by Wes Markin
His son, here. With this killer. How the hell had he allowed this to happen?
‘Dad, you’re bleeding—' Ewan said.
‘It’s nothing to worry about.’
He saw Lock reach into the bag again and take out a rope. He felt his legs being lashed together. The killer was quick and clearly skilled with knots.
‘Is this how you treat all your willing sacrifices?’
Lock didn’t answer; rather, he lifted himself from Brookes’ back, slammed the door and left them to the darkness.
The elderly woman moaned, and Brookes said, ‘Who are you?’
She moaned again.
‘She doesn’t talk,’ Ewan said, ‘I think she’s sick.’
What was going on around here?
Brookes rolled onto his back and sat up. He fought the pain in his shoulder while trying, unsuccessfully, to wriggle his wrists free of the tape. He managed to shuffle ninety degrees and then manoeuvre himself to the side of the van, so he was sitting upright beside his son. He sighed when Ewan put his legs across his own and he leaned over to kiss him on the head. His soul warmed.
He looked at the handcuffs fastening his son to the rail. ‘They on tight?’
‘Yes,’ Ewan said.
‘Shit.’ Brookes kept his voice low in case Lock heard. ‘Why did you come back?’
‘Because you would’ve come back.’
The van rumbled into life. At first, it reversed, and Brooke could hear it ripping itself free from his car. Lock then drove, slowly, which was good, because their last hope was that Yorke was close. Yorke would have been fifteen minutes away when Brooke’s crashed. After delaying Lock out in the snow, he must now only be five minutes out; if Yorke saw the white van, he would jump to the right conclusion and intercept.
While he continued to wriggle his wrists, he stared at Ewan, desperately wanting to, but unable to, throw his arms around him.
‘I had a dream about the jaguar you asked me about,’ Ewan said.
‘And that’s why you came back?’
‘It ate me and you,’ Ewan said.
Brookes kissed his head again. ‘It was just a dream.’
‘It felt real.’
‘Sometimes dreams do.’
‘The jaguar that ate us felt very real.’
‘It wasn’t—'
As if someone had grabbed his legs and yanked him, Brookes slid forward and banged the back of his head on the metal bar. Ewan also yelped in pain. Lock was becoming more erratic behind the wheel and had taken a sharp turn.
After the van had stabilized, Brookes worked his way back into the same position next to his son. The back of his head throbbed but that was nothing compared to the pain in his shoulder.
Ewan looked as if he was going to burst into tears. ‘I made a mistake, Dad. I should have stayed away.’
‘Yes. But I’m still glad to see you.’
‘What is he going to do to us?’
‘Nothing. Uncle Mike is on his way. Is Riley definitely … you know?’
‘Yes.’ Ewan looked away.
Brookes stared at Freddy’s mashed head for a minute, holding back tears and a need to scream. Once he’d buried the anguish for another day – if there was to be another day – Brookes turned to his son again. He could see him more clearly now because there was some light coming in around the edges of the plywood board; they must have entered a more built-up area. He caught his son looking at the wound in his shoulder.
‘It’s nothing …’
‘You’re bleeding a lot.’
Brookes realised that his constant effort to break free of the tape – an effort that was going nowhere – was causing him to bleed more. ‘I’ve told you, Ewan, it’s nothing.’
‘This man, the one who killed Mum, why is he doing this and why does he look so messed up?’
‘His name is Terrence Lock and he suffers from delusions. That’s all I know.’
‘Delusions?’
‘He’s imagining things. He thinks someone is telling him what to do.’
‘He said he wanted me to cry, said it was necessary for some kind of festival – what does he mean Dad?’
‘I don’t know, Ewan.’ Which was almost the truth. ‘He’s a sick man. Something inside him is wired all wrong.’
‘Is he a monster, Dad?’
‘He’s evil, yes, but he is not being driven by a supernatural force, no matter what he looks like and what he says. He’s just a man, same as you and me, only with faulty chips.’
Lock turned sharply again. Prepared this time, Brookes kept his legs and backside tense to stop the slide. Ewan’s legs were draped over his, so he didn’t slide either.
‘I’ve let Mum down, and now I’ve let you down, Dad. I’m so sorry.’
‘Pack it in Ewan. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve come back to help – how does that in anyway make you a let-down? And Ewan, there is absolutely nothing you could have done about your mother. Honestly.’
‘What are we going to do, Dad? Uncle Mike? Will he really know where we’re going?’
‘Yes. And even if he didn’t, we’re going to stop him.’
‘How?’
He paused, unable to provide an answer, simply because there wasn’t one yet.
‘Because we’ll get a chance, and when that chance comes, I’ll know.’
The van slowed down and then stopped.
Ewan was crying now. Brookes leaned down and kissed his son on his head once more; the pain in his shoulder irrelevant. ‘I love you so much.’
‘I love you too, Dad, and Mum still loved you.’
‘I know.’ And deep down he knew that it was the truth.
‘I wish you’d have come home.’
‘I wish I had too.’
Brookes realised that he, too, was crying now.
The van door opened, and Brookes squinted against the rush of cold air and the blinding moonlight reflected off the snowy ground. Framed by this white wonderland, Lock looked out of place, as if he had just clawed himself to the surface from the dark depths of the earth. His hair billowed around him, and his wide, unflinching eyes darted from one victim’s face to another. He let the ramp down and scurried up it.
‘Lock!’ Brookes’ voice rose. ‘Listen to me!’
He wasn’t sure if his words could be heard over the wind. Lock freed the elderly woman’s chair from the bar and wheeled her down the ramp. He left her outside to the mercy of the furious weather and came back in. This time, he unlocked Ewan’s handcuffs and while pointing the gun at his head, said, ‘Pick up the icebox and carry it outside.’
‘Lock!’ Brookes was straining against the rope around his legs and the tape around his wrists. ‘Untie me!’
Ewan hoisted the box down the ramp at gunpoint. Lock scooped up the bag on the way out, brushing aside Freddy’s remains with the tip of his boot. It rolled down the ramp and disappeared into the snow.
Unblinking, Brookes stared outside at his son; his tearful eyes burning under the onslaught of the wind.
Lock put the large duffel bag on the old woman’s legs and pointed ahead with his gun. Ewan looked at Lock one more time, before walking off into the snowstorm.
Lock, whose black cape was speckled with snow, marched back to the van door. He stared right into Brookes, who felt a chill deep inside him; it was as if the demon’s hands were clawing around for his soul. He took a deep breath, preparing to have that soul snatched away.
‘One at a time.’ Lock slammed the van door, leaving Brookes alone, like a caged animal, thrashing around in the darkness.
17
YORKE BURST OUT of his car and charged towards Brookes’ abandoned vehicle. Behind him, he heard Gardner screeching to a halt.
‘Fuck!’ Yorke circled the battered vehicle. ‘Fuck … fuck.’ He took in the smashed windscreen; the huge indent in the side where a larger vehicle – presumably the Ford Transit – had impaled it; and the empty driver’s seat. DS Iain Brookes was gone.
His friend was
gone.
‘What’s happened?’ Gardner said, a few metres behind him.
Yorke turned, and watched Gardner close the gap with her head lowered against the winds, rather like a charging bull.
‘I don’t know,’ Yorke said. ‘Not exactly.’
Gardner wiped snow from her eyes and surveyed the wreckage. ‘Jesus.’
‘He’s got them. Both of them.’ Yorke kicked the side of the car. ‘Fuck!’ He put both of his hands to his face.
‘Let’s carry on. Try Iain’s motorhome.’
‘What’s the point, Emma?’ He took his hands away and showed her his tearful eyes. ‘We’re too late.’
‘Oh no.’ Gardner pointed at the ground ahead; Yorke swung around to look.
There was a huge patch of blood in the snow. He wanted the winds and snow to swallow him whole. He turned back to Gardner. ‘Too fucking late.’ With tears running down his face, he kicked the side of Brooke’s car again.
For five minutes, Brookes wrestled with the tape binding his wrists and, as he fought, exhaustion descended. Then, he sobbed for his lost soulmate, Jessica, and the son he was on the verge of losing.
When he felt his wrists move against one another, his eyes widened. Either the tape was loosening, or his hands were slippery from the blood running out of his shoulder and down his arm. The reason was irrelevant. What was relevant was the fact that he sensed freedom. He ground his wrists back and forth against one other; the lubricating blood helped with the friction burn, but he still had to grit his teeth against the pain in his shoulder. He almost whooped in delight when the tape loosened still further—
The van door flew open and Lock was standing there holding the icebox.
He stopped grinding his wrists. ‘Where’s Ewan?’
Lock slid the icebox back into the van. ‘Dead.’
Brookes threw everything he had against the tape, desperate to put his hands around the neck of this soulless fucker. He wailed at the top of his lungs.
‘Be still, slave, it is not your son who is dead. It is Matlalihuitl who is dead.’
‘Who?’ Brookes managed to ask, despite hyperventilating
‘My blue-green feather.’
‘Your what?’
‘I thought you knew everything about what I was doing? Was that a lie, Iain?’
‘No – you’re the liar. You said I could come.’
Lock looked down at the ice box containing his dead creature. ‘It is a shame. Matlalihuitl was a good servant. However, it was anticipated. I came prepared.’
He disappeared around to the front of the van, and Brookes continued to fight the tape. He wasn’t given long enough though before Lock returned, holding a syringe.
‘What’s that for?’
‘It is necessary, in this modern era of trepidation, that the willing slave be made even more willing. But don’t worry yourself, Iain. Try to relax for a few minutes—’
‘We made an agreement. You said you would show me, educate me. Then, I could be a willing sacrifice too.’
Lock’s hair was turning white under the snow and blending in with his skin, making him look like a peculiar creature evolved to function in these uninhabitable conditions.
‘I’m willing!’ Brookes said.
‘Be still, slave. I will grant you your wish. You will be next.’ He slammed the van door again.
Brookes rolled onto his front and fought the tape as hard as he could. He bit his bottom lip to stop himself screaming out in victory when one hand slipped halfway out. He took a deep breath and tore his hands free. Working hard with the tight knot around his ankles, he prayed he wasn’t too late. The rope came loose. He cast it aside and darted for the door, almost slipping on his own blood. Desperately hoping that the door wasn’t locked, he grasped the handle. It wasn’t. He hurled himself outside, where he immediately felt like he had been swept up by the tongue of a monster.
He shielded his eyes from the growing storm and took in his surroundings. Empty, desolate fields, broken by the occasion patch of snow-covered trees. Ahead of him was an old barn. Yellow light trembled between the slats and smoke rose from the back. Something was burning inside.
Brookes marched towards the barn, which was maybe ten metres away; he bent his head against the winds and moved as fast as he could. He was struggling to breathe, but it did not concern him. Neither did the fact that he was unarmed. His only concern was in the barn ahead—
There was a crunch. Suspecting feet in the snow behind him, Brookes spun, pounced and wrestled his would-be ambusher, Lock, down to the ground. After forcing his hands around the killer’s neck, he began to squeeze the life from him. Images of Jessica and Riley, and then his son, filled his head, providing the only motivation he needed to end this demon’s life. He tightened his grip and then leaned forward to sink his teeth into his face—
Brookes’ stomach exploded.
He gasped, loosened his grip and sat upright. He looked down at the hole in his stomach, swayed and flopped forward. He felt Lock brush him aside as if he was merely an insect.
On his back, taking deep breathes, Brookes could only watch as Lock rose to his feet, holding Riley’s gun with one hand, while brushing snow from his black gown with the other.
‘I am Tezcacoatl – The Repenting Serpent! Do you think I wasn’t ready for this? For you?’
Lock certainly was a serpent. The slippery reptile had predicted Brookes’ escape and waited behind the van; he probably even set it all up by using tape instead of handcuffs. Now, he had eliminated the threat without being vindictive and annoying his lord. Cunning. Brookes wondered if he’d just seen Lock smile, but it was hard to tell; his face was blurred by snowfall.
‘Dying in battle is honourable, slave.’ He leaned down and hissed, ‘She begged for you, you know? Just before she offered herself.’
Brookes spat at him, but Lock had already started to rise, and it only hit him in his chest. The serpent turned and slithered off towards the barn.
Brookes’ breaths were ragged, and when he looked down, he saw that the bullet had pierced the left side of his stomach. It had not hit his spine, because he could move his legs, but he doubted his internal organs had been so lucky. Stomach wounds could kill quickly, or slowly. He’d been fortunate with the shoulder wound, but not this time; he was already feeling a peculiar sensation taking hold.
He tried to sit up, but the pain intensified, so he slumped back again. ‘No …’ he said between shallow breaths.
He glanced to either side of him where his hot blood melted the snow; then, he looked up at the stars which glimmered and refused to be camouflaged by the swirling eddies.
‘No …’
My son, he thought. I must …
One of the stars moved. It shot across the night sky, sketching a perfect arc. It moved with strength and purpose. He refused to blink despite the huge snowflakes. He refused to miss the comet.
I won’t give up on Ewan … Jessica … I promise.
He sat up, moaning from deep inside himself. He could see, ahead, Lock was also looking up, captivated by the shooting star. Brookes was surprised that anything could have halted the creature in its erroneous task.
After Lock had disappeared through the barn door, Brookes forced himself to his feet clasping his stomach; blood washed over his hand and he clenched his eyes against the searing pain, but he managed to start stumbling towards the barn - which felt like it was ten miles away rather than ten metres.
He almost made it, before he fell to his knees, sucking in so much air that he made more noise than the wind. With stinging eyes, he looked up at the barn. Its walls looked thin and he was surprised the storm didn’t crush it like a cardboard box.
He looked up at the sky and could still see the line sketched by the star. Again, he struggled back to his feet; the hole in the stomach was making the shoulder wound from earlier seem like a shaving cut. He stumbled the final few metres to where the barn wall stopped him falling. He turned and flattened himself against
the slats by the window and looked down; the front of his ski-jacket glistened like a writhing fisherman’s catch. He didn’t have long left.
He turned, peered into the window and swallowed hard.
The interior stretched high enough to accommodate six steps arranged at the centre. They rose to an altar presided over by a metre-high golden statue of a man dancing; before this was another statue of a man with large goggle-eyes.
Brookes gulped and moved his hand from his wounded stomach to his mouth.
Watched by these statues, Lock stood over Ewan, who lay unmoving on a slab.
The place was lit by a hearth at the back of the interior; black smoke billowed out. A hole had been cut out in the roof just above it to allow most of the smoke to escape. Scattered around the room were a mixture of sandstone, jade and gold statues. Lock had an audience of deities. Some watched, snarling, while others reclined with self-indulgent expressions, like gluttonous parasites feeding off despair. The elderly woman was amongst them, next to a tall urn which had a long snake carved into it. The snake curled its entire body around the two-metre-high ornament.
If the hearth didn’t do it first, Brookes would burn this abomination to the ground. But first, he needed to get his son—
Lock picked up a piece of electrical equipment, resembling a saw. Brookes watched as it burst into life and the hearth’s amorphous flame throbbed.
‘Jesus ...’ Brookes said, and he stumbled back as if struck by lightning.
He returned to the window and shouted as loud as his failing body would allow. ‘No!’
But his shout was drowned out by the squeal of the saw as it tore open Ewan’s chest.
Brooke moved as quick as he was able to the door. His legs didn’t appreciate the sudden pressure, so he fell through the open door and landed face down on the wooden floor.
Unable to get back to his feet, he writhed in his own blood; the screaming sound from the saw felt like a heavy weight pinning him to the ground. He started to cry. He had so little left. ‘Jessica,’ he murmured. ‘Give me strength.’
He began to drag himself forwards as the tears and sweat streamed down his face, and the blood spewed out of him. It now felt like something was inside him eating his insides, but he didn’t care, he just clawed at the floor. If anything, the blood was helping him slide. The sound of the saw stopped. Brookes forced some words out. ‘No – damn you, Lock – no!’