Sepulchre

by James Herbert

  But he was too late.

  39

  A TERROR UNLEASHED

  The first of the beasts burst into the room, a glistening on its jaws caught by the beam of light.

  To Halloran's surprise, the jackal bounded past him. He quickly stepped behind the door, using it as a shield as others, snarling and yelping, their fur bristling, streamed through. They made straight for the bundle of rags in the comer of the room.

  Halloran drew in a sharp breath as the first jackal reached the lifeless figure and tore into the bedding, its jaws snapping and rending material. He heard a feeble cry above the frenzied yapping and realized that the disfigured old man was not yet dead. The puckered skull suddenly emerged from the rags, its mouth a toothless, jagged hole, the eyes now totally white. The second jackal buried its teeth into the scrawny throat.

  And still more poured through the doorway.

  Halloran reached into the bag and pulled out the MP5K, not bothering to yank out its retractable stock as he aimed at the welter of shoving and tumbling bodies. Blood suddenly gushed upward to drench the agitated backs of the jackals, its smell, its taste, driving the animals into even greater frenzy. They ripped into their broken victim, shaking him in feverish rage.

  Halloran loosed fifteen rounds of nine-millimeter bullets into the pack, aware that the old man would also be hit and knowing it really didn't matter anymore.

  The jackals screeched, some leaping into the air, others thrown against the wall by the impact. In little more than a second, the room was a carnage of convulsing bodies, a redness coating the floor and running down into the cracks. But not all the beasts had been killed outright. Several had just been wounded. Others had only been frightened.

  These turned toward their attacker.

  Halloran quickly switched the weapon to single-shot, unwilling to waste the rest of the magazine on one short burst.

  The howling subsided to an agonized whimpering, the sound piteous but invoking no pity from Halloran. He pointed the gun at the nearest advancing jackal. The animal leapt, carnassials bared and already stained. The bullet entered its neck and exploded from the other side, taking fragments of flesh and spine with it into the ceiling.

  Halloran was pushed back against the wall, the penlight he had kept locked against the weapon falling from his grasp as the contorting body struck him. The dead animal dropped away, head loose from its shoulders, and Halloran, crouched now, heard rather than saw the rush of another jackal. He raised the weapon and fired blindly.

  The first bullet did not stop the animal, merely creasing its flank, and teeth sank into the operative's wrist. He scarcely felt the pain.

  The next bullet, the weapon itself directed downward by the jackal's weight, scythed along the creature's underbelly. The piercing yelp set off a renewed howling from its injured companions, and Halloran cringed under the cacophony. He tugged his arm free, the brute's teeth scraping across the skin of his wrist as it slid to the floor. He reached for the light, swiftly turning the beam into the mass of quivering scavengers. Those that were still able were crawling toward him, some limping badly, others squirming on their stomachs. The mattress and bedrags behind them were sodden with dark, seeping liquid.

  Submachine gun held in one hand against his hip, Halloran stooped to retrieve the bag, which contained extra magazines, never once letting the light beam waver away from the creeping bodies. The howling had died, to be replaced by a low, menacing growling. He edged around the door.

  A limping jackal suddenly made a dash at him. Its legs gave way and it slumped at Halloran's feet, jaws weakly snapping the air, a low snarl coming from deep within its throat. He backed out the door as the others gathered their strength and staggered forward. Halloran pulled the door shut with a jarring thud and heard the jackals scratching at the wood on the other side.

  He leaned against the frame, forehead resting on a raised arm, breathing slowly, giving himself time to recover from the horror.

  But a scuffling on the stairs would not allow that.

  He stiffened, then moved to the rail overlooking the stairway. More jackals were bounding up the steps, their backs to him. Halloran leaned over and took them one by one, shooting at the base of their skulls, shattering the bone there. The first jackal stopped dead, as if stunned, then toppled downstairs, the one close behind becoming entangled with the falling body. The third, startled by the gunfire and trying to avoid its companions, dodged to the side and received a bullet in its shoulder. The jackal howled and tumbled out of sight.

  Halloran swiftly walked along the landing and paused at the top of the stairs, shining the light down. Only two corpses lay at the bottom.

  He descended cautiously, anxious to get away from the charnel house but wary of what might still be waiting below, hoping these were the last of the stragglers. From above came the continued scratching against the door and a kind of mewling whimpering.

  Halloran stepped over the dead bodies at the foot of the stairs and backed away to the front door, keeping his eyes on the corridor leading to the rear of the lodge house. Slipping the bag over his shoulder and gripping the penlight firmly between his teeth, he tried the door handle. It resisted his pressure at first, the mechanism obviously rusted, then grudgingly turned. But the bolts, top and bottom, were rusted solid and would not budge.

  He guessed the entrance hadn't been used for many years, but was reluctant to leave through the back way. Instead he went into the room on his right.

  Halloran was halfway across the floor heading for one of the windows when something dripped onto his extended arm. He stopped, curious. Liquid spattered against his cheek. He pointed the beam upward and saw the blood dripping through the ceiling. That was when he heard the throaty snarling from behind the door.

  The jackal was on him before he had time to aim his weapon. He went down, dust rising in great clouds as he hit the boards. The flashlight flew from his grasp, striking the wall and blinking off when it fell to the floor.

  The slathering animal was only a dim form above as Halloran clenched its fur and tried to keep the snapping jaws away from his face. He was forced to release the submachine gun so that he could fend off the attack with both hands. Its long legs were sturdy, much more powerful than they appeared, and they raked his clothes, scratching the skin beneath. Halloran felt blood trickling down his wrist, but realized it was from his attacker's own wound. Using one hand again to hold the jackal off, with his other he reached for the blood-soaked shoulder and squeezed hard. With a sharp, high-pitched yelp, the jackal sprang away, but Halloran went with it, keeping the pressure on the wound. Because of their skeletal structure, he knew dogs or wolves were virtually armour-plated, their vulnerable points few; but a sharp blow to the jackal's neck, just in front of the shoulders, numbed it into immobility. Halloran followed through before it had a chance to recover by slipping both arms beneath its shoulder, joining hands behind the creature's neck, and bringing up his elbows while pressing down his hands in one fast, vigorous action. The jackal's breastbone split with a sharp crack, the shock killing it immediately.

  He let the limp body fall away, and without taking time to recover his breath, Halloran searched around the floor for the weapon. When he had it in his hands, as well as the black bag carrying the extra ammunition, he returned to the door and closed it, a barrier against any other jackals not dealt with. He went to the window, felt for the catch and, with some difficulty, forced it open. When he attempted to lift the window, however, he discovered it was stuck solid.

  Wasting no further time, he covered his eyes with one hand and used the stubby butt of the submachine gun to smash the glass. Halloran squeezed through the opening and dropped to the ground outside. The Mercedes waited in the gloom a short distance away.

  He had taken only a few paces toward it when a window above shattered and screeching shapes rained down on him.

  He stumbled when one landed on his shoulder, tripped when another jackal fell at his feet. There was no way of
telling how many there were around him and he knew there was little chance of recovering the weapon in the darkness. He pushed an animal away, its resistance weak because of its wounds, kicked out at another when he had risen, sending the beast tottering backward on legs that were already unstable. Something tugged at his ankle and he lifted the jackal off the ground, hurling it away from himself. He ran for the car drawing the Browning from its holster, just as a section of moon appeared. Throwing open the door, he leapt inside. He changed gun hands to close the car door, pulling at the handle as another jackal launched itself at him. The animal became wedged, and Halloran leaned away to avoid its gnashing teeth. With his left hand he touched the automatic to the jackal's head and squeezed the trigger. The beast jerked once, then slumped lifeless. Halloran pushed the body away from the car and pulled the door shut.

  He sat there, chest heaving, his arms and forehead against the steering wheel. When he raised his head again to stare back at the lodge, the moonlight revealed a macabre scene: the wolflike creatures were staggering around in circles, shocked by their wounds as well as in pain, baying at the moon, their stumblings almost a ritual dance.

  Halloran reached for the RT, intending to alert the patrol cars of the estate's loss of inner security. It had been unfortunate that neither car had been passing the gates a minute or two earlier when gunfire from the house would have brought them in to assist, but that was always a problem if manpower was stretched; not for the first time he cursed Kline for his faith in his own security. Static blared out at him when he pressed the transmit button. He switched off, then on again, hoping that interference would clear. It didn't. He spoke into the mouthpiece anyway, but the static became even worse as he waited for a reply. Glancing up at the sky, he saw that the clouds were big and thunderous, the atmosphere itself muggy-close, charge-filled. With a muttered curse, he returned the RT, holstered the gun, and switched on the Mercedes' ignition.

  Something was calling him back to Neath, a certainty that there was trouble there, that not only was Kline in danger, but so, too, was Cora. And it was her safety he cared about most. After what had happened inside the lodge house, reason or logic was of minor importance. Sensing—intuition—was all.

  He flicked on his high beams and swung the car toward the gates, turning in a tight circle that threw up earth and gravel, cutting through undergrowth on the far side of the road. Instead of setting a straight course for the main house, Halloran veered to the left, bumping across the rough piece of ground, in front of the lodge. He plowed into the dazed and dying jackals, crushing them beneath the wheels of the Mercedes, smashing into those that tried to run so that they hurtled into the air. Only then did he make his way toward Neath.

  The car tore down the road, headlights throwing back the darkness, dust curling in its wake. He saw the first flash of light silver the clouds, a strobe effect that reminded him of the fulguration on the lake the previous night. Into the tunnel of trees and around the curve he sped, the low-hanging branches never more threatening than now, tires screeching as they gripped. The road somehow seemed narrower, as if the trees on either side conspired to join together, only the searing lights forcing them to retreat. Yet the feeling that the path behind him had closed up was uncanny.

  The road began to dip and the car burst clear of the woods. He could not help wondering if the trees behind had finally linked.

  In the distance was the brooding shape of Neath, only a few of its windows lit. Halloran eased up on the accelerator, training taking over from impulse. So wary was he that he switched off the lights completely, trusting his judgment until his eyes had adapted to the night, following the blurred strip of road down to the house.

  Lightning brightened the sky again, and a jagged but almost perpendicular streak shot from the clouds to strike the lake.

  Halloran jammed on the brakes, the Mercedes slewing to one side before coming to a halt. He stared at the water in astonishment as flashes stammered in the clouds for a second or two longer. The afterimage was clear in his mind as he sat in the darkness, the engine of the car running. The lake was a turbulent storm of waves and erupting geysers, its foam as white as any ocean's.

  The car reverberated with the sound of thunder directly overhead.

  40

  A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY

  The deluge struck as he entered the porch, a torrent of rain so fierce it seemed unnatural. He turned briefly and saw bits of gravel tossed into the air with the pounding. The mass of rainwater looked almost solid, cutting off the view of the lake. Halloran ran along the flagstones toward the entrance of the house itself, reaching for the key in his pocket as he went.

  At the double-door he knocked twice and called out his name. He inserted the long key into the lock, the dull porch light lending little assistance, and swung one side of the door open.

  The hall was empty.

  He moved to the center of the stone floor, looking up at the minstrels' gallery, the landing, searching the shadows, turning around full circle to study every door on ground level. Lightning outside frosted the windows. Thunder followed almost immediately, and it was as though Neath itself trembled.

  Halloran drew the gun from its holster once again.

  He took the downstairs first, swiftly going through every room, opening each door suddenly but quietly, the automatic held out before him. He switched on lights wherever he went, hating Neath for its darkness. The library, drawing room, sitting room—all were empty save for sparse furniture and ornaments. The dining room, kitchen, corridors, other rooms—all lifeless and feeling as if they had been that way for many years. He trod cautiously, even though rain drumming against the windows covered the sound of his footsteps; but he felt a rising desperation.

  Halloran paused to listen, leaning back against a corridor wall opposite a leaded window overlooking the courtyard. Lightning flooded the air.

  He drew in a sharp breath when he saw the defunct fountain at the center of the yard now bubbling dirty, viscid water clotted with black slime.

  The piercing light stuttered away and thunder rattled the windowpanes. Halloran moved on, finding his way back to the main hall.

  He took the stairs two at a time, his step agile despite the draining ordeal he had already been through. He hurried from room to room, pushing open doors and peering in, gun always at chest level, safety off. He even looked into his own bedroom.

  He thought he heard a cry from somewhere in the house, hut thunder cracked deafeningly a moment after so that he couldn't be sure. Halloran headed for Kline's quarters, his stride fast and light. This time he was certain he heard a cry. A woman's. Cora's. He broke into a run.

  The door leading to Kline's rooms was open. Halloran went through, slowing to a walk; a glow spread from a doorway near the end of the corridor. He heard a whimper, its source from inside that doorway. A smell of incense tainted the air.

  He crept forward, knowing it was Cora who had uttered the small moan of pain. Halloran forced himself to remain emotionless. He neared the door, stopped, waited a moment.

  A sharp, slapping sound. Against flesh. Cora's gasp, then her whimper.

  Halloran gently pushed back the half-open door.

  It was a large room, the walls covered in symbols and rough drawings. He did not take time to study them. Scattered around the floor were untidy piles of books, maps, and folios of some kind. He did not pay them much attention. In front of him was a four-poster bed, the posts knotted with carvings, curtains of sheer lace draped between them. He hardly noticed the fine work. Halloran could only stare at what was on the bed.

  The drapes were gathered and tied to the posts, revealing a crouched, naked figure, head hanging low between the shoulders so that the back was arched. The flesh was red and wealed. Cora's face was half-turned toward Halloran, but she did not see him, for her eyes were closed, her hair falling over her forehead. Her mouth was open in a slight smile.

  Monk had his broad, sloping back to the door, his gaze too intent on the girl to
notice anyone in the doorway. The bodyguard was naked too, a mountain of obese, loose flab covered in wiry hair that was thick around his lower arms and legs and splaying over his shoulders so that the skin was merely a dullness beneath.

  The short, multithonged whip he held dropped to the floor as he pushed the girl over on the bed. He grabbed her ankles and yanked them toward him so that Cora was flat on her stomach. Halloran caught a glimpse of her manacled wrists.

  Her groan was of pleasure, not of fear.

  All calmness, all self-imposed remoteness, left Halloran in a gushing of rage. The anguish he felt was as deep and as painful as on the day he had witnessed the gunning down of his father so many years before. Or when he had learned of his mother's terrible death. It seared him and blinded all other senses.

  He roared as he rushed forward and reached for the bodyguard's hair, which had been loosened from the band Monk usually wore. He wrenched hard, hauling the gross man away from the girl, bringing the butt of the Browning down hard against the side of Monk's head, his anger, unleashed like rarely before, spoiling the accuracy of the blow.

  Monk cried out and toppled over the footboard onto the floor.

  Cora turned, drawing her legs up. Her glazed eyes looked into Halloran's uncomprehendingly. He raised the gun toward her, his hand shaking, wanting to kill her, wanting to punish her for breaking through to him, for making him care again, then for mocking those feelings. He cursed himself for allowing it to happen.

  Cora smiled at him, an idiot's welcome. Then fear finally melted through her drug-induced haze.

  Halloran lowered the pistol and closed his eyes against the sight of her.

  A meaty arm closed around his neck from behind, a hand reaching around and grabbing his wrist. He was lifted off his feet as Monk heaved.

  His windpipe was being crushed by the pressure, and Halloran knew it would only be a matter of seconds before he blacked out. The automatic was of no use to him in a situation like this, so he opened his fingers and let it fall, Monk's grip on his wrist still not slackening. The bodyguard was gurgling close to his ear, an animal sound. With his free hand, Halloran reached down behind him and found the fleshy part of Monk's inner thigh. He pinched with thumb and bent knuckle, squeezing with all his strength so that his assailant screamed, a high-pitched woman's cry. The hold on Halloran loosened and he wrenched the arm away.