by Stephen Laws
Chadderton pushed the remembrance to the back of his mind; concentrated hard on the hand which gripped the priest’s arm. It was the same hand that had yanked Mark back from certain death; it was the hand that had stopped Aynsley from killing Mark’s daughter. And, Chadderton could now see, it was a hand that was not, for the first time since his wife’s death, trembling in an alcoholic palsy.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flash of movement from down the corridor, strained forward to look and saw a familiar figure staggering towards them.
It was Mark.
He looked dazed, as if he had received a shock that had tilted the balance of his mind. He was blundering against the sides of the corridor as he came. And for some reason he was carrying a fire axe in his hands.
Chadderton called to the soldier: ‘Here, take his arm. Mark’s coming back!’
And, as the soldier came to the priest’s side and took the wounded hand, Chadderton rose quickly and moved to the sliding door to break the seal and admit that which returned.
Safe within the blank greyness which kept Azimuth at bay, Mark drifted amid memories of his life before the accident which had crippled him. With astonishing clarity, he relived a playground incident when he was seven years old, that he had previously forgotten. He relived his marriage to Joanne; Helen’s birth; his first day at school; the face of a young girl crying in the street as she rushed past him to some unknown destination. On the latter occasion, three years ago, he had been on his way to work and had kept on walking because it had nothing to do with him. But the face of that young girl had haunted him ever since, and if he could have turned back the clock and offered help, he would unhesitatingly have done so.
It was nice here. There were no problems, nothing to worry about. If he wished, everything that had happened since the accident could be erased from his mind. The accident itself could be made never to have happened. Existence in this safe, calm and peaceful place would be eternal. A constant wandering back and forth down the corridors of memory; each opened door revealing a new secret, a new memory that had been hidden for many years.
A small voice was whispering at the back of Mark’s mind. He could not hear what it was saying, it was too far away. But the tone of the voice was urgent, almost frantic, and Mark decided to ignore it, intent only on exploring his own mind, never to return. But the voice followed him; refused to be placated, refused to go away. Mark did not want to hear what it was saying because he knew that it would want him to leave this place and return to . . . to . . . what? The present did not belong here and he did not want to know about it. The voice was becoming louder as it drew nearer and Mark tried to run away from it. But it was catching up with him and at last he knew that he could not really ignore what it had to say. The words were becoming clearer now and he recognised that the voice was his own. He could hear what it was trying to tell him.
Now he could see himself lying crumpled on the floor of a cobwebbed driving cabin. He could see the King’s Cross train screaming down the line. The Ghost Train Man had gone, but the unspeakable miasma which permeated the cabin told Mark that Azimuth was still present. Invisible, unseen, but still there. He could feel the power which Azimuth was drawing from the railway lines beneath, was instantly aware of the fantastic network of power lines that radiated across the face of the countryside. Waves of power, hideous strength and growth surged from the driving cabin down the entire length of the train. And the proximity of power created new changes in Mark’s own mind. He knew that he could use his mind as he had never done before. In a strange way, he was the parasite now, feeding from the power which exuded from Azimuth. But it was a power that he could not tap directly, for keying into it would mean an acceptance and acknowledgement of Azimuth that Mark could never permit. Huddled on the cabin floor, he drew strength from the unholy force in the same way that the traveller takes warmth from a raging bonfire. He had a fleeting image of himself in the past as some kind of blood donor, his veins tapped by the vampiric Azimuth. Now, the transfusion had been temporarily reversed and Mark, the former host, was drawing strength from Azimuth, the ultimate parasite, as power flowed into his veins.
And then Mark saw Phil the Tiger stalking down a blood-streaked corridor clutching a fire axe in his hands. With a wave of revulsion, he realised that the essence of Azimuth had dragged the Catalyst back from the grave and was embodied in him. He could feel its anticipation of another horror to come, knew that Azimuth had fed on two hundred and thirty-four human beings but still gloried in the opportunity to feed on four more. An après-déjeuner, as the Ghost Train Man would say. And then Mark saw Chadderton, the soldier and the girl, and knew that Azimuth had tricked Chadderton into seeing something else. He saw Chadderton’s hand on the sliding door . . .
Chadderton! No! Don’t let it in! It’s not me! It’s not me!
He saw Chadderton shrink back from the door, his hands flying to his ears as if he had suddenly been subjected to a high-pitched, piercing noise. Mark knew that he had heard.
Chadderton moved quickly back to the sliding door as the soldier came to join him. Instantly, Mark knew that he was seeing through Chadderton’s eyes and that he could now see who was really moving down that corridor towards them.
A savage, ululating scream drowned Mark’s senses. He felt a surge of inhuman hate being directed at him, concentrating on him with an intensity that was meant to destroy him. He fled back to the safety of his own mind, feeling the hate close behind him like some huge, black tidal wave threatening to engulf everything. The safe place seemed too far away now. Behind him, the denizens of a million nightmares hungered for his soul and he could feel his own power waning. The warning to Chadderton had cost him too much; he had gone too far. An immense roaring filled Mark’s mind. He could feel the crest of the huge black wave tipping down on him from above.
And then, at the last moment, he plunged through into greyness. Somewhere, a thousand miles away, the tidal wave was crashing against an impregnable bulwark with the ferocity of death, fear and insanity. Now Mark knew what he must do. He could see that there was another way to stop Azimuth.
In the safe, grey place in his own mind, he did something that he had not done since he was a child. He prayed.
Chadderton recognised him immediately. He was the man who had attacked them on the station platform and who had wounded Father Daniels. But he also knew that the man who lurched towards them was no longer alive. Chadderton had seen many dead men during his years in the police force, and the dishevelled, blood-stained wreck which drew closer was most certainly a dead man. It looked, he realised, just like the thing that Dr Aynsley had become. His head was still ringing from the voice which had suddenly punched its warning into his brain. Somehow he knew instinctively that it was Mark’s voice, that it could not be a delusion created by Azimuth. The voice had impressed itself into his consciousness, leaving an identification more irrefutable than police-photographed fingerprints.
Chadderton shrank back from the door as the thing on the other side drew level. He felt the soldier shudder involuntarily as it looked in on them, weaving from side to side.
‘It’s got no eyes! Where’s its eyes?’
‘It’s all right. The door’s sealed. It can’t get in.’
Behind them, Chadderton could hear the young girl whimpering. Her face was buried in her hands; she refused to look at what stood beyond the door.
And then the thing laughed. Until that moment, Chadderton had thought he had seen and heard all that hell had to offer. But that laugh was somehow the most hideous and inhuman thing he had ever heard. With a feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach, he realised that it was laughing at what he had just said. In that instant, he knew that the thing was somehow going to break the seal and get to them.
Phil the Tiger raised the fire axe back as far as the cramped corridor would allow and swung it sideways at the sliding door.
&nb
sp; ‘Look out!’ yelled Chadderton.
The top of the glass panel in the door shattered inwards, sending slivers of jagged glass slicing across the compartment. The soldier instinctively moved to protect his girlfriend. Chadderton flung up an arm to shield his face, frantically looked around for something with which they could defend themselves as the rest of the glass panel exploded and the axe bit deeply into the wood, sending a splintering crack chasing down to the floor. Incredibly, the seal was holding. The thing was laughing again now, blood and saliva spilling over its bottom lip. Once more the axe struck, and Chadderton knew that although Azimuth could not break the seal directly, it could focus its power on this undead thing to destroy the entire doorframe around the seal.
Chadderton clawed at Father Daniels’ briefcase, tried to find something there that he could use, and found nothing. The axe bit into the sliding door panel again, and stuck. Suddenly, the soldier had leaped forward from the seats and seized the axe just above the blade, wrenching at it in an effort to wrest it from the thing’s grasp. Chadderton moved quickly to help him but a ragged arm suddenly flashed through the aperture and hurled the soldier to the floor. The girl screamed. Chadderton’s hand closed around a sliver of wood lying on the compartment floor. Lunging forward as the thing wrenched the axe free from the wood, he stabbed through the aperture and felt the wooden shard plunge solidly into the thick flesh of the thing’s thigh. The sliver snapped, and Chadderton tried desperately to sidestep as the axe swung through the air towards him. The blade missed his head by a fraction of an inch, but the haft of the axe caught him full on the side of the face, the blow slamming him hard against the compartment wall. Chadderton felt himself sliding to the floor, tried to fight the inertia which threatened to engulf him. The sounds of the girl’s screaming and the axe thudding and cracking into the wood seemed far away. Something heavy crashed to the floor, and Chadderton knew that the sliding door had finally collapsed under the onslaught and that the thing was through into the compartment.
In a hideous nightmare, he saw the ragged man-shape throw the soldier across the compartment, saw the dull glint of light on the fire axe as the Catalyst swung it high and knew that he could never get to his feet before that axe came down again. The thing laughed.
‘No! No! No . . .’
Chadderton watched as the axe blade cut a swathe through the air towards Father Daniels’ head. It was as if the scene were being played in slow motion. He heard the girl’s scream echoing long and shrill, watched as the axe swept through its downward arc and knew that there was nothing he could do.
A gout of blood sprayed the compartment.
Uttering a hoarse, horrified noise deep in his throat, the soldier flung himself at the Catalyst.
Chadderton struggled to his feet, fighting to regain his senses, and saw the soldier grappling with the Catalyst against the compartment wall. It had pinned him there by the axe haft and was crushing him. The soldier’s hands were cupped under the thing’s chin, pushing its head away from his throat. Chadderton remembered how Dr Aynsley had tried to tear out his throat in Mark’s house and, not wanting to look at what was left of Father Daniels, not wanting to admit that their last hope of defeating Azimuth was gone, he threw himself at the thing. He hooked his arm around its neck, feeling the flesh deathly cold against him. It was like trying to move a statue. The soldier was making high-pitched gasping noises, and the girl was clawing and tearing frantically at the thing’s face. Suddenly, the Catalyst shifted position and jabbed the axe haft backwards into Chadderton’s midriff. Chadderton crumpled to the floor again, hugging the crippling pain in his stomach. The soldier slid downwards across Father Daniels, a small trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his mouth. Chadderton heard the girl scream as the thing seized her, but could not get to his feet. He heard the ripping of material as it began to tear the clothes from her body, heard that inhuman laughter again and knew what the Catalyst intended. Chadderton tried to move again, retched and felt himself sliding into unconsciousness . . .
Eleven
‘I renounce my faith . . .’
Mark had returned. He was lying crumpled on the floor of the driving cabin again. He could see what was happening in the compartment. He could see the broken seal; the body of Father Daniels; the two men lying on the floor. He could see that Azimuth had channelled itself into the Catalyst for a mild diversion, not content in the knowledge that soon the Ghost Train would reach its destination and all Earth would be subject to its unleashed, evil influence. Mark could see what it wanted to do with the girl. As he spoke, his hand dropped away from the silver crucifix hanging around his neck.
Instantly, the converging, invisibly pulsing lines of power in the driving cabin surged with vitality. The air crackled, a blue light suffused the cabin . . . a light that was somehow dark. It blossomed and spread, until the details of the driving cabin began to grow thinner and vanish. A great roaring filled Mark’s ears, as of some terrible wind. And then he knew that the very essence of Azimuth had returned to the driving cabin. The evil touch of wings and eyes was with him once again. It had heard him and returned rejoicing.
Thrice Denied! Of your own free will you speak! And so shall it be! I will embody within you. I will be of you. And you will be mine.
Mark gave himself willingly.
It entered through his eyes as he knew it would. It slithered into him like a seething, wriggling mass of abominable voracious snakes. It plunged deeply and greedily into his mind; a hideous, rapacious invader. It had lied to him. It would feed from him. It would consume him. And now he could not stop it because he had given himself willingly. He had offered up the virgin territory of his mind and now that Azimuth had been admitted, it would greedily devour. But Mark had known that this would happen.
Mark was thirty years old. He had been twenty-nine when the accident had happened. Now, as Azimuth swarmed into his mind, he retreated before it down the halls of memory to the time when he was twenty-eight, happily married with a promising career, a wife whom he loved deeply and a beautiful daughter. And as Mark retreated, he took with him the central core of his mind, the very essence of his being. Azimuth came after him, consuming and digesting two years of Mark’s life, anxious to claim everything of Mark as it ravaged onwards. It was drawing power from its feasting, becoming stronger and faster. Mark leaped backwards in time, taking his individuality with him down through the years.
Twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two . . .
And Azimuth followed greedily, tasting and raping everything that Mark had ever experienced, everything he had ever loved or hated. Everything good was pillaged and distorted to make food; everything bad was expanded and savoured for the Tasting.
. . . Fifteen, fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven . . .
It claimed and tasted everything, defiling Mark completely. And still Mark pressed backwards, keeping himself from it as it advanced.
. . . Six, five, four, three, two, one . . .
It swallowed and engulfed, tasted and orgasmed as its possession neared completion. Barely ahead of this thing from Hell, Mark was a newborn child. His lifetime of experience belonged to Azimuth. But still he pressed backwards in time . . . back . . . back to the time of his birth.
And beyond.
As a foetus in his own mother’s womb, Mark carried and retained his essence and individuality. Unborn and without sin, he lay sheltered and protected from the ravages of that which possessed his born self. It was a place that the Evil could not enter. Moreover, he knew, it was a place that Azimuth had disregarded. Exultant in what it believed to be its complete possession, Azimuth turned aside and withdrew. Within the womb, for the first and last time in the history of mankind, an unborn child shed tears for the sacrifice of its own life to come.
Twelve
Chadderton grasped for the rim of the seat behind him, steadied himself and began to rise. The C
atalyst stood motionless beside the ragged gap which had been the sliding door. It held the girl with one arm. Sobbing, with one sleeve of her blouse hanging like a rag from the thing’s other clenched fist, she seemed to have given in to whatever fate lay in store for her. Beside him, Chadderton became aware of movement as the soldier began to recover consciousness. Chadderton stood up and saw that the thing’s jaw was hanging slack and loose. Blood and saliva dripped to the floor. For the first time, he noticed the blue-white glint of an exposed intestine in the thing’s stomach. Now he realised that, somehow, the motivating force behind the Catalyst had been temporarily withdrawn. Standing like a zombie, the thing that had been Phil the Tiger was awaiting its next instruction.
Still intensely wary of the Catalyst, Chadderton moved to the soldier and helped him to his feet, never for one moment taking his gaze from the thing’s face.
‘Anne . . .’ croaked the soldier, wincing at the pain of two broken ribs. Instantly, the thing tightened its grip, a deep frown settling on its features.
‘Noooo . . .’ When it spoke, it sounded like something that had never been human. The girl ceased struggling and the Catalyst stood waiting for its Master to return. And then, slowly and with a hideous unhealthiness, a smile began to spread across the thing’s features.
‘Get the girl!’ shouted Chadderton, lunging forward shoulder first and taking the thing full on. The soldier dragged the girl away as Chadderton and the Catalyst hurtled out into the corridor in a frenzied scrabbling of arms and legs, colliding with the corridor wall. Chadderton felt the thing’s grip around his throat; knew that the hideous power which had enabled it to smash the door and which they could never have beaten in the compartment, was somehow dissipated. But it was still more than strong enough to rip his head from his shoulders.
The thing slammed him hard against the corridor window. Chadderton felt himself being lifted clear from the floor as he lashed out at its head. It slammed him backwards again, holding him aloft by the throat. He could feel his windpipe being squeezed shut; could hear the window glass cracking behind him under the pressure. He tried to brace himself against the window and push forwards, taking the thing off balance. But the Catalyst quickly compensated, dashing him backwards again. The window shattered. Chadderton felt a terrific suction sweep the glass away. A biting cold wind dragged at his body.