizziness, I was able to look up.
The crash had put out the headlight, so I was denied much detail, but I sensed as much as saw them standing all around me – those still capable of standing, for I had mown a good number down, and I had the distinct impression that beneath their dented plate and mildewed leather they were more bones and filth than actual flesh. Further proof came in the stench. Perhaps because several among them had now been smashed and mutilated by the collision, torn through to whatever corrupted innards they still possessed, a foetid stink of death engulfed me. But it was only when they finally closed in, when their twig-like fingers began groping through my hair and over my face, that I saw them for what they truly were; that my eyes attuned sufficiently to focus on the grinning, yellowed teeth beneath their visors, on the bony juts of jaw to which strands of hair and scabrous threads of skin still clung.
I shouted in demented horror, struggled madly to resist – but I was still in a daze, one half of my body numbed, my head spinning. The blows I struck were weak, futile. As they took hold of me with their cold, dead talons, I spotted one who stood back from the others and seemed to watch. And bizarrely, I found myself gesturing to him, beseeching him for mercy, for forgiveness for whatever transgression I’d committed. There was no glint of life in the cavernous hollows of his eyes, yet I knew he could help if he had a mind to, for I felt the command and power in his posture, in the remnants of the purple robe draped over his kite-like torso, in the circlet of laurel leaves clasping his desiccated skull. Still though, he watched, unmoved, and now I glimpsed the aged rusting weapons – the short swords, the daggers, the falchions – rising slowly around me.