by Shaun Hutson
‘Come on, fellas,’ King said, looking at his watch. ‘If Mr Cutler decides to pay us a visit I don’t think he’ll be, too happy to find us all lounging about in here.’
Amidst a chorus of complaints and mutterings, the men filed out of the hut. All except Spencer.
‘Come on, Mike,’ King said.
‘Can I just finish my coffee, Frank?’ he asked.
‘Don’t be too long about it,’ the foreman said and closed the door behind him leaving Spencer alone.
Inside the Portakabin, Mike Spencer fumbled in his jacket pocket for his cigarettes, cursing when he realized he must have left them in the lorry. Sod it; he’d wait a few more minutes. He took a sip of his coffee.
If he had been asked to swear on a stack of Bibles, Mike Spencer would have said that he had left the Scania’s handbrake on when he parked it on the incline near the Portakabin.
And Frank King naturally would have expected the driver to have done so.
That perhaps was why the foreman was so taken by surprise when he saw the juggernaut move slightly, then begin to roll towards the hut, picking up speed as it did.
For a moment he stood frozen, watching the heavy Scania roll inexorably down the slope, bumping violently over the rough ground as its speed increased. By the time he was able to shout a warning, the lorry was moving at an unstoppable speed.
Still lounging in the Portakabin, Spencer took one last mouthful of coffee, then got to his feet and stretched, becoming vaguely aware of the sound of shouting from outside. He crossed to the window, trying to locate the source of the noise. He frowned in puzzlement as he saw Frank King running towards the hut. Spencer could see him mouthing words but he could not make out what they were.
A second later the lorry ploughed into the hut.
Frank King shouted one last hopeless warning, then he could only stand helplessly and watch as the Scania hit the Portakabin.
The entire structure buckled as the huge bulk of the lorry flattened it.
Others nearby turned to see what was happening, their attention caught by the noise, especially the high-pitched scream which rose from the wreckage.
The foreman started running again, joined by Keith Riley and John Kirkland, and the trio dashed stumbling and swearing across the uneven ground towards the remains of the hut.
Mike Spencer had been caught completely unawares by the collision. The truck had caved in the side wall and the roof of the small building, pinning him beneath the debris, unable to move before the massive rear wheels ran over his legs and thighs. The bones were crushed into pulp by the weight of the huge lorry. Both femurs snapped like matchwood, one jagged edge tearing into his femoral artery before bursting through the skin and muscle of his pulverized thigh. Most of his pelvis was also crushed by the giant wheels. Mercifully, he blacked out as a huge fountain of blood sprayed from the torn artery, rising in a great crimson parabola to splatter the rear end of the truck.
Seated high in the driving seat of the bulldozer, Bob Richardson saw the lorry flatten the hut and immediately jammed the great machine into neutral and switched off the engine. Using one of the caterpillar tracks as a ladder, he began climbing down to join the other men who were running towards the scene of disaster.
He actually had one foot on the ground when the bulldozer’s engine roared into life.
Bob looked up in dismay and surprise as the machine rolled forward, instantly trapping his left hand between two of the tread links.
He had one brief second of terrifying realization, then the searing agony began.
As the machine rolled forward he felt an unbearable pressure on his wrist and arm as the ‘dozer dragged him a few feet. It was moving slowly but not slowly enough for him to extricate his arm. He shrieked in pain as the tread crushed his wrist and hand, the snapping of bones clearly audible above the clatter of the tracks. He tried to pull himself free, to stop the unbearable wrenching at his shoulder. The entire limb was going numb, the material of his coat tearing under the prolonged tugging.
With one final despairing roar of pain, Bob felt his hand come off.
He sprawled in the mud, the bloodied stump spouting crimson while he screamed for help. His severed hand rolled free of the track as if it had been spat out and he noticed, even through his pain, that the fingers were still twitching.
The bulldozer rolled a few more yards, then stopped.
Bob Richardson continued to scream.
Frank King turned and saw the bulldozer driver sprawled on the ground, his shattered arm spewing blood, the severed hand lying close by. The foreman spun round in time to see Riley and Kirkland, who had reached the smashed but ahead of him, trying to pull the motionless form of Mike Spencer from beneath the Scania. Apparently they were unaware that too much pressure could rip his body in two. Whether either of the injured men could survive, King didn’t know. He stood, hands pressed to his. temples, listening to the shouts of alarm from other men running to help, and the next voice he heard was his own, yelling frantically.
‘For God’s sake get an ambulance!’
Thirty-One
George Perry lifted the crate into the back of the Land Rover, grunting under the weight. He set it down as gently as he could, then stepped back, wiping the dust from his hands.
‘There are twelve skulls in there,’ he told her. ‘That should give you plenty to work with.’
Kim smiled and raised her eyebrows.
‘Have you been able to decipher anything from the tablets yet?’ Perry asked.
‘A little, but I’m still working on them,’ she said, looking closely at her colleague, who seemed somehow distracted. ‘Is anything wrong, George?’ she finally asked.
Perry sighed.
‘As a matter of fact there is,’ he told her. ‘It’s Cooper. There’s something wrong with him. I don’t mean he’s ill. It’s . . . I don’t know, his personality. His entire character seems to have changed in the last day or two. Ever since we discovered the chamber of skulls. He spends all his time in there. He doesn’t like anyone else going near it.’ The archaeologist sounded indignant. ‘He’s got no right to do that. I intend having a look myself, whether he likes it or not.’
‘Has he found anything else?’ Kim wanted to know.
‘If he has, he hasn’t mentioned it. He seems . . .’ Perry struggled to find the right word, ‘I don’t know . . . obsessed with what he’s doing. But it’s not only that Cooper’s become more aggressive. I think he’s frightened as well.’
‘What of?’
‘I wish I knew. He’s found something in there and whatever it is, it’s scared the hell out of him.’
The two archaeologists looked at one another for a moment, as if both were lost for words.
‘Let me know if anything happens,’ Kim said finally, climbing behind the wheel of the Land Rover.
Perry nodded, watching as she started the engine and drove off across the field.
He felt a sudden chill sweep through him and it felt uncomfortably familiar. He turned and looked towards the gaping mouth of the shaft.
It took Kim over five hours to carbon-date the first four skulls and put a reasonably accurate fix on their age. Like the rest of the relics recovered from the site, they were at least 2,000 years old. A fluorine test, together with the petrological microscopy, confirmed that fact.
As she worked with the skulls, Kim glanced almost unconsciously at the stone tablets still laid out on the work- top. She intended to continue with them as soon as she’d finished with the skulls.
The museum was closed and she worked alone in the silence, having decided that the building was best left shut while she toiled over the finds.
As she worked, though, she was aware of the ever-present chill which filled the air like invisible freezing fog. She got up to check the radiators, deciding that if it got much colder she could not continue working in the museum.
She returned her attention to the skull before her. She had removed the lower jaw and part
of one side, leaving the yawning cranial cavity gaping at her. She had used a small portion of the jaw to grind up for a nitrogen test, but it was the cheek bones and eyes which drew her attention. She studied the same features on all the skulls more closely and saw that each of the skulls bore deep, irregular striation marks. Particularly around the eyes, both above and below. As if some sharp object had been used on them at some time. A knife perhaps.
The thought sent a shudder of revulsion through her body.
It looked as if, all those centuries ago, the eyes had been gouged from their sockets.
Thirty-Two
There were twelve of them.
All naked.
The youngest barely sixteen. The eldest yet to reach twenty.
As they moved back and forth in the clearing the dead leaves rustled beneath their feet and the branches of the trees shook spidery fingers at them. The gloom of the starless night was like a black shroud which had closed over the wood as if to hide what was going on.
Henry Dexter stood slightly to one side of the crudely fashioned cross, his face impassive, his grey hair ruffled by the breeze which swept through the wood.
The cross consisted of two large pieces of wood, nailed together at the apex. They were merely particularly large tree branches which had been broken off and joined by three large masonry nails. A youth stood in front of the cross, a lad of sixteen with a smattering of acne on both his face and shoulders. He faced three girls, all of the same age. One was tall and slender, the other two a little overweight, their bellies and thighs slightly too large.
At a signal from Dexter, Gary Webb and another youth stepped forward and pulled the acne-spotted lad towards the cross, tying his arms securely to the cross-beam so that he was spreadeagled. He shuffled uncomfortably, feeling the ropes cutting into one wrist where they had been fastened a little over-zealously. He put up with the discomfort without complaint, however, because he knew what was to follow.
Led by the tallest, the trio of naked girls knelt before the boy, whose penis was already beginning to harden. As the first girl reached out and drew one finger tip along the shaft, his organ rapidly attained its full stiffness.
The second girl leant forward, took his penis into her mouth and sucked gently on it for a minute or two before the next girl did likewise, tasting her companion’s saliva as well as the salty taste of the lad’s erection. He strained against the ropes as the feeling of pleasure began to grow more intense.
The tall girl took her turn, this time massaging his swollen testicles while the other two ran their hands up and down his thighs.
‘The Cross,’ said Dexter. ‘Symbol of Christ. Monument to that filthy Jew they called the Son of God.’ He spat on the ground in front of the cross. ‘He who sent his only bastard offspring into the world via the whore Mary. He who watched his own son die on the Cross. He who denies pleasure.’
The youth tied to the cross was moaning more loudly now as the girls began to work more vigorously on his penis, sucking and rubbing until the lad tensed and prepared for release.
The movements stopped and he gasped, looking down first at his saliva-soaked erection and then at Dexter.
Gary Webb stepped forward and handed the older man a large chalice of gold, watching as he moved closer to the helpless boy. Dexter gripped the boy’s penis in his powerful hand, beckoning the tallest of the three girls forward once more. His hand was replaced by hers and Dexter watched her pump it rhythmically up and down on the boy’s stiff shaft until he pushed his hips forward and moaned loudly.
A thick stream of semen splattered into the chalice, followed by several more spurts until the white fluid covered the bottom of the receptacle. The boy gradually relaxed as the girl slowed her movements.
From the deep shadows around the clearing, Laura Price stepped into view. She crossed to Dexter and looked at him for a moment before dropping to the ground on all fours, her legs spread, her bottom lifted high in the air.
Dexter knelt swiftly before her and offered the chalice to her lips, watching as the liquid trickled towards her open mouth. She swallowed some of it.
‘The body of Christ,’ Dexter said, smiling. He got to his feet.
It was as he stepped back that Laura caught sight of the dog.
It was a short-haired collie, a sleek-bodied animal restrained by a length of rope around its throat. As she watched, it was led towards her by Gary Webb, who paused, then handed the make-shift leash to Dexter. The dog barked once but Dexter tugged hard on the rope and the animal was silent except for low panting sounds.
The older man nodded and Gary dropped to his knees behind Laura, his penis now swollen and hard.
Another of the young men stepped forward and took up a position beside Dexter.
He carried a long, double-edged knife.
Dexter began winding the rope around his hand, pulling tighter on the dog’s leash, causing the animal to yelp in pain as pressure was increased on its throat. It turned and tried to bite Dexter but he merely twisted the rope tighter, listening as the animal’s panting subsided into hollow gasps. Then he yanked it hard, lifting the collie off the ground until it dangled by the rope, its legs thrashing wildly. It required a surprising amount of strength to hold the dog up with one hand but the athletic Dexter found it no effort. The dog was now bucking uncontrollably, its eyes bulging wide as the rope throttled it.
The young man with the knife stepped closer, and with lightning speed drew the blade across the dog’s throat.
A great fountain of blood erupted from the wound, spraying all those close by with sticky crimson fluid. Dexter kept his hold on the rope, watching as the dog’s struggles gradually became less frantic. Blood continued to spurt from its gashed throat and he watched the red gouts for a moment before lifting the chalice to the wound. The blood spilled in, mixing with the semen to form a thick, coagulated mess.
Dexter dropped the dog and held the chalice above his head with both hands.
‘The host,’ he said, smiling.
He leant forward and tilted the receptacle so that some of the fluid dripped onto Laura’s arched back. She felt the warmth of the blood and squirmed. Dexter spilled more onto her buttocks, watching intently as Gary gathered some on his fingers, rubbing it around her vagina.
Laura groaned slightly. Then she felt Gary force his penis into her vagina. He steadied himself, then began thrusting back and forth, both of them grunting like animals.
Dexter dropped the chalice and took the knife from the other boy, who looked on with the rest as Dexter gripped the dying collie by the hair at the back of its neck, yanking its head back.
Gary Webb speeded up his thrusts as he felt his orgasm beginning to build.
Dexter rolled the dog onto its back and drove the knife into its chest, tearing downwards to expose its insides. Then, using both hands, he pulled the reeking tangle of intestines from the gaping cavity, ignoring the vile stench which rose from the slippery coils. Like springs, the entrails seemed to suddenly expand and Dexter continued pulling until the animal was completely gutted, the steaming vital organs lying in a bloody pile beside him.
Laura, meeting Gary’s vigorous thrusts with her own, began to shudder as the pleasure grew more intense. She saw that other couples had also begun copulating. The entire clearing was a mass of pale undulating bodies.
Even the youth tied to the cross was not forgotten. The tall willowy girl took his penis into her mouth and began sucking it while another boy drove his shaft into her from behind.
Dexter, his naked form drenched in blood, began skinning the dead dog, tearing off hunks of skin and hair with his vicious cuts. Finally, he managed to rip the complete coat free.
This he draped over Laura’s back, and as she felt the warm blood from the hide covering her skin she began to climax.
Her cries of pleasure mingled with those of others in the clearing.
Dexter stood smiling amidst the wild depravity, his grin broadening as he saw the two girls approachi
ng him. They were young, slim and small-breasted. Their nipples stuck out proudly in the chill wind. The first of them, a girl with short red hair, ran her soft hands over Dexter’s body and caressed his swollen testicles while her companion kissed the head of his throbbing organ.
Both bore numerous scabs on the insides of their arms, the flesh purple where it had been bruised and punctured so often. Scar tissue had turned into a vivid crust, purple in places where it had been picked away only to grow again in a more purulent form.
Dexter smiled down at them and stroked their breasts, enjoying the mixture of pleasure and anticipation on their faces.
More eyes turned towards him now. Expectantly.
He knew what they wanted and he raised the bag of heroin into the air, displaying it like some obscene trophy.
A chorus of giggles, cheers and cries of delight rippled around the clearing. The two girls standing beside the older man clung more tightly to him, their eyes riveted to the package of white powder as if it possessed some kind of hypnotic power.
Dexter laughed aloud, the sound carried on the breeze to be lost in the dense trees all around the clearing.
‘It’s time,’ he said, quietly.
Thirty-Three
Who the hell did Cooper think he was?
Not allowing anyone else into the chamber of skulls. Ridiculous!
George Perry was muttering to himself as he clambered down the rope ladder, descending deeper into the shaft.
During the day the hole was black enough, but now, in the darkness of the night, it was impossible to see a hand in front of him as he climbed down, bracing himself carefully on each rung, making his way slowly and cautiously into the abyss.
As he reached the bottom he pulled the powerful torch from his belt and flicked it on. The beam pushed a small funnel of light through the gloom. He moved swiftly through the opening which led on into the maze of tunnels beyond. Once inside the main tunnel, though, Perry slowed his pace, careful not to slip or twist his ankle on the dozens of hazards which littered the tunnel floor. Relics, bones and pieces of fallen rock all combined to create an uneven and treacherous surface and, more than once, the archaeologist had to steady himself against the moist walls.