Death Day (30 page)

    From his position on the stairs, Lambert could see from the concentration of the creatures clustered around the shattered bathroom door that Debbie was trapped inside.

    One of them came at him and he fired from point blank range, ignoring the blood which splashed onto him. He dashed up the stairs, stepping on the body as he did so. Jenkins followed and the two men reached the landing together.

    For a second, everything froze. A still frame in a broken down film. Suddenly, the film was running again. Jenkins raised his shotgun and fired twice, bringing down one of the living dead.

    Lambert heard Debbie scream. A scream which was immediately replaced by the sound of snapping wood.

    Mackenzie was no more than a foot from Debbie, his fetid breath filling her nostrils. Yellow, bubbling mucous trickling down his chin. He grabbed for the medallion and tore it from her grasp; she expected the grip of his bloodied hands on her throat at any second. But he turned and blundered out, clutching the gold circlet to his chest.

    Lambert saw him and lifted the shotgun, jerking wildly on the trigger. The recoil slammed the stock back against his shoulder and the blast blew a huge hole in the wall beside the grinning Mackenzie who bolted for the tiny window at the far end of the landing. Lambert worked the pump action and fired again but he was too late.

    Mackenzie launched himself at the window and hurtled through it. The Inspector's shot exploded beside him as he met the cool night air. The living corpse of Mackenzie hit the roof of the garage and rolled once. Lambert dashed to the window and looked out just in time to see him leap from the flat roof and lope off into the darkness.

    He turned, cursing, and dashed into the bathroom, throwing the shotgun to one side and grabbing Debbie in both arms. She was sobbing uncontrollably. He closed his eyes and pressed her close to him, his own body shaking. She breathed his name over and over again, sobbing.

    He eased the blood-spattered razor from her hand and dropped it into the bath.

    Jenkins appeared in the doorway.

    'Check outside,' said Lambert softly and the constable nodded, stepping over two bodies as he made his way down the stairs. The house stank of blood and cordite and, Jenkins noted, something else. A carrion odour of corruption. He worked the pump action of his shotgun, ejecting the spent cartridge and walked out into the night. It was then that he saw the woman coming towards him.

    She had him fixed in those gaping, empty sockets, and, in the glaring brilliance of the Panda's headlamps, Jenkins could see that her hands were soaked in blood. She raised them towards him and ran, arms outstretched like some kind of obscene sleepwalker.

    He took a step back, swinging the shotgun up just in time to get off one shot.

    The blast tore through her shoulder, ripping away most of the left breast and splintering both scapula and clavical. She staggered, the wound gaping wide, one arm dangling by thin tendrils of flesh and sinew. Then, to his horror, she started forward once more. He already knew that his gun was empty, realized that he would have no time to reload.

    With all the power he could muster, he swung the shotgun like a cricket bat. The butt smacked savagely into her face.

    Her jaw bones crumbled beneath the impact. She fell to one side, empty sockets stared up at him. Revolted, Jenkins brought the wooden stock down repeatedly upon her head until it split open like a bag full of cherry syrup. Then he dropped the gun and retched until there was nothing left in his stomach.

    He staggered away from the body, avoided the two other bodies laying on the lawn, and gulped down huge lungfuls of air. He leant against the side of the Panda for a moment, his breath coming in gasps, and the bitter taste of his own vomit strong in his mouth. His head was spinning.

    'Oh God,' he groaned, rubbing his stomach with a bruised hand. For a second he thought he was going to throw up again, but the feeling passed and he shook himself. He pulled open the passenger side door and climbed in.

    The car was empty. No sign of Briggs.

    Jenkins sat still for a second and peered out into the gloom, trying to catch a glimpse of his younger companion. Briggs' shotgun was missing from its position beside his seat and Jenkins assumed that the youngster must have got out of the car to help when they had arrived. He pushed open the door and stepped out, walking around to the other side of the car.

    'Gary,' he called.

    There was no answer. Jenkins stood in the reflected light of the car's headlamps, his face darkened into grotesque shadow. He looked down.

    Lying just beside the driver's side door was Briggs' peaked cap. The other constable knelt and picked it up, noting with concern that it was splattered with blood. In fact, there was blood all over the ground near the door, great blotches of it staining the white paintwork of the car.

    Jenkins picked up the discarded shotgun, suddenly afraid, and backed off towards the house, the barrel levelled. He stumbled over the body of the woman and nearly fell but he retained his balance and retreated into the welcoming light of the hall.

    Footsteps behind him. He turned.

    Lambert and Debbie were descending the stairs, the Inspector with his arm wrapped tightly around his wife's shoulders. Her head was bowed and Jenkins could see that she was sobbing quietly-tiny, almost imperceptible movements of her shoulders signalling the tortured spasms. The constable suddenly thought of his own wife, of his child. Had she given birth yet? He drove the thought away.

    'You all right?' asked Lambert, the shotgun propped up over his shoulder as if he were off on a hunting trip.

    Jenkins, his face the colour of cream cheese, nodded.

    'I can't find Briggs,' he said.

    Lambert looked puzzled but his expression changed to one of worry when the constable held up the bloodstained cap. The three of them stood in the burning light from the car headlamps, the two policemen looking at one another, Debbie weeping softly. There was a harsh crackling, then a voice from outside.

    'The radio,' said Lambert, helping Debbie out, guiding her past the gun-blasted bodies of the living dead.

    Jenkins nodded and crossed to the car. He-picked up the handset and heard Grogan's agitated voice at the other end:

    'Puma Three, come in.'

    'Puma Three,' said Jenkins wearily.

    'Thank Christ for that,' said Grogan, 'you hadn't called in, I thought something had happened.'

    Lambert helped Debbie into the back seat of the car where she lay down, curling up in a fetal position, then he took the handset from Jenkins.

    'Puma Three here, this is Lambert. Contact the other two cars, tell them we have encountered a number of the bloody things. Tell them the guns do work.'

    Grogan muttered an affirmation.

    Lambert continued, 'Anything to report, Grogan?'

    'No sir, we've had a number of calls from people, sightings and what have you, but nothing from the other two cars. They both reported in a while back to say that they'd seen nothing.'

    Lambert nodded as he listened, glancing over to where Debbie lay. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks tear-stained.

    'Puma Three, out,' he said and switched off the set.

    'What now, sir?' said Jenkins, sliding behind the wheel and locking the door.

    'I want to get my wife to Doctor Kirby. Let's go-'

    Jenkins nodded and started the car. The wheels spun on the grass but, as they reached the concrete of the road, they caught and the Panda sped off.

    Lambert sat back in the seat and closed his eyes. Christ, the vile things had nearly killed Debbie.

    He prayed that she would be all right. Mackenzie had got the medallion, it seemed to have been the object of the attack. He gritted his teeth. It had to be the answer. No wonder Trefoile was frightened of the bloody thing. The Inspector realized that he would have to find out if Debbie had managed to discover the truth about it. He looked around at her. She was still curled up. Asleep.

    At least the encounter had proved that the guns were of use. That much he was thankful for. He didn't dare think what would have happened if they had not been…

    One thing did trouble him though.

    Where had Briggs got to?

    Run off in fright perhaps? Lambert wouldn't have blamed him if he had. He'd probably stagger in the next morning, ashamed of his own cowardice. Lambert half-smiled; he could quite easily have run off with him.

    

    

    Even if anyone had noticed, no one would have wondered why there were blood spots on the trunk of the Panda. The whole car was splashed with the crimson fluid after all. What might have interested them was the contents of the trunk.

    Gary Briggs had died painfully, his eyes torn from living sockets but now he lay in the boot of the car, fresh blood from the sockets still spilling down his cheeks.

    He had had no chance against the woman who had attacked him. She had been too strong.

    He had crawled into the trunk to escape the blinding lights of the Panda's headlamps. It was dark in there. It stank of petrol and rubber. But didn't care.

    He lay silently.

    Waiting.

    

    

    Lambert breathed a sigh of relief as dawn clawed its way across the sky.

    Now, as he stood by the window of John Kirby's spare bedroom, he had never been so pleased to see the light of day. He looked down at the cup of coffee in his hand and drained it, replacing the empty vessel on a small sideboard. He watched the sun appear, preceded by golden shafts of light and finally, a tiny portion of it peering over the horizon and filling the heavens with the first glow of morning.

    He turned and looked at Debbie who was lying on a bed in one corner of the room. She was sleeping and the slow rhythmic heaving of her chest reassured him. He crossed to the bedside and knelt beside her, reaching beneath the sheets to grasp one of her hands. He stayed there for several moments, gripping her soft hand and gazing at her face. Eventually he got to his feet, kissed her lightly on the forehead and whispered, 'I love you.' Then he carefully replaced her hand under the sheets and left the room. He closed the door behind him and leant against it for a moment, exhaling deeply. The memory of the previous night was still vivid in his mind, burned deep into his consciousness like a red hot brand.

    They had arrived at Kirby's at around three that morning. Bleary-eyed, the doctor had let them in and led Lambert, with Debbie's inert form in his arms, upstairs to this bedroom. He had sedated her with Thorazine. Then he and Kirby had gone downstairs to where Jenkins waited. Lambert had told the doctor what had happened and Kirby had listened, his apprehension growing by the second. Finally the doctor had treated their minor cuts and bruises and the three of them had then sat down over a cup of coffee to wait for morning. Jenkins had managed to catch a few hours sleep on the couch in Kirby's surgery. When Lambert walked into the kitchen he found the doctor sitting alone at the table.

    'Is she all right?' asked Kirby.

    Lambert nodded. 'Still sleeping.'

    'She will be for quite a while; it's the best thing for her after what she's been through.' The Inspector poured himself another cup of coffee and sat down opposite Kirby.

    'Where's Jenkins?' he asked.

    Kirby hooked a thumb in the direction of the surgery, 'He's still asleep too.' The doctor studied the young policeman's face, the beginnings of stubble on his chin, the dark rings beneath his eyes. 'You look like you could do with some rest yourself.'

    Lambert smiled humourlessly and ran his index finger around the lip of his cup. Finally he looked up.

    'They could have killed her, John,' he said, his voice softening.

    'But they didn't,' said Kirby, trying to inject a note of reassurance into his voice.

    'They were like animals. They would have killed her.' His voice broke and he lowered his head, his tone flat, dropping almost to a whisper, 'If I hadn't have gone back to the house, if…'

    Kirby saw a single tear plop onto the table and, when Lambert looked up, his eyes were red-rimmed, big salt tears pouring down his cheeks. The Inspector clasped his fingers, propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands.

    'I'm sorry,' he said, softly, wiping his face.

    'Drink your coffee,' said Kirby, smiling.

    Lambert managed to smile back. He coughed, shook himself, blew out a harsh lungful of air. He raised a hand to signal that he was O.K., nodding to himself as if to reinforce the idea.

    'What's your next move?' asked Kirby.

    'Find them. Find out where they hole up during the day. Find them and kill them.' He finished his coffee. He got to his feet, a new purpose about him, the old strength returning.

    'If my theory is right,' he said, 'then they're all in the same place. They seem to function in groups, so it's only logical to assume they sleep in groups too. It's just a matter of finding the right place.'

    He went through into the surgery and woke Jenkins. In minutes he was on his feet and the two of them were ready to leave. They paused in the doorway.

    'How long before she wakes up?' asked Lambert.

    Kirby shrugged, 'It's hard to say, four, five hours perhaps longer.'

    'Let me know as soon as she does; it's important.'

    Jenkins walked out to the waiting Panda, the blood on it now dried to a dull rust colour, and slid behind the wheel. Lambert paused and extended a hand which Kirby shook warmly.