Death Day (33 page)

    'Do you know everyone who lives here?' asked Walford, irritably.

    Ferman smiled.

    

    

    Eleventh floor and still nothing. The sun was beaming in through the huge picture windows at either end of the corridor and Walford leant back against the wall to rub his aching thighs.

    'Only one more floor,' Ferman told him. 'Thank Christ for that. My bloody legs are killing me, all these stairs.'

    It was King who started barking first. Walford looked around to see the animal standing at the far end of the corridor, hackles raised, barking madly at something which he couldn't see. A second later, Baron joined in and the entire corridor was filled with a cacophony of harsh yapping and growling. King began scratching at the door, growling, backing off then barking once more. The two policemen ran to where the dogs stood and Ferman grabbed their collars, pulling them back, finding that he needed all his strength to do so.

    'Try the door,' he said, watching as Walford gently turned the handle. The dogs' frenzied barking had now subsided to a low guttural growling; both had their sharp eyes fixed on the door as the policeman turned the handle and pushed it open a few inches.

    'What do we do?' asked Walford. 'Let them go in?' He nodded towards the waiting animals.

    Ferman bit his lip contemplatively. 'There is the chance they could be wrong.'

    'You said…'

    'All right. But I'll go in with them.' Ferman swallowed hard. He told his companion to hold the two Alsatians while he himself worked the pump action of his shotgun, chambering a shell. Walford held the dogs as best he could, stunned by their power.

    'Let them go,' snapped Ferman, simultaneously kicking open the door.

    The two animals hurtled in, Ferman following. There was a flurry of barking and howling from the room beyond him as he ran to catch up with the dogs. They had barged through a half open door inside which the policeman knew led into one of the bedrooms. All the flats were built the same; this one was no different to his own. He kicked open the second door and froze.

    What had once been a man in his forties was struggling with the two animals, yellow spitde dribbling over his chin. He snarled and bit like they did, uttering the same harsh animal sounds so that it was difficult to determine who was making the noises. He had one hand clamped round Baron's throat, while the bulk of King clung to his other arm, teeth firmly embedded in the flesh. The living dead thing grunted and hurled Baron away, the animal smashing into the far wall, staggering for a second then racing back at the creature. He tried to bludgeon King away and, by turning, left his face exposed. Baron launched himself at the man's unprotected side and tore away a large chunk of skin. Blood spurted into the air and the dog fell away. The living dead thing spun round, bringing one hand down hard on King's head. The animal dropped like a stone and Ferman raised his shotgun, anger boiling within him.

    'You bastard,' he muttered, and fired twice. Both shots hit their target and the man was slammed back against the wall. He stood there for a second before slumping forward, a huge crimson smear trailing out behind him, his entrails spilling in an untidy pattern on the floor before him.

    Ferman dropped his gun and ran to King. He knew before he reached it that the animal was dead, its skull crushed to pulp by the powerful blow it had received. Baron, whimpering softly, licked at the policeman's hand and he had to fight hard to keep back a tear.

    Walford appeared in the doorway. He looked in, saw the dead dog and the corpse and left, staggering into the corridor outside. Ferman finally emerged, carrying the body of the dog, Baron close behind him. The policeman's face was set, his jaw firm, the knot of muscles at its side pulsing angrily.

    'I loved that dog,' he said, softly. And Walford reached out to touch his shoulder.

    'Come on,' he said, still shaking from what he'd just seen, 'we'd better report in.'

    

    

    Lambert was surprised at how many people there were in the centre of Medworth that morning. Perhaps they just chose not to hide or realized that they were not in so much danger during the day light hours. The sun shining brightly overhead seemed to add much needed reassurance.

    He had just received the reports from the three other cars, well over half the town had been covered now and, as yet, only eight or nine of the things had been found. The evidence seemed to support Lambert's own theory that the bulk of them hid together during the day. But where?…

    He glanced up at the clock on the council offices as he guided the Capri along the main street. It was 1:30 P.M. They had less than five hours of daylight left. Bell and he had covered an extensive area themselves that morning but had found nothing. A search of two pub cellars had revealed nothing, neither had a house to house probe which had taken in most of Medworth's largest estate.

    Lambert swung the Capri round the roundabout at the top of the main street and guided it into the narrow delivery road which led up to the back of the supermarket which was the next sight of their quest. It had, up until three days ago, been a large branch of Sainsbury's but, as events in the town had become progressively worse, the management had pulled out, closing the store down. The Inspector brought the car to a halt in one of the loading bays and shut off the engine. Better to go in the back way, he thought. The people in the town were jumpy enough without seeing two coppers walking around with shotguns. He radioed in to the station, telling Grogan that they were going in. The Inspector hesitated a second, considering the handset which he held, then, almost as an afterthought, he said, 'Any word from Doctor Kirby yet?'

    Grogan said that there wasn't and Lambert switched off the set. He sat for a second then reached for his shotgun and swung himself out of the car. Bell followed. As they reached towards the twin doors which marked the back of the supermarket, the Inspector's thoughts returned to his wife. Kirby had promised to contact the station as soon as Debbie woke up. He must have given her a pretty strong dose of sedative if she was still out. Lambert hoped that she would wake up in time. She was, after all, the only one who knew the horrendous truth behind all that had transpired these last two months. He hoped that her knowledge would be enough.

    The two men reached the large doors and Lambert pressed down hard on the locking bar. It wouldn't budge an inch either way.

    'Stand back,' he said, working the pump action of the shotgun.

    Bell took several steps back and watched as his superior fired a blast, point blank, into the end of the bar. Lumps of metal and pieces' of shot ricochetted into the air. Lambert kicked at the bar and it gave. The door swung back.

    Both men looked at one another and, with the Inspector leading, walked in.

    From the piles of boxes and cans, both men realized that they were in the supermarket's vast storeroom. On all sides, every kind of tinned and packaged food rose in huge towers and Lambert almost smiled to himself. Christ, the owners must have been anxious to get out to leave this amount of stuff behind. There was a fruity smell in the room, a more pleasant odour than the perpetual mustiness they had encountered nearly everywhere earlier in the day. They separated, ensuring that every inch of the storeroom was searched.

    Away to his left, Lambert heard a crash and spun round, the shotgun at the ready.

    'Bell,' he called.

    'I'm all right, sir,' came the reply. 'Just tripped over a box of bloody baked beans.'

    Lambert smiled and made his way cautiously towards the next set of doors which confronted them. Bell joined him and the men found themselves faced by row upon row of shopping trolleys, all arranged in front of the doors. They heaved them to one side, making a path. Lambert pushed the doors, relieved to find that they opened easily. The two policemen found themselves in the supermarket proper. He remembered it when it had been full of people, bustling up and down the aisles like ants moving around the nest, snatching things from the shelves to put in their baskets and trolleys. Now the place was deserted, as quiet as a grave, its once powerful banks of fluorescents now dead, leaving the entire huge amphitheatre in a kind of semi-darkness. Lambert thought about turning on his flashlight but realized that he could see perfectly well without it. Away to their right was another doorway, this one open; it led into the meat storage area. There would be time later to check that.

    'You take the end aisles,' said the Inspector, softly, almost reluctant to disturb the peace and solitude within the vast empty building. 'Work your way to the middle. I'll do the same from that side.' He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. Bell nodded and walked off, his boots echoing conspicuously on the tiled floor.

    As he made his way slowly down the furthermost aisle, Lambert had already made the assumption that this was not the resting place of the creatures. It was too open, even the fridges didn't have tops. He reached the bottom of the aisle and peered across through the gloom to see Bell emerge at the far end of the supermarket. The constable raised a hand and Lambert nodded. They both started up the next aisle, giving mutual signals when they reached the end.

    This procedure continued until they met in the central aisle.

    'What now?' said Bell, relieved that nothing had turned up.

    'The freezers,' said Lambert, motioning with the barrel of his gun, 'where they keep the meat.'

    The two men headed for the storage room, Lambert noting that a pile of cans was strewn across the floor near the entrance. Probably someone had knocked them over in their hurry' to leave. Or perhaps…

    The door to the cold storage room was open and the Inspector walked in. The place was larger than he'd expected. All down the left hand wall was a stainless steel topped work bench, the butchers' implements still spread out upon it. Carving knives, cleavers, saws and the Inspector could see that some of it was still dark with dried blood. Running the full length of the room were six metal rods, each about four inches thick and placed more than six feet from the ground. A number of meat hooks hung from them, suspended from one of which was a whole pig. Lambert wondered why just one carcass should have been left behind. Probably no reason at all; maybe his imagination was getting the better of him again. The far end of the room was made up entirely of fridges, huge coffin-like things which must have been more than four feet deep. The white tiled floor was spotted red in places and, with the coolant turned off, both men began to notice the pungent odour of putrifying meat. It was dark in there, very dark and now both of them switched on their torches. Lambert smelt another odour, the sharp smell of sweat which he realized was his own. He swallowed hard and walked slowly towards the waiting fridges at the far end of the room, gun in one hand, torch in the other. Bell followed his example. They reached the first of the freezers and Lambert laid his flashlight on top of the adjacent fridge.

    'Shine the light here,' he told Bell, both men's faces looking white in the powerful beam. The constable obeyed, watching as Lambert hooked one powerful hand under the lid and flipped it back.

    Empty.

    Both men breathed heavily and Lambert's voice was low when he spoke: 'I'll start at the other end. We'll check each one. Then we'll get the hell out of here.' He was nervous and he didn't mind admitting it. He retrieved his flashlight and hurried to the end of the line of fridges. There were eight in all. He laid his light on top of the metal lid of the next freezer along and, propping the shotgun up against the wall, raised the-first lid.

    Empty.

    Further along, Bell was repeating the procedure. He too, found nothing. Both men moved along, hearts thumping and, twice, Lambert was forced to wipe beads of perspiration from his forehead.

    He opened his third fridge and found it empty.

    Bell actually had his hand on the lid when it shot up, knocking the shotgun and the torch from has grasp. He shrieked and Lambert spun round, the torch beam highlighting the horror before him.

    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.