D. Mitchell - The King of Terrors

‘Who are you people?’ he said, wincing at the excruciating waves of pain emanating from the embedded needles.

The man with his back against the wall reached up and stroked back his short, black hair. ‘Pest control,’ he said, his face twisted by loathing as he stared hard at Gareth.

‘I’m an ordinary guy,’ he said tiredly. ‘Why won’t you believe me?’

The man’s eyes glared white and fierce in the gloom. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. You aren’t ordinary. You’re far from ordinary.’ He looked at his watch again. ‘And because of that you have only one hour and thirty three minutes to live.’

‘You’re mad,’ Gareth managed weakly.

‘I’d save your breath for any prayer you need to offer up to whatever god it is you worship, though your filthy black soul was damned from the moment you drew breath. There is no salvation for you or your kind; only death and eternal punishment for transgressing the Holy Laws of Doradus. I feel dirty just being in your presence.’

‘Doradus? What is that?’

The other man released a low grunt, then came to loom over him. ‘I don’t want to hear your filthy mouth utter that ever again.’ He bent down and twisted the needle in Gareth’s hand. He screamed out. ‘You’re not worthy,’ he said. He turned to the man sat against the wall. ‘We could do it now. Get rid of this animal once and for all.’

He shook his head. Camael needs to be here in person.’

‘I have no idea where the woman is,’ Gareth said.

‘We know,’ said the man against the wall. ‘But that doesn’t alter things. You were never going to live. And we’ll find the woman; it is only a matter of time.’

‘What have I done that is so wrong?’ said Gareth, flinching as the man drew near the needle again.

‘You live, you breathe, and you are Satan’s child.’

In spite of everything Gareth gave a low, humorous chuckle. ‘You really are crazy. Did you murder that woman in Manchester because she was spawn of the Devil too? Was that your twisted reason?’

‘Technically, you cannot murder devils or their spawn. They don’t fall under the same corporeal laws that bind the rest of humanity,’ he replied matter-of-factly, as if he truly believed what he was saying.

‘Oh for fuck’s sake!’ said the other man, and rammed the needle deeper into Gareth’s hand. ‘I’m tired of having to listen to your pathetic little squeals. Every time you open your mouth I’ll give you more of the same, understand?’

Gareth, his teeth gritted, nodded helplessly.

Both men sat together in silence, the only sound to break the silence was Gareth’s gasping and heavy panting, his world now a churning maelstrom of fear and pain. Time dragged on laboriously, and each second of every minute passed like a living hell.

Eventually they heard footsteps from down the long, darkened corridor; saw the sweep of a probing flashlight.

‘It’s time.’ And both men rose from their positions, brushing dirt from their trousers. They stared hard and unforgiving at Gareth, who shook his head disbelievingly.

He saw a dark, silent form come up behind the two men, the features in heavy shadow, and with it came an overwhelming sense of dread.

The chamber erupted into chaos, a series of loud explosions and bright flashes ripping through the sepulchral silence. There was a scream, shouting, one of the men tumbling into a crumpled heap before Gareth’s feet, the other making a staggering run for the tunnel. There were two more explosions and the man collapsed with a groan to his knees.

The figure with the smoking gun calmly stepped over to the wounded man, who began to crawl on his hands and knees to the exit. He aimed the gun point-blank at his back and fired. The man collapsed silently to the stone floor, his legs kicking once before they lay completely still and lifeless.

The man slid the gun into the inside of his coat and turned quickly to Gareth. ‘Hell, seems I got here just in time,’ he said, going immediately to the leather bonds securing Gareth’s wrists. He began to unbuckle them.

‘I know you; you’re the man from the hospital,’ he said. ‘The Canadian who was at Gattenby House…’

‘Can’t argue with that,’ he said.

‘Who are you?’ Gareth asked weakly as his hands were freed.

‘The cavalry,’ he returned.

‘Sit down; we need to take care of those wounds.’ He went over to the curtains and drew them against the dark, then opened a green plastic first-aid box he’d brought with him from the car. ‘You were damn lucky,’ he said, glancing up at Gareth Davies’ deathly-pale face as he lowered himself into a well-worn armchair. He was staring at his bloodied hands, examining the puncture wounds the needles had left. His fingers were dreadfully painful to move and his feet hurt like blazes.

The hotel room was small but adequate, the sort of place frequented by sales reps and the like, he thought. Basic comforts they sought on their way to somewhere else. Outside the window was the gentle hum of traffic, sounding like a breeze at the coast. They’d pulled off the motorway into a service station, parked up, to Gareth’s surprise, at the front of the small motel.

‘So where are we exactly?’ said Gareth. The journey through the mines, outside into the car and driving down busy roads to the service station had passed in a fevered haze punctuated by moments of rising terror and pain. When he questioned his saviour the man had told him in no uncertain terms to wait. He had to concentrate on getting them as far away from the mines as possible. All would be explained in good time.

The man took a roll of bandage and a tube of cream from the first-aid box. ‘We have to bathe these first,’ he said. Take your shoes off and I’ll find something for you to clean the wounds with. Don’t want them getting infected. The small ones are always the worst,’ he added.

‘Where are we?’ Gareth insisted. ‘And why aren’t we going to the police? I was nearly murdered back there. And you shot those men!’

‘First, you’re in Surrey,’ he explained, going to the bathroom and running warm water into a plastic cup. He handed it over to Gareth with a wad of cotton wool. ‘Here, clean your hands and feet.’

‘What the blazes am I doing in Surry?’

‘The mines are in Godstone. I guess they like those sorts of places.’

‘Would they have killed me?’

He flipped the top off a tube of antiseptic cream, gave it a cursory sniff. ‘Oh yes, most definitely. Dab a little of this into those wounds and I’ll bandage them up for you. They might hurt like the devil but they’ll heal OK. Like I said, you were lucky; I’ve seen what these bozos are capable of and you got off lightly.’

‘I have to contact the police,’ Gareth said, getting to his feet, limping to the phone and lifting the receiver.

His rescuer dashed over and took the phone off him, placed it back on the bedside unit. ‘Definitely not a good idea, Gareth, trust me. Tantamount to throwing chummy in the water to attract sharks. And anyway, there is no need; I am the police.’ He took out a wallet and wafted ID in front of Gareth’s confused eyes.’

He caught sight of the name Detective Robert Muller. ‘You’re not British,’ he said.

‘As British as maple syrup,’ he quipped. ‘But being Canadian doesn’t stop me being one of the good guys.’

‘So what are you saying about attracting sharks; that the police are somehow involved in all this? It’s not safe to call them? That’s ludicrous.’

‘Might sound it, but all I can say is that at this stage is that you don’t know who you can trust.’ Gareth returned to his seat, took the weight off his throbbing feet. ‘When did you last eat?’