Death Day (32 page)

    

    

    As it turned out, his younger companion was having as little luck as he in finding anything. There were not even any signs of the creatures and Greene was beginning to think that the search of the street would end up being fruitless. At least that was what he hoped. The perspiration which soaked his back was beginning to stain his uniform as he began searching the fifth house. He didn't even attempt to tell himself that the sweat was heat induced. It was the product of fear. Pure, naked fear. He wiped his brow and pushed the door which he knew led into the living room of the house. The curtains once more were open and he passed through without checking, anxious to scan upstairs and get out of the bloody place. There was a sofa and two chairs in the room, and no carpet on the floor. The sofa was stretched across one corner of the room, a sizeable gap behind it.

    It was as the young constable made his way up the fifth staircase that morning, that the sofa was pushed forward and the creature sheltering behind it crept slowly forward.

    From his position in one of the bedrooms, Greene didn't hear the slight squeaking of castors as the sofa moved. Having thoroughly searched the upper story, he hurried downstairs once more, his heart slowing a little.

    He walked into the living room.

    All he heard was a high-pitched rasping sound as the thing launched itself at him.

    Greene screamed and swung the shotgun round, his actions accelerated by sheer terror. Luckily, the monstrous discharge hit its target and the young constable slumped back against the wall gasping.

    At his feet lay what remained of a cat. It was now little more than a twisted heap of fur and blood, large lumps of it splattered around the room by the horrendous force of the blast. Had it not been for the fact that the partly obliterated head stared up at him, Greene wouldn't have known what he'd killed, so great was the destruction wrought by the gun.

    He bolted from the house. Fortunately, he managed to reach the back door before vomiting. Sweating profusely, he leant against the wall, gulping in the grass-scented air and shaking madly. It was some time before he found the courage to move on to the next house.

    

    

    Across the road, Davies has heard the shot and he smiled. That's one of the bastards gone, he thought. He was surprised that Greene had had the guts to use the shotgun, he seemed such a spineless little sod. Davies himself was more than half way down the street by now, having discovered nothing so far and he, like Greene, was beginning to suspect that all the houses were, indeed, empty. The house he was in this time was built somewhat differently from those further up. He stood in the kitchen, his eyes alert. No pantry here, just a door in front of him, which, he found, led out into a hall. Peeling wallpaper once more, flaking away like dried skin. There was a door to his immediate right and another to the left. Between them lay the staircase. He chose the right hand door first and found that it was a bathroom with toilet. Piss stains up the wall, more flaking paper and a yellowed plastic shower curtain. The place smelt like a urinal.

    Davies closed the door behind him and nudged open the other across the tiny hall with the barrel of his shotgun. The living room. He checked it quickly, anxious to inspect the upper floor but even more anxious to get out into the sunlight again. He left the living room and started slowly up the uncarpeted stairs. His heavy boots sounded conspicuously loud in the deathly silence and the policeman swallowed hard, aware that anything up there would most certainly have been alerted to his presence by now. There was a small guard rail running along the side of the landing and, through its wooden slats, he could see the half-open door of a bedroom. It was in darkness, the dirty blue curtains drawn tight against the invading sunlight. He gripped the shotgun tighter and finally stood still on the cramped landing.

    Two more doors in addition to the one he had already glimpsed. He kicked open the nearest and walked in. Nothing in there, just bunk beds and an old dressing table. At the far end of the room, a cupboard door had fallen open, spilling toys across the wooden floor. Davies closed the door behind him and crossed to the second bedroom, pulling at the curtains as he did so.

    It too was empty.

    The last of the three doors was locked tight and the handle twisted impotently in his grasp. He took a step back then threw his weight against it. There was a shriek of buckling metal as the lock broke and Davies tumbled into the room. He sprawled heavily. The shotgun fell from his grasp and skidded across the floor. Suddenly seized by a spasm of terror, he grabbed for the weapon and looked up.

    The room was empty. He cursed himself, realizing that the atmosphere was getting to him. Another empty room he thought and shook his head. Where the hell were the bloody things hiding?

    It was as he emerged onto the landing that he heard the scraping from above.

    His heart leapt, thudding against his chest, the breath catching in his throat. He looked up.

    'Oh God,' he gasped.

    The trapdoor of the attic was out of place, half of it drawn back, revealing the impenetrable blackness within. The sound came again, louder this time. Davies leant back against the wall, his eyes fixed on the half open hole. My God, he thought, it was so obvious. The attic. What better place for them to hide? It was dark, out of sight, not easily accessible. His heart began racing and he took three deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. Perhaps his imagination was getting the better of him, maybe it was just birds up there. They very often nested in lofts. Nevertheless, he would have to know for sure.

    But how to get up there? He looked around for something to stand on and remembered a chair in the second bedroom. Hastily retrieving it, he positioned it carefully beneath the black hole, his eyes constantly alert for any sign of movement. Cautiously he climbed onto the chair and found that he could reach the wooden surround of the attic entrance. He shook his head. That would mean him hauling himself up gradually, getting a firm handhold and dragging his bulky frame into the enveloping darkness. It was too risky, besides the fact that he would be momentarily unable to use his gun if there were any of the things up there. He shuddered at the thought, leaning against the guard rail which ran along one side of the landing.

    That was the answer.

    If he could use the guardrail as a further step up from the chair then he could ease himself up into the attic and still retain a firm grip on his gun. Davies set the plan in motion, finding that it was not as easy as he had anticipated. The guard rail creaked protestingly under his weight but he grabbed the wooden lip of the attic entrance, laid the shotgun inside and hauled himself up.

    Christ, it was dark in there. He reached for his flashlight, fumbling around inside his jacket. He grabbed it and swung its powerful beam around the inside of the attic.

    There were four of them in there and, even though he had half expected it, Davies was still shocked by their appearance. In fact, one, a man in his fifties, was already on his feet and advancing towards the policeman. Davies shone the light in his direction and the man covered his face against the bright light. The eyeless sockets remained open, glaring at Davies through meshed fingers. With a grunt of disgust, the policeman fired.

    The blast hit the man in the chest and blew him across the small attic, but now the others were stirring and Davies realized that he couldn't hold the light up and fire at the same time. Praying, he fired off th6 remaining four cartridges, using each subsequent muzzle flash as a guide. When he'd finished, the room stunk of cordite and his ears were ringing from the swift deafening explosions. Hurriedly, he reached for the light and shone it in the direction of the living dead things. Joyful at first, he counted three bodies but then suddenly the awful realization hit him. He had seen four when he first entered the attic. Where was the fourth creature?

    He swung around in time to catch it in the beam. What had once been a girl in her twenties, her eyeless sockets still caked with dark dry blood, ran at him, dark liquid gushing from a savage wound in her side which had exposed the intestines. Her mouth was open in a soundless scream of rage and, arms outstretched, she lunged at Davies. He rolled to one side and the girl tripped, falling head first through the open trapdoor. There was a sickening thud as she hit the landing below. Davies leapt down after her, his full weight landing on her torn body. His gun now empty, he snatched up the chair and brought it crashing down on her head. The one blow was all that was needed. Her skull collapsed like an egg shell, greyish slops of brain plopping onto the carpet. Seized with an almost insane hatred, the policeman reloaded his shotgun and fired two more shots into the inert form as if not quite satisfied that the creature was finally dead. The second blast tore off her head. What remained of it.

    He stared down at the body, shaking with rage and fear.

    'Bastard,' he said. 'Bastard. Fucking bastard.' It was a moment or two before he recovered his composure and left the house, wondering what he would find in the next.

    

    

    Walford brought Puma Three to a halt in the car park at the back of the block of fiats where constable Ferman lived. The two of them had been ordered to check out the block with its twelve storeys and ninety flats. The two men sat in the car for a moment, gazing upwards to the top storey.

    'Shit,' muttered Walford, 'we'll be here all day checking this lot.'

    Ferman grinned and climbed out of the car. Walford followed a second later, wondering what his companion found so amusing.

    'Don't worry about it,' said Ferman, 'we'll have this done in less than half an hour.'

    They were already inside the main entrance hall, the lifts in front of them, two corridors on either side stretching away for hundreds of yards.

    'Half an hour my backside,' said Walford, indignantly.

    'Just shut up and come with me,' Ferman told him, heading for the flat nearest them. He fumbled in the pocket of his trousers and produced a key. 'My flat,' he announced. He opened the door and Walford shrank back. Curled up in front of the dormant gas fire were two of the biggest Alsatians he'd ever seen. The first animal looked up, saw Ferman and bounded across to him. He smiled and grabbed the dog, patting it and running his hand along its sleek body. 'This is King,' he announced, stroking the animal which looked at Walford lazily, regarding him as if it were looking at its next meal.

    'They're big bastards, Stuart,' said Walford, trying to hide his apprehension. He wasn't too keen on dogs at the best of times and these bloody things looked like ponies, he'd never seen any as big.

    'I look after them,' said Ferman proudly, stroking the second dog which licked at his hand. 'This one is Baron. If they can't sniff out those bloody things then no one can.'

    'You know, you're not as daft as you look,' said Walford, smiling.

    Both men checked their weapons. Ferman led the dogs out into the corridor and hastily locked his flat door behind them.

    'What makes you so sure they'll be able to find anything?' Walford asked as they set off up the first corridor, the dogs leading.

    'Dogs can usually sense when something's wrong,' Ferman said. 'It'll save us a lot of time if they can.'

    They checked the place, floor by floor, all the time their ears and eyes alert. Ferman watching the two dogs, observing their reactions as they paused now and again at a door, one of them sniffing around, the other pacing back and forth.

    

    

    On the fifth floor a door opened and a woman stuck her head out, suddenly alarmed by the sight of gun-carrying policemen and dogs.

    'What's going on?' she asked, worriedly.

    'Nothing to worry about,' lied Walford, 'just a check. We got a call from someone in the flats who'd reported someone suspicious hanging round.'

    The woman looked at the two men and then at the dogs. She hesitated a moment then closed her door and both policemen heard a bolt being slid into place on the other side. They walked on.

    'Mrs Cole,' Ferman announced, 'we probably interrupted her and one of her customers.' He laughed to himself. Walford looked puzzled. 'She's a bit of a goer if you get my drift.'

    Walford did.

    'Her husband's in the nick, some big black bloke. Right fucking headcase, alcoholic too. He used to knock the shit out of her. I dragged him in twice for assaulting her but she stayed with him. I suppose she's making up for lost time now. There's a different bloke in there every night.'

    Walford started to sound interested. 'How old is she?'

    'Thirty, maybe younger. Who knows?'

    They reached the flight of steps which led up to the sixth floor and the dogs raced ahead. Ferman watched them go, wondering if they'd found something at last. When he and Walford finally caught up with the animals he saw that it was a false alarm. They continued their endless trekking along the maze of corridors. Doors were tried; those that were open they investigated, the ones that were locked they bypassed.

    'I hope you're right about these bloody dogs,' said Walford. 'I mean, what if they've missed something?'

    Ferman shook his head. 'No chance. If there's anything here, they'll find it.'

    Someone else popped their head out of the doorway on the tenth floor. Mr Wilkins. A retired solicitor, Walford was told afterwards.

    'Pompous old sod,' said Ferman as they walked on. 'He's a nosey old cunt, too. There's not a thing goes on in this bloody block that he doesn't know about.'