Shaun Hutson: Death Day

The creature, a woman (Lambert wasn't sure because of the long hair and bad light), had one powerful hand clamped around Bell's neck and was dragging him into the fridge. He clung to the sides, fighting against the strength which held him, his eyes bulging wide in pain and terror. Lambert reached for the Browning but, as he pulled it free of the holster, he realized that he dare not shoot for fear of hitting his companion. He shone his flashlight full in the face of the thing which he now saw was a youth in his early twenties. The creature opened its mouth in silent protest, trying to shield its eyeless face with one hand while throttling Bell with the other. Lambert ran forward and struck the thing full in the face with the flashlight. The room was plunged into darkness and Bell fell to the ground. Lambert flung himself down, his desperate fingers searching the floor for the dropped light.

Grinning, the thing was dragging itself out of the fridge.

Lambert saw the light, lying not more than ten feet from him. He threw himself towards it, hearing Bell shriek again as the thing grabbed for him. The constable rolled clear and the living dead creature was caught in two minds for a second, not sure which of the two men to pursue. It saw Lambert reach the fight and came after him, anxious to extinguish it. The light which brought so much pain.

The Inspector felt the crushing weight of the creature on him and powerful hands snaked around his neck, choking him. He gripped the hands and tried to pull them free. Bell stood motionless, watching the tableau, too frightened to move.

'For fuck's sake get it off,' screamed Lambert, his shout finally galvanizing the stunned constable into action. He looked around for a weapon, squinting through the gloom to the table of butcher's implements. His eyes sought, and found, the cleaver. Whimpering, he grabbed it and brought it crashing down on the living dead corpse, aiming for its head. But the blow missed by inches, sliced off one of its ears and powered into the shoulder at the point of clavicle and jugular vein. There was an enormous fountain of blood which sprayed out like a crimson jet.

Lambert felt the pressure on his throat eased and he struck out, knocking the creature off. It fell back, the blood still spouting from its neck but, in the darkness, both men saw it wrench the cleaver free and, despite the frenzied spurtings of dark fluid from its wound, come at them once more. Scarcely believing what he saw, Lambert backed off. The thing made a last desperate charge and brought the cleaver hurtling down with the force of a steamhammer. Bell, retreating also, slipped in a pool of blood and raised his hand to shield himself from the attack.

The bloodied blade sliced through his arm just above the wrist, the severed limb flying into the air. He began screaming, holding up the shattered stump as if it were a prize, blood pouring from the remains of his arm.

Lambert at last had a clear shot and, with Bell's screams ringing in his ears, he squeezed off two, three, four shots.

Moving at a speed of over 1,100 feet a second, the heavy grain bullets tore into the living corpse, blasting exit holes the size of fists. The impact hurled it across the darkened room where it slammed into the fridges, blood spattering up the smooth white sides. Lambert fired again, again, again. Blasting the body into an unrecognizable bloody rag. Finally he lowered the gun, the muzzle flashes still burned onto his retina, the roar of fire in his ears but, above all that, the delirious screams of Bell as he staggered a couple of feet before dropping to his knees still holding up the stump of his wrist.

Screams. Screams.

Lambert vomited. Only by a supreme effort of will did he manage to stop himself fainting. Leaving Bell alone in the store room, he staggered out.

He managed to reach the Capri and radio for help, but then, as he dropped the handset, he lost his fight and finally did pass out.

Lambert sat up, felt hands on his shoulder. He grunted and reached for his gun, suddenly frightened. But slowly, as his wits returned to him, he saw the face of Hayes looking in at him.

'You all right, guv?' he asked, his big hand still on the young Inspector's shoulder.

Lambert was still dazed. He saw the two dark uniformed men carrying someone to the back of a waiting ambulance. Its blue light was spinning and the engine was humming but there were no other sounds. He caught a brief glimpse of Bell's face, milk-white as they manoeuvred him inside the vehicle. The Inspector exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

'Where the hell did you come from?' he asked, groggily.

'Grogan picked up your message. We were the nearest car, so here we are.' The sergeant smiled.

'I blacked out,' said Lambert, not that the explanation was really necessary.

One of the ambulancemen, a tall man with sad eyes, walked across to the car and looked in at Lambert.

'Will you be O.K.?' he said.

The Inspector nodded. 'Thanks.' He paused. 'What about Bell?'

'He'll live, but he's lost a lot of blood.'

Lambert nodded again and rubbed his face in the imitation of washing. The ambulanceman took one more careful look at him then walked away and got into his vehicle. In seconds, it was pulling out, the scream of its siren now filling the air. Lambert shook himself, then felt something being pressed into his hand. He looked down to see that it was a silver hip flask. Hayes nodded towards it and the Inspector drank, allowing the liquor to burn its way to his stomach.

'Purely medicinal of course,' said Hayes, smiling.

Lambert too found the strength to grin, handing the flask back to the sergeant. A thought suddenly struck him.

'Any news of my wife?' he asked, hopefully.

'Grogan called about ten minutes ago. You must have been in there,' he pointed to the supermarket, 'at the time. Doctor Kirby says that she's conscious.'

Already Lambert was starting the engine but the sergeant reached out a hand and switched it off.

'What the hell are you doing?' snarled Lambert angrily.

'Let me drive, guv,' said the sergeant softly.

The Inspector nodded. 'I'm sorry.' He slid across, allowing Hayes to settle his considerable bulk behind the wheel. He called to Jenkins to follow them and the constable nodded, gunning Puma One into life.

The two cars swung out of the loading bay and, within minutes, were on the road leading to Kirby's house.

Kirby had hardly got the door open when Lambert barged in.

'Is she all right?' he demanded.

Already he was bounding up the stairs to the bedroom where he knew Debbie to be. He flung open the door and she turned her head and smiled at him. Lambert rushed across to her and took her in both arms. They hugged each other for long minutes. Finally, he let her go and he saw the tears in her eyes. She gripped his hand and he reached out to brush her cheek with his finger tips.

'Are you O.K.?' he asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

She nodded, squeezing his hand harder. 'Tom, those things…' He saw more tears welling up and ran his hand over her forehead.

'Don't worry, we found some of them this morning.'

'And?'

'We killed them.'

She seemed reassured and her tone brightened a little, but her voice was still croaky. He saw a jug and glass on the small bedside table and poured her some water. She drank and handed the glass back to him.

'Tom,' she said, 'I found out about Mathias, about the medallion. What Trefoile told us about him was true. He was a Black Magician, and that medallion belonged to him. He'd found the secret of reversing death, bringing the dead back to life. That's what the inscription on the medallion means: "To Awake the Dead." ' She gripped his hand and he edged closer, putting one arm around her shoulder as she continued.