Shaun Hutson - Heathen/Nemesis

Jesus, the cellar.

That was it.

She crawled across the floor in the darkness, her body drenched in sweat, her eyes stinging from all the smoke.

She grabbed a hammer from the tool box and crawled back towards the cellar hatch. Lifting it, she peered down into the blackness below, feeling the first rung of a rickety ladder as she dangled her foot into the yawning gap.

She eased herself down a few rungs, praying it wouldn’t collapse under her.

The stench of damp that enveloped her was noxious; she tried to take short breaths. Gripping the hammer in one fist and propping the hatch up with her free hand, she crouched low so that she had about an inch gap through which she could see the back door.

The door was starting to split from its merciless battering.

One of the hinges was coming loose.

Julie gripped the hatch and waited. She almost screamed when she felt something soft touch her face.

A spider the size of her thumbnail dropped past her in the gloom, its legs brushing her cheek.

She gripped the hammer and waited.

The door was practically off its hinges now. One more blow and the attacker would be inside.

Julie swallowed hard, closing her eyes.

There was a final crash and the door, and Ryker, hurtled into the kitchen.

Upstairs, Donna heard the sound of forced entry, her eyes still fixed on the barely moving form of Stark.

Had she turned round quicker, she might have seen Kellerman advancing upon her.

Sixty-Eight

The attacks happened simultaneously.

Kellerman launched himself at Donna.

Ryker crashed into the kitchen, looking for Julie.

Donna heard a grunt as Kellerman grabbed her, pinning her arms by her sides, lifting her off her feet. She could not raise the pistol to use against him.

She found herself looking directly into his face as his arms tightened around her in a bear hug that threatened to crush her ribs.

With horror she realized he was carrying her to the top of the stairs.

Donna twisted in his grip but could not free herself.

She screamed loudly, but it was a bellow of rage not helplessness.

Kellerman grinned at her but the gesture faded instantly as Donna spat in his face, the mucus sliding down his cheek thickly like gelatinous tears. She snaked her head forward and bit hard into his nose, biting down with all her strength, ignoring his shrieks of pain, trying not to gag on the blood that filled her mouth.

He let go of her and staggered back, reaching for his gun.

She ran at him now, driving one foot up, kicking him with all her force between the legs.

He groaned and dropped to his knees, grabbing her other leg and pulling hard enough to send her flying. She hit the floor with a bone-jarring thud and lay there, momentarily dazed. Kellerman leapt on her, his weight pressing down. She jabbed two fingers into his eyes and he screamed and rolled off her, trying to rise to his feet, blinded by her attack. Her stabbing nails had torn his left upper eyelid and blood from the wound dribbled down the side of his face, some of it running across the orb itself, turning one half of his world crimson.

Donna tried to raise the .38, anxious to get a shot at him, but he knocked her hand down and the gun discharged into the floor. The thunderous retort deafened them both momentarily. He struck out again, this time with the back of his hand, catching her a blow across the face which split her top lip and sent her reeling. But she still held the gun and, as Kellerman turned on her, Donna shook her head clear and fired at him.

Luck playing a somewhat greater part in the matter than judgement, the bullet struck him in the calf, tore through the muscles there and exited, spattering the wall behind with blood and pink tissue.

He screamed and almost lost his footing as he made for the stairs.

Donna, her head spinning, tried to follow but he was halfway to the bottom before she managed to get off another shot. The heavy-grain slug powered into the wall inches above Kellerman’s head. He looked up at her, teeth gritted, his face a mask of blood from his injuries.

She saw him stop and slide an arm around Stark’s waist, carrying his companion towards the front door, both of them leaving a trail of blood behind.

Donna tasted her own blood as it ran into her mouth from the cut on her lip.

She tried to follow and almost fell down the stairs, gritting her teeth to prevent herself passing out.

She had to get to Julie.

As Ryker came careering into the kitchen, Julie threw back the cellar hatch and came hurtling forth like a maddened trap-door spider, brandishing the hammer.

So startled was he by this sudden onslaught, Ryker momentarily froze, rooted to the spot.

Julie swung the hammer with all her strength and caught him in the mouth with its gleaming head.

She heard teeth shatter under the impact, saw one of them driven through his top lip. Saw blood burst from the cut.

He reeled backwards, one smashed incisor falling from his bleeding, pulped gums.

Julie struck again, this time catching him just above the right eye, tearing the flesh. The hammer carved through his eyebrow and opened up a cut as deep as the frontal bone it cracked.

Julie spun the weapon, bringing the clawed part down on his hand as he raised his fists in defence.

The metal tore into his flesh, ripping it away, slicing effortlessly through skin and muscles, exposing a portion of the middle-finger knuckle.

Ryker ran for the shattered back door, out into the driving rain and the darkness, which suddenly seemed welcoming.

Julie stood by the back door, rain drenching her, mingling with the tears of rage and fear on her cheeks. She tasted blood and thought that it was Ryker’s, but then realized that her own face was gashed just below the left eye, she guessed by flying glass.

Panting breathlessly, she turned from the door and moved through to the hall, where Donna was trying to make her way down the stairs.

From outside, they both heard the sound of car engines.

Julie, still gripping the bloodied hammer, looked cautiously through the window by the front door.

She saw two cars disappearing down the dirt track, away from the cottage, their tail-lights gradually swallowed by the gloom and the relentless downpour.

‘Donna,’ she gasped.

Donna said nothing; she just dropped to her knees, the .38 still gripped in her fist, face bruised, her lip bleeding.

Julie dropped the hammer and found she was sobbing uncontrollably. She was standing in a pool of blood.

Sixty-Nine

It wasn’t a matter of if they would return; it was merely a question of when.

Donna sat at the sitting-room window, the Beretta on the sill in front of her. On the coffee table to her right lay the .38 and the .357. All had been reloaded.

On the sofa behind her Julie was sleeping fitfully, a blanket covering her, her face pale and drawn, dark rings beneath her eyes. The cuts on her hands and arms had been cleaned and bathed, then covered with plaster. She’d been fortunate to escape more serious injury from the flying glass.

Donna herself touched her lip tentatively with one finger, feeling how it had swollen. There was a dark bruise surrounding it; she hoped that the discoloration wouldn’t last too long. Her sides ached when she inhaled, and when she moved too quickly she felt a sharp pain in her lumbar region. As the night wore on it began to diminish. There were more bruises on her arms and legs, and some on her shoulders.

The house had been cleaned as well as was possible. The broken windows had been boarded up with pieces of wood from the attic. Donna had re-attached the back door to its frame as well, while Julie mopped up the blood in the hallway - although she finally passed out during the task. Donna had helped her onto the sofa, woken her gently but then realized that she was becoming hysterical. She had been forced to slap her face to quieten her. Tears had followed, both women understandably shaken by their ordeal, by the knowledge of how close to death they had come.