Graham Masterton - The Doorkeepers

“I said, let’s be moving on, didn’t I? So let’s be moving on.”

He stabbed Josh twice more, but this time Josh held his ground. He had never been physically brave, even when he was training in the Marine Corps. Suddenly, however, he felt an extraordinary rush of power – a power that was totally overwhelming, like nothing he had ever felt before, ever. It was partly anger, and frustration, and a sense of injustice. But it was much more than that. It was a complete absence of fear. He wasn’t afraid of the Hooded Men. He wasn’t afraid of their swords, or their dogs, or anything.

Without hesitation, he ducked forward and seized the Hooded Man’s wrist. He twisted his arm around and pulled the sword right out of his hand. Then he elbow-punched him very hard in the chest. Beneath the black tunic he could feel a deep, bony ribcage, and he was sure that he felt something crack.

The Hooded Man dropped to his knees in front of him. The two other Hooded Men drew their swords and one of them shouted, “Dogs! Let the dogs have him!”

But Josh lifted the Hooded Man’s sword and shouted back, “Stop! You let those dogs go and I’ll take his head off! I swear to God!”

To his own amazement, he realized that he meant it. And the Hooded Men must have realized it, too, because they stayed where they were, and one of them lifted a cautioning hand to the dog-handlers.

Josh gripped the Hooded Man’s white Puritan collar and pulled him on to his feet. The Hooded Man felt bulky and disjointed, as if he had all of the components of a human body, all the bones and liver and intestines, but all thrown together willy-nilly. He had a smell to him, too – a sweet distinctive smell that reminded Josh of rotting apricots. He pressed the sword-point into the Hooded Man’s back and said, “Now it’s your turn to be moving on, pal. And I warn you I’ll kill you if you give me any problems.”

He stepped backward, away from the Hooded Men and their dog-handlers and their drummer. Petty hesitated, but Josh said, “Come on, Petty. Let’s get out of here.”

Petty followed him, and together they began to retreat along the street toward the smoke that still poured out of the burning offices. The Hooded Men remained where they were, but the drummer started up a single, threatening beat, like the beat that used to accompany condemned men to the scaffold.

“You can never escape us,” said the Hooded Man. “We can follow you to the ends of the earth. We can follow you to the ends of every earth.”

“Just shut up,” Josh told him, and pulled at his collar even harder.

They walked into the whirling smoke, and the other Hooded Men were gradually blotted out of sight, although they could still hear the persistent drumbeat. The smoke was hot and filled with flying sparks. It smelled strongly of burning varnish and their eyes filled up with tears.

Petty started to cough, and even the Hooded Man began to wheeze for breath.

“As soon as we’re clear, I want you to run,” Josh told Petty.

She coughed and nodded and waved her hand.

“You will suffer for this,” the Hooded Man grated. “You will beg to be put out of your misery, I swear it.”

Josh ignored him. He dragged him as far as the end of the office block, where the smoke began to thin out, and then he released the grip on his collar, pushing him away.

The Hooded Man took two or three steps back, apparently staggering, and for a moment Josh thought that he was going to fall over. But then, without warning, he pulled a long dagger out of his tunic and lunged at Josh from the right-hand side, trying to catch him underneath his sword. He was so quick that it was almost unnatural, like a special effect in a movie.

His dagger sliced at Josh’s side, but Josh dipped to the left and swung the sword over his head. The Hooded Man tilted back, and feinted, and tried to stab Josh’s wrist. There was a clash of steel on steel – one cutting edge against another. The Hooded Man spun around and kicked at Josh with his buckled shoe. Josh swung at him, again and again, and the sword-blade whistled through the smoke.

The Hooded Man dodged to the right, and then to the left, and then he suddenly rolled over on the ground and stabbed at Josh’s knees. Josh jumped back and whirled his sword in a great circular sweep. He was only trying to protect himself, but at that instant the Hooded Man tried to stand up. The sword hit him in the side of the neck – knock! – cutting right through his hessian hood and almost taking his head off.

He dropped backward on to the road, with blood squirting out of his neck like a crimson geyser. He tried to reach up to his neck, to stop himself from hemorrhaging, but the wound gaped open so wide that there was nothing he could do. He let out a horrible gargling, his hands shaking and his feet kicking, and then he lay still.

“Oh my God,” said Petty. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Josh stood back, the smoke still swirling all around him. Christ almighty, he had killed a man, and killed him with a sword. He didn’t know whether he felt like a medieval hero or a homicidal maniac. The feeling was completely primitive.

“We should run,” Petty told him, glancing back anxiously in the direction of the single drumbeat. “Don’t tell me they won’t be looking for us.”

“Yes,” said Josh. “You’re absolutely right. We should run.”

“Then run, for fuck’s sake!”

Josh nodded. But for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to leave the still-shuddering body on the ground. He approached the Hooded Man, and stood over him. His hessian mask was almost completely soaked in blood, and his head was tilted sideways at an impossible angle. One more swipe from his sword would have beheaded the Hooded Man completely.

“Please,” begged Petty. “Let’s get out of here!”

Josh prodded the Hooded Man’s chest with the point of his sword. Then, carefully, he started to cut at the side of his hessian hood.

“What are you doing?” Petty fretted.

“I want to see,” said Josh. “I want to see what these bastards really look like, underneath their hoods.”

He carried on cutting. The hessian was old and fragile, so he cut through it quite easily. Then, still using the point of his sword, he pulled it off the Hooded Man’s head, and flung it aside.

“Oh, my God,” said Petty; and even Josh could only look for an instant before he turned away.

Twenty-Two

Nancy walked into the echoing lobby of Wheatstone Electrics and briskly approached the reception desk.

“Can I help yew?” asked the girl behind the marble-topped desk. She wore a tight beige cardigan and brown plastic combs in her hair.

“I don’t have an appointment. But I wonder if Mr Mordant could spare me a minute.”

“Mr Mor -dant? I don’t know about thayt. Mr Mordant only sees people by appoint-munt.”

“All the same, maybe you could tell him I’d like to see him.”

The girl looked Nancy up and down, and then sniffed. “I suppose I could try. You’re wasting your time, though. Mr Mordant’s always up to his eyes.”

“He’s up to his eyes?”

“Oh, yace. If he’s not here he’s somewhere else.”

“You know,” said Nancy. “That’s been happening to me lately, too.”

The girl plugged in the telephone line, and rang it, and after a few moments she said, “Mr Mor- dant? Yace. Brenda here in reception. I’ve got a young lady here to see yew.”

“Nancy Andersen.”

“Her name’s Nancy Andersen. That’s right. No, I haven’t asked her. No.”

The receptionist covered up the mouthpiece with her hand and said, “What’s it about?”