Stephen (ed.) - The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 18

Not above booting a man while he was down, he put all his frustration into a hefty kick, reinforced toe sinking into Arnold’s side, forcing out a Gecko-groan. The conductor emptied.

Then an arm was around Richard’s neck. He was dragged to the floor.

Annette’s elbow nut-crackered around his throat and her dead face flopped next to his, one eye rolling.

He felt a wave of disgust, not at physical contact with a corpse, but at the abuse of Annette’s body. He couldn’t fight her as he had Arnold, or even as he had Vanessa (he’d broken a plate on a child’s face!) because of what had hung between them until moments ago.

The thing working Annette took the fork out of her throat and held it to Richard’s eye.

“The codes,” it said, voice rattling through her ruptured windpipe. “Now.”

He pressed his hand over his top pocket. He blinked furiously as the fork got close. One jab, and there would be metal in his brain.

This trip was nearly over.

III

The Gecko inside Annette held Richard in a death-grip, fork-tines hugely out of focus against his eye. Beyond the blur, he saw Arnold watching with his habitual air of quizzical deference. Anything between the passengers was their own business.

Someone shouldered Arnold aside and levelled two double-barrelled shotguns at Richard and Annette.

It was Harry Cutley. Hard-Luck Harry to the Rescue!

“Ah-hah,” declared Harry, a melodrama husband finding his wife in a clinch with her lover, “ah-bleedin’-hah! I knew Dickie-Boy was a wrong ’un from the first. Hold him steady, Annie and I’ll save you!”

It wasn’t easy to aim two shotguns at the same time, what with the swaying of the train. Harry couldn’t keep them level.

“Annette’s not home,” Richard said. “Look at her eyes.”

Harry ignored him.

He must have broken into the baggage car and requisitioned Mrs Sweet’s guns. His pockets were lumpy with cartridges. He had a lifetime of resentments to work off, in addition to being under the influence of the Scotch Streak. Harry still couldn’t hold the guns properly, but was close enough to Richard that aiming wouldn’t make much difference.

At least, the fork went away.

The Gecko relaxed a little, holding Richard up as a shield and a target.

Harry saw Vanessa, half her face bruised and bloody.

“I see you can’t be trusted on your own,” he said to Richard. “There’s a reason I’m Most Valued Member, Clever Dick. I observe at a glance, take in all the clues, puzzle out what has happened, make a snap decision, and act on it, promptly and severely.”

He managed with an effort to get one gun half-cocked, but his left-hand gun twisted up and thumped his face. He flinched as if someone else had attacked him, and pointed the gun he had a better grip on.

Richard shrugged off Annette’s dead fingers and stood.

The gun-barrel raised with him.

“Look at Annette, Harry,” he said. “It got her. It got Danny. It had Vanessa. It’s tried to have me. It is trying to get you. You can hear it, can’t you? It’s talking to you now.”

Richard stood aside, to let Harry see Annette.

The Gecko couldn’t get the corpse to stand properly. Her bloodied neck was a congealed ruin. Her bloodless face was slack, empty – only her eye mobile, twitching with alien intellect.

“Annie,” said Harry, shocked, grieving.

“You see,” said Richard, stepping forward. “We’ve got to fight it.”

Both guns swung. The barrels jabbed against Richard’s chest.

“Stay where you are, young feller-me-lad,” said Harry, fury sparking again. “I know you’re behind this. You may have Ed Winthrop fooled, but not Harry Cutley, oh no. Too clever by half, that’s your bloody trouble. Went to a public school, didn’t you?”

“Several,” Richard admitted.

“Yes, I can tell. They’re all like you, bright boys with no depth, no backbone . Had it too easy, all your lives. Silver spoons up your bums from Day One. Never had to work, never had to think . Reckon you can put one over on us all. Smarm out the posh accent and walk away from it.”

Harry was off on his own. With the guns steady, he got all the cocks back.

Annette had pulled herself upright, assisted by Arnold. She puppet-walked towards them.

“Look behind you,” whispered Richard, like a kid at a pantomime.

Harry showed a toothy grin. “Won’t fool me with that one, boy.”

Annette’s hands were out, thumbs barbed, nearing Harry’s neck. When she gripped, his hands would clench – and four barrels-worth of whatever Mrs Sweet liked to load would discharge through Richard’s torso.

“Just this once, do me a favour, Harry, and listen ,” said Richard.

The barrels jammed deeper. Richard shut up – he couldn’t do anything about his educated accent, which set off Harry’s class hatred.

Annette’s hands landed, not around Harry’s neck, but on his shoulders. He shivered, in instinctive pleasure. He was enjoying himself. He had everyone where he wanted them. He angled his head and rubbed his cheek, like a cat’s, on Annette’s dead hand.

The Gecko used Annette’s face to make a smile and kissed Harry’s ear.

It was a miracle the guns didn’t go off.

“See, just this once, bright boy, you lose.”

The light in Annette’s eyes went out and she was a corpse-weight against Harry’s back. Harry was bothered, his eyes flickering.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

While Harry was distracted, Richard took hold of the barrels and tried to shift them. No dice. Harry shook his head as if trying to see off a buzzing wasp.

Annette fell away, collapsing on the floor.

Harry stepped backwards, his upper body jerking as if the wasps were now pestering in force. The guns slipped away from Richard’s chest. He took the opportunity to get out of the way. Harry tripped over Annette’s legs and went arse over teakettle.

One of the guns finally went off, blasting a plate-sized hole in the ceiling.

Night air rushed through. Up there somewhere were stars.

Harry, without even knowing what he was doing, resisted the Gecko. So it couldn’t take anyone – only unformed minds, long-time Streak freaks, or the newly-dead. It could whisper, influence, mislead, work on weaknesses, but couldn’t just move in and take over.

Richard sensed the thing’s formless anger.

Then Vanessa, standing quietly a dozen feet away, was tagged and was “it” again. She ran, hopping past Annette, leap-frogging Harry, and soared at Richard, in defiance of gravity, a living missile.

Vanessa’s head collided with Richard’s stomach, and he was knocked over.

She snatched the celluloid from his pocket, and – with a girlish whoop of nasty triumph – was out of the carriage.

He heard her laugh dwindle as she got further away.

Harry stood, brushing a blood-smear on his jacket. He’d dropped one of the guns, but had the other under his arm. He flapped his wrung-out hand, still jarred from the discharge. The thumb, broken or dislocated, kinked stiffly.

Another person lumbered into the dining carriage, bulky in shawls, thick-ankled. Richard thought for a moment it was Mrs Sweet come to complain about the ill-treatment of her precious guns, but it was the old dear last seen at Euston. “Elsa Nickles, Missus, Psychic Medium.”

Mrs Nickles eased past Arnold, who didn’t tell her she was out of her class. She looked at the bloody ruins, the dead woman, the mad people.

“I knew no good would come of this,” she said. “Them spirits is angered, furious . You can’t be doin’ anythin’ wiv ’em when they’re stirred up. Might just as well poke an umbrella into a nest of snakes. Or stick your dickybird in a mincer.”