Дэвид Уоллес - Island of Fog and Death

Tori was bored. “Let’s get this door open,” she called out.

“Oh dear me, no!” said Maxwell firmly. “Not yet, Tori, we have a lot of work to do out here first. Owain, we’ll be needing the camera to get some footage while this place is undisturbed, then we can start working in from the stairs toward that votive altar. I’m keen to get some of the iron off the walls, too, so we can see what’s under it.”

“Maxwell,” said Tori plaintively. “I want to see the dragon! That’s why we came, isn’t it?”

“I’m sorry, my pet,” he replied. “We need to work methodically across this room, cataloguing all the finds, before we tackle the door. Look, you can see there’s a lot of stuff on the floor, it needs to be moved, and moved carefully.”

“Well, why don’t we start there?” she asked with a pout. “Clear the doors, then we can get them open, and then we get to see the dragon. Please?”

He laughed. “Tori, sweetie, of course we’ll see whatever’s behind the doors. But we can’t rush it.”

Tori shrugged, turned away, and went to sit on one of the benches that lined the long walls of the chamber. She would have to work on Maxwell, one-on-one, to render him more pliant. She hid her secret little smile. Bending Maxwell to her will would be fun.

It also occurred to her that Owain and Gilda were now surplus to requirements. She was going to have extra special fun tonight.

The light was fading and old Innes was closing the curtains all round his house when he spotted a movement up the hill. He switched off the bedroom light and waited for his eyes to adjust, scratching at the scarred skin that ran up his neck and over the top of his head. Someone was coming down from Clifftop. It looked like it was Willems, he mused, but then again it didn’t.

Innes had run away from home in 1938, in search of adventure, and served in the British Army for fifteen years, in the Royal Tank Regiment. He liked to think that he had survived the battles – in France, North Africa, Italy, France again, Germany and Korea – by having a mysterious sixth sense attuned to danger. He’d had a lot of tanks shot out from under him, and seen a lot of mates die, but he’d always made it out alive because he knew when to bail. Well, he corrected himself, scratching his scars again, almost always. His sixth sense was telling him he ought to bail now.

The figure coming down the hill was certainly the right height, the right shape, to be Willems. But it was walking oddly, as if it was having trouble managing the limbs. Innes had seen – and been – staggering drunk, and this was not a drunk. He frowned. It was as if Willems was unfamiliar with the body, and with how to walk. Yes, time to bail.

But then he forced himself to be realistic. He reminded himself that he was over ninety, and that walking any distance at any speed was quite a challenge now. He smiled bitterly. Whoever that was – and he was now sure that it wasn’t John Willems in there – they could overtake him in no time.

He carefully made his way down to the sitting room, and looked at the collection of old photographs framed on the wall. There was his younger self, alone and with groups, in uniform. He was posing in front of a variety of vehicles with a variety of long-dead comrades – the faithful, reliable old Matilda II he’d had to abandon near Arras in 1940, the fast but fragile Crusader from Egypt, and a variety of those god-awful Shermans that caught fire if you looked at them the wrong way. Tommy-cookers, the Germans called them. Ronsons, to their crews, after the cigarette lighter. One flick and it lights up reliably every time. Innes had been burned more than once by Shermans, but had come through it all. He had lived far longer than he had ever expected, and he was not afraid now.

Innes unlocked his gun case, and thoughtfully loaded both of his 12 bore shotguns. He couldn’t bail this time, but he could defend himself.

He looked out the window beside the front door, and was mildly amused to see the figure outside paused, apparently puzzling out how to get through the gate. He opened the door.

“John Willems?” he called out. “That you?”

There was no reply, but the figure half-turned to focus on the door. Innes shivered.

“Willems?” he asked again.

The figure seemed to have worked out how the gate worked, and pushed through it, awkwardly. It lifted its head once more to focus on Innes. It took a shambling step forward.

“Whatever’s in there, it ain’t you, John, is it,” said Innes. “Now just stay there,”

It took a couple more shambling steps, closing the distance to a few yards.

“Sorry, John, if you can hear me, I am sorry. But I’ll have to shoot.” Innes levelled the shotgun. In the light streaming from his front door, he realised that Willems was covered in blood. And were there chunks missing from his chest and arms?

Willems’ body shuffled forward. Innes levelled the shotgun and fired the first barrel. The bloody figure staggered as the pellets tore into its chest. It paused, and started forward again. Bang! The other barrel blasted its load of pellets. Innes had shifted his aim up to the figure’s head, and the shot blew it apart. The figure staggered again, but did not fall.

“Well that’s novel,” muttered Innes.

He reached across and picked up his second shotgun, set it firmly into his shoulder, and blasted off two shots at the chest in quick succession. This time, the body toppled and fell backwards onto the path. Innes quickly broke the shotgun, pushed in two more cartridges, closed it up and pulled back the hammer. Only then did he step forward, shotgun at his shoulder, to inspect the body.

The body that was John Willems was a mess. The skull had been blasted open by the shotgun and some of his brain was splattered across the ground. What was in the head had been seriously messed up by hardened lead pellets ricocheting around inside the skull. That should have killed him – yet he hadn’t dropped. His chest had been destroyed by shotgun blasts. Fragments of bone and pieces of heart and lung were chaotically mingled.

Innes stiffened abruptly and took a slow step backward. Something was moving in Willems’ chest cavity. His eyes went wide as that something struggled and heaved itself up from low in the torso and wriggled in the gaping chest to get out. It was black, and eel-like, and was using protruding spines to gain traction on the bloody mess of Willems’ body.

“Oh, no you don’t,” breathed Innes. “You don’t get to bail out.”

He aimed at what appeared to be the head end, and fired twice. The body was now blasted apart across the chest, but the creature had been obliterated.

Innes moved back into his doorway and sagged against the frame. His heart was racing, his legs trembled and he felt on the edge of panic. It took a few minutes for him to calm down sufficiently to be able to move. He took a deep breath, and then closed the door. He worked round the house, checking and locking windows and doors, and settled down to wait. Someone would find the mess, and the police would be here, sooner or later.

Out in the garden, something was wriggling out from under the hedge by his gate. With a sinuous snake-like motion, it moved closer to the corpse, and began feeding.

Peri Carlton’s cell phone rang. She looked at the time – half past three in the morning – and the number – ‘unknown’. She muttered a curse and ignored it. It rang again. And again. She ripped off the back and pulled the battery. “Leave a fucking message,” she growled, and tried to get back to sleep.