Pilgrim

by Devon De'Ath

  Conrad lost his balance at her touch, dropping Vicky on the sanctuary. He cried out in shock as if struck by an electrical charge. That, or in the manner of some phlegmatic civilian cast without warning into the fray of battle. One trembling hand gripped his heart, the other reached for support against the altar. Myriad distorted images - vague in meaning yet somehow familiar - raced onto the stage of his mind. His shoulders tensed. He roared with the ferocity of a wounded wolf, cheated of its prey. That noise ascended to a deafening crescendo, catalysed by dark and calculating spiritual forces. Candlesticks blew off the altar with a clatter. Glass on the porch side windows shattered. Mortar crumbled to dust within its wall. An entire section, broader than one window, tumbled into a heap. A gaping chasm appeared in the front of St Helen’s. More robed cultists grabbed Vicky by the armpits. They dragged her away from their reeling leader.

  Outside, the gun battle around the Marisco raged on. A group of eight cult members with readied weapons ran down one side of the embankment behind. Shouts of, “Check the prisoners and the boat,” carried on the night air, now thinning while the fog dissipated.

  The two volunteer mariners from MS Oldenburg ran into the hallway at Millcombe House. They found the remaining islanders and visitors huddled in groups, casting occasional, furtive glances through windows up the valley. At this range, the weapons exchange intruded loud and shocking into the otherwise quiet night. Occasional discharge flashes split the darkness with an eerie glow.

  One mariner ushered everyone back towards the front entrance. “Time to go, Folks. We’ve secured the Oldenburg. Captain Maitland says to bring you aboard for safety, while we wait for help to arrive.”

  A sense of relief laced the air with palpable certainty, like a humid cloud.

  The other mariner gave each person a helping shove out the door to keep them moving. “As quick as you can, please. Down the cliff path.”

  The pair performed one last sweep of the building. From an upstairs rear window, they spied eight lumbering silhouettes hurrying down the wooded valley from the settlement above. Both men sprinted for the stairs, cocking their weapons as they ran. They lunged through the front door and skidded down the path in time with a series of shots from their elevated pursuers. Hot lead whistled past, thudding into grassy banks, and splitting twigs from bramble bushes.

  Aboard MS Oldenburg, Captain Maitland raised a pair of binoculars. He focused on movement along the path where Victoria Beach met The Landing Beach. The juddering report of automatic weapon fire approached. Maitland barked at his first mate. “Make ready. We may have to cast off in a hurry. Here they come.” He twisted to face the other two crewmen on deck, both sporting their original, captured Škorpions. “Cover them from the bow as they reach the jetty.”

  The men raced forward, guns trained across the front of the vessel in preparation.

  Two women and a man made the gangplank first.

  Maitland grabbed the man’s forearm. “What’s happening?”

  The fellow bent over double, gasping for air between sentences. “That pair who rescued us took the landlord and a group of six men up to the Marisco. Something about secret guns hidden in the pub. Our warden was also headed that way.”

  Maitland attempted to conceal his smile. That old naval officer experienced the heady emotional surge of action he’d not known since his early forces career. “It sounds like they’re making a stand.”

  More gunfire echoed across the bay. Maitland ran back to the rail. The final two groups of hostages stumbled along the jetty, closing on the Oldenburg. Both men he’d sent to retrieve them appeared last round a bend on the cliff path in the distance. The pair sprayed bullets in a violent strobing arc of light as they ran. A group of shadowy pursuers hurried into view, as the mariners reached halfway along the path behind The Landing Beach. More muzzle flashes accompanied the chase.

  One of the fleeing mariners dropped, clutching his left shoulder. His comrade tugged him up to offer support. Despite slotting two of those maniacal cultists further up the valley, the situation appeared hopeless. At full tilt, they’d never make the Oldenburg without getting shot dead. An injured man in tow turned their self-assessed impossible fate into a dead certainty. The uninjured sailor rested his colleague down, then took aim with the machine pistol and half-closed his eyes.

  Captain Maitland’s knuckles whitened against his vessel’s railings. Everything told him he should cast off now. Those brave crewmen were beyond help, and he had other lives to save. He clenched his teeth until a shifting wind carried with it two familiar sounds from long ago. The breeze vibrated with a growing rhythm of slicing air. Behind it, the unmistakable drone of sea vessel outboard engines followed at a blinding rate of knots.

  The first mate joined him at the rail. “What is that? Shall I cast off, Captain?”

  Maitland shook his head. “No need, Son. What is that?” One tufted eyebrow raised in time with his smirk. “That is the sound of angels on our shoulder.”

  A blast of wind almost knocked both men sideways as a Royal Navy Wildcat helicopter powered out of the night and banked right along the coast. Its searchlight beam flew like a restless ghost around the cliffs. Waves whipped up across the bay in time with two inflatable raiding craft, each packed with six hunched over figures clutching assault rifles.

  The Oldenburg’s first mate gasped. “Holy shit, it’s the Royal Marines.”

  Captain Maitland rubbed his chin. “47 Commando from Instow. God bless ‘em.”

  On the coastal path, both hopeless merchant seamen peeked to their right. The Wildcat helicopter swung back around, searchlight trained on the coastal path drama. A rear door slid open. As the first rounds from the cultists’ light arms struck the path near the struggling seamen, a 12.7mm HMG responded from the chopper’s door gunner. Two high speed inflatable boats skidded to a halt on the beach behind. Twelve well equipped Royal Marine Commandos powered onto the path, squatting beside the struggling pair. One helped stem the flow of blood from the injured man’s shoulder. Six of the remaining eleven advanced, SA80s trained on a pathetic, lumpy heap of bloodied rags and flesh that had once belonged to assorted cultists.

  Two additional inflatable raiding craft churned up beside the jetty. Twelve more commandos hauled themselves out. Four raced towards the Oldenburg to meet its disembarking captain. Their officer snapped him a fast salute. “Admiral Maitland?”

  Maitland reciprocated the gesture of respect. “Gregory Maitland now, Captain. I’m retired, but thank you.”

  The officer lowered his hand and stood at ease. “Ken Waverley, Assault Team Leader. What’s the situation?”

  “How much have you been told?”

  “Not a lot. We had to deploy with zero notice. Something about a large-scale armed incursion by a violent religious cult. Tangos holding Lundy islanders and visiting children hostage. My C.O. informed me you’d fallen back to a merchant vessel and radioed for help.”

  More gunfire crackled from the cliff tops. The officer faced the distinctive noise.

  Maitland stiffened. “That’s the few remaining islanders who aren’t aboard, still putting up a fight.”

  “Good Lord.” The captain’s eyes widened.

  “A man and woman freed us. They headed off to the church.” He bristled. “Captain Waverley, twenty special needs children are in mortal peril from those fanatics up there. Move fast, but check your shots.”

  “You mean the children aren’t here? Goodness. Noted, Sir. Thank you.” Waverley bellowed orders at his men. He squatted next to a radio operator, glancing up at the hovering helicopter while he spoke to its pilot.

  Two crewmen from the Oldenburg hurried to collect their injured colleague from the Royal Marines, bringing him along the jetty. The Wildcat skirted the cliff edge, sweeping its searchlight across the island’s only settlement. Bodies of fallen cult members dotted the ground. Those still vertical, rained a hail of fire into ‘The Marisco Tavern.’ Occasional flashes in response flickered from its broken win
dows.

  Waverley and his men stormed up the cliff path. They paused only long enough for one group of six to check Millcombe House was clear, before proceeding uphill to the pub.

  Inside St Helen’s, Bill wrestled with bindings securing both wrists behind his back. He and Vicky were lashed to the same sturdy lectern that held Reverend Streeter prisoner. Several of the dazed children stirred, the sedating effect from their cordial lessening on blurry senses. Faye Brown lowered her hood. She flicked her mane of silvery white hair to one side, then ushered two others to remove their own head coverings. Betsy Slade and Leonard Poole reciprocated. Faye leaned close to them. “Keep the children calm. We have no more ‘Water of Cleansing’ for them to drink.” Heady incense that had choked the atmosphere, wafted out through the gaping wall chasm. “Our ceremony will continue once the Grandmaster is ready. We’ve come too far to stop now.”

  Betsy and Leonard turned the children’s heads away from naked dancers sheltering beside the altar, and the three adults lashed to the lectern. With every curious juvenile glance averted, three more swivelled back again. Their faces strained, lips quivering. A general whimpering on the brink of tears melted into confused blubbing.

  Faye sighed. “This won't work.” She nodded at Jeff Gardner from Lincolnshire. He approached the kids with three other goons, bearing nylon cord. The children struggled as they were corralled and secured at the wrists and ankles. Biting cord from the over-tight bonds ate into their soft flesh.

  Jeff raised his voice above the din. “Do you want them gagged?”

  The Grandmaster’s response hissed from the altar where he stood with his back to them. His stiffening arms pressed down to steady his torso. “Let them scream.” The hiss turned to a mocking laugh. “Let the little bastards cry out in fear and panic, while Lord Baphomet swallows their souls.” He rotated, eyes aflame with supernatural ire. Both arms raised to the rafters again. “Come, Brethren. Lift your chant of worship and intent. May it act as fine incense to the Father of the temple of peace of all men. Templi omnium hominum pacis abbas.” He opened his mouth in a fervour of religious ecstasy before the assembly.

  Robed figures surrounded the children. With one voice they picked up the chant, and the dancers whirled once more.

  Gavin Rothbury dashed from one broken window of his pub, to a body in the middle of the barroom floor. Bullets whizzed overhead from outside, singing past his ears. They shattered bottles of spirits attached to optics behind the bar, or thudded into its splintering, wood panelled frontage. A whiff of cordite filled the air, stinging his eyes. “Jason.” He rocked the motionless torso of a man in his mid-twenties. “Jason?” There was no response. The urgency of their situation left no time for grief. Gavin stretched across to retrieve a tea towel strewn among debris nearby. He covered the face of a young man who’d been a faithful employee at his establishment, defending it with his life.

  Jake Alburn reloaded his hunting rifle. “I’m getting short of ammunition. How’s everyone holding up?”

  A general murmur of concern rumbled between bullet impacts and the sound of their returning fire. Aside from Gavin and Jake, only four others remained. Another of the six volunteers lay dead, five feet from Jason. The man closest to him alternated between firing his own Kerr side-hammer revolver and that of his fallen friend.

  Jake peered into his scope for a second, then turned his head to face Gavin. “A group of them have crossed the path. They’re trying to flank us.”

  Gavin swept up one of two captured machine pistols they’d swiped from the first set of sentries. A cultist jumped before this skirmish commenced. He ran for the back door behind the kitchen. Gunfire of an unfamiliar sound echoed on the track ascending from Millcombe House. Gavin jammed his shoulder against the door frame, then peeked out. “What the…?”

  A sizeable group of armed silhouettes advanced above the tree line. Their movement seemed disciplined and co-ordinated, not erratic like the islanders or their zealous foes. A cloud cleared away from the moon. Gavin spotted their uniforms. Ears dulled by close-quarters weapon discharges regained enough sensitivity to detect another sound; one he couldn’t believe he’d missed during the heat of battle. A sudden burst of electrical light flooded his position. The vibrating thud of helicopter blades accompanied a looming dark shape, side-slipping through skies above the cliff top. Gavin lowered his weapon and tugged the door wide, waving at the helicopter. He prayed the crew knew enough not to mistake him for one of the hostage takers. The advancing men swarmed around the building, to take positions behind the wall on either side. Half a dozen made straight for the back door. Gavin couldn’t hide his relief. “Thank God you’re here.” He stood aside to let the men enter. “I’m Gavin Rothbury, the landlord.”

  Captain Waverley paused beside him, while the other five darted into the bar. They took up positions to replace the islanders at the windows. Angry barks from their assault rifles sent cult members scurrying for cover across the settlement. Outside, the commandos behind the side walls scored hit after hit, toppling the robed menaces like dominoes. Waverley pulled Gavin out of harm’s way. He noticed the man was limping, an ominous stain seeping down his trousers from one thigh.

  Gavin acknowledged his concern. “A flesh wound, I think. I’m new at all this.”

  Waverley smiled. “And you’re doing bloody good work. Listen, I need to know if this is everyone. The islanders making a stand, I mean?”

  Gavin gave a vigorous nod in assent. “There’re two more visitors up at the church, with a load of children and our vicar. If they’re still alive.”

  Waverley helped Gavin onto a low stool near the kitchen sink. “Stay put and let us do our job. My God, you Lundy lot are hardy bastards. Don’t worry, we’ll take it from here.”

  The chanting rose to fever pitch again at St Helen’s. In front of the shrieking children and bound adults, the naked dancers approached the last throes of their ritual, bent-over copulation. Vicky stared into Katie Tomlinson’s eighteen-year-old face. The teenager quivered, open-mouthed. Her pupils rolled back in an earth-shattering climax. Faye Brown stood beside Vicky, Bill and Reverend Streeter, gleaming knife blade in hand. Soon it would open their throats in the ultimate act. Despite the oppressive throng of voices uttering a chanted phrase Vicky would hate until her dying day (which might be moments away), two new and strident sounds clamoured in competition. The first, an increased and altered series of firearm discharges. The second teased her with a glimmer of hope: a helicopter. It had to be. Would they make it in time?

  A stabbing beam of light sliced through the gaping wall chasm, illuminating the sexual worshippers in their shameful religious orgy. The intensity of that searchlight caused the naked men to pull out, lifting hands to shield their faces. A dominant cacophony of rotor blades shook more collapsing masonry loose from the ruptured church walls. Those unfamiliar gunfire noises drew nearer. Beyond the damaged building, two robed guards tumbled into the grass. More dropped their weapons and raised hands in surrender.

  Faye’s face distended into a hideous facsimile of demonic fury. In the blinding, electric candle power of that airborne beam, Vicky fancied her teeth resembled the fangs of some rabid predator. She brought the blade up to Bill’s throat. Bill gritted his teeth, but eyed her with unblinking determination. He’d not give these thugs the pleasure of seeing him wince or blub.

  Another burst of gunshots made Vicky jump. The sound echoed right outside the broken wall. Faye’s head shattered in a bloodied spray of pulverised brain and bone. The 5.56 rounds exited her skull on its left side, detaching her jaw into an impossible yawn of horror. The knife blade slipped from Bill’s throat to the floor, followed by the silvery-haired woman’s corpse.

  Royal Marine Commandos poured into the structure from every potential entrance point, weapons trained on the cultists.

  Betsy Slade and Leonard Poole whipped knife blades from beneath their robes. They exchanged wild-eyed glances of insane zeal. With one voice raised in uncompromising fer
vour, the pair shouted, “Baphomet.” Each grabbed a terrified child. Their sacrificial weapons never found their marks. Practised, pinpoint accuracy from the Royal Navy’s finest assault troops proved a different matter. Betsy and Leonard fell like tossed rag dolls, nervous systems severed by bursts of hot lead. A fatal series of bullet intrusions turned both craniums into something resembling Swiss cheese. The only collateral impact was blood sprayed across their panicked young charges.

  The Grandmaster howled like a gale at fever pitch. One tall window behind the altar shattered, broken glass raining down in an avalanche of shards. His body swelled and bulged as if each muscle were being inflated. He somersaulted backwards, rolled and lunged through the fresh opening on all fours.

  From the cabin of the Wildcat helicopter, its pilot caught the man lumbering off faster than any animal he’d ever seen. His door gunner gasped into his intercom mouthpiece. “Jesus. Did you see that? Should we pursue?”

  The pilot performed a circuit above the church. “We’ll remain on station for now until the situation is contained. It’s a tiny island. Whatever that thing is, it’s not going anywhere.”

  The naked dancers cowered on the floor, arms attempting to cover their bodies. Christopher Warwick, Wendy Stokes, Jeff Gardner and the remaining cultists knelt with their hands raised. All confidence and the cocky swagger vanished from Warwick’s face. He gulped and stuttered, an uncharacteristic tremor betraying his fear. “Don’t shoot.”

  Captain Waverley strode towards the lectern. He withdrew a Fairbairn-Sykes fighting knife from a sheath at his side, then severed the bonds holding Vicky, Bill and Reverend Streeter.