Nick Oldham - Critical Threat

Henry managed to deliver a powerful body punch, making the man drop the knife. The man gasped, hurt, but immediately smashed his forehead into Henry’s face, catching him below his right eye.

The blow stunned him. Stars and lightning rushed past Henry’s eyes. Instinctively his hands went to his face, even though he knew he should not let it affect him.

He took a blow to the groin as the man tried to ram a knee into Henry’s testicles. It was a weak blow, not serious or painful, but it made Henry respond by grabbing the man’s throat and whacking his head against the front door, twice.

Suddenly the man got a surge of energy and power from deep within.

With an inhuman cry he managed to wrestle Henry’s hands from his throat and bend back Henry’s fingers, forcing him on to his knees as he attempted to break his fingers.

Meanwhile, Henry’s own strength had evaporated and he found himself being overpowered by a big, fit man. He stared into the man’s wild eyes, the eyes of the man who was going to murder him.

Simultaneous thoughts skittered through Henry’s mind as he sank to his knees: I haven’t called Kate this morning; why did I screw Angela Cranlow? I don’t want to die here.

Then he deliberately fell backwards, catching the attacker by surprise, upending him so that he would lose balance, let go of Henry’s fingers and fall on top of him. Suddenly they were face to face, rolling from side to side across the narrow hall, each trying desperately to be the one who got on top, get the advantage. They punched, kicked, scratched.

As they smacked against the skirting board, they were cheek to cheek. Henry opened his mouth, bared his teeth, then sank them into the man’s ear lobe and bit hard, worrying the ear like a dog on a rabbit, drawing blood which he tasted. The man howled in excruciating pain, spurring him on with a resurgence of effort.

The man’s face reared back and he spat a mouthful of blood into Henry’s eyes and for the next few moments Henry had to fight blind, until suddenly the man got in a punch, connecting with the side of Henry’s head, jarring his brain. He went limp and disorientated, let go of the man, who scrambled away from him and crawled down the hall.

Henry’s senses flooded back. He wiped his face and rolled on to his stomach, realizing that the man was trying to reach the knife. Henry grabbed the man’s left ankle and yanked him backwards and tried to crawl up him as though he was climbing a rope. The man kicked out and caught Henry in the face, just on the spot where he had previously head-butted him under the right eye. Something cracked, sending a nauseous feeling through him, but he held on, grimly determined that he would not lose this one. The man continually kicked back, but Henry wrapped his arms round his legs, preventing him from reaching the knife.

Henry saw that his radio, dropped when he was initially attacked, was in easy reach. The man pulled and kicked and fought, but Henry held on for death, wondering if he could keep him secure whilst getting the radio and screaming for help.

The man twisted so he was on his back, Henry holding on, his face now level with the man’s knees. The man managed to sit up and reached out, pounding Henry’s head with his fists. Henry tucked his face between the man’s shins, riding the blows, which hurt badly.

Then, with a great heave of strength, he broke one leg free of Henry’s grasp, flat-footed Henry on the shoulder and managed to yank his other leg away, then lunged for the knife.

Henry grabbed the radio and teetered unsteadily to his feet, backing breathlessly towards the front door, whilst at the other end of the hall, the Asian guy was in a leopard’s crouch, having retrieved the knife.

Both men panted heavily, eyeing each other warily.

‘You put up a good fight, infidel,’ the man said through the blood streaming down his nose. He wiped his face with his forearm. To Henry, he looked terrifying, waiting to pounce, blood soaking him. He spun the knife in his hand and Henry imagined it plunging into his neck.

Henry raised the radio to his lips. He had to get the call out. He had twelve feet in which to do it, in the time it would take for the man to reach him. Maybe a second and a half.

The man rose, pushing himself up as though he was a sprinter, except he held a knife, not a baton.

Henry was about to shriek something into the radio, along the lines of, ‘Fuckin’ help me!’

Two things did not happen.

The man did not reach Henry.

Henry did not manage to utter any words.

There was a massive, all encompassing ‘boom’ from somewhere behind the man and his right shoulder seemed to explode into bloody fragments. His arms shot up and he crashed down on to his knees, dropping the knife, then falling on to the floor, moaning and writhing in agony.

Henry’s mouth clamped shut and he lowered the PR.

A man in a ski mask and dark clothing stood at the now open kitchen door. A big man, his wide frame and height almost filling the gap. In his right hand he held a smoking pistol, which he lowered slowly. With his left hand, he pinched the top of his ski mask and slowly pulled it up off his head, revealing his features. Then he stepped forward and stood with his big feet straddling the knife man. There was a big grin on his face.

Henry was speechless, but the guy with the gun wasn’t.

In an American accent, he drawled, ‘Well, Henry, the cavalry’s come to bail you out again, I reckon. What you say to that, pal? Nothin’? Cat got it?’

Then Henry found the power of speech and said simply, ‘Thanks, pal … what the hell’re you doing here?’

He put his hand on the doorknob and slowly turned it. He was trembling, hurting, and he didn’t want to do this, but he knew he had to. It was his responsibility. He glanced at the people behind him in the hallway, then at the walls splattered with blood, the floors also, and pushed the front room door open.

His mouth closed tightly as his eyes took in what was beyond, then his lips popped open when the enormity of it hit him. ‘Oh God,’ he groaned.

They had died horrendous deaths, their bodies splayed out on the floor of the empty room, their throats severed from ear to ear, their heads almost hacked off.

The room from hell.

Henry stood immobile, unable to move, as he computed how it had happened.

They had knocked on the front door, been invited in — just as he had — and in the hall, they had been savagely attacked.

They’d probably gone for Graeme first, the big guy. Someone had taken him from behind and sliced his throat open, hence the blood spurts on the wall from the thick arteries in his neck. Then Angela had been overpowered, suffering the same fate, and their bodies had been dragged into the front room where it looked like the attack had continued frenziedly, and they had been butchered, almost beheaded.

Henry shuddered. His nostrils flared.

He had seen many awful things in his life. Most had no effect on him. But this horror was something he was having big problems with already. It was one of the most barbaric scenes he had ever witnessed, like something from the Dark Ages.

Their faces were twisted in his direction, both clearly identifiable. Graeme Walling had one eye closed, the other half open; Angela Cranlow’s were both wide open, staring accusingly at him, her tongue lolling in the blood which had gushed from her mouth.

Henry was short of breath. His heart started to pound fast. Suddenly it was hard to inhale.

A hand clamped down on his shoulder and the big American looked over his shoulder.

‘Hell,’ he said. ‘C’mon, Henry, close the door … step back, let the CSI guys have this.’

The hand steered Henry away from the room, through the kitchen and into the backyard, where he was forced to sit down on the edge of a metal dustbin.