Relics (33 page)
The girl moved closer to him, as if for protection, and as he tried to push her away he noticed that she too was crying.
‘Oh Jesus, God forgive me,’ he roared and brought the blade down on her head.
Such was the power of the blow that her skull practically split in two. A greyish slop of brain splattered him as she fell, her body twitching slightly.
‘No. No!’ Wallace shrieked, looking down at the body, at the fissures which were opening up in the earth. Then he turned back towards the tunnel entrance.
‘There’s your fucking sacrifice,’ he screamed. ‘Your damned offering.’
But his voice was swallowed up by the groan of parting earth, some of which clattered down around him as the shaft itself began to cave in. Massive lumps of debris thudded down like chunks of shrapnel.
‘Stop it,’ he wailed. ‘Stop it!’
He dragged the unconscious boy to his feet and ran the sword into the lad’s throat, holding the body for a moment before letting it fall beside the girl.
‘You bastard,’ he roared. ‘You’ve had your offering. How many more? How many more, you dirty fucker? Take me instead.’
He turned and grabbed the rope ladder, jamming the sword into his belt, hurrying up the rungs in pursuit of the other two children. One more, he thought, one more. There had to be three sacrifices.
Just one more and it would all end.
He was close to them now, he could see the little girl ahead of him, about to swing herself out of the shaft.
He saw other figures too.
Policemen.
He drew closer, his hand reaching for the girl. He pulled her down, steadying the sword as he rolled her over.
Wallace found himself looking into the tear-stained face of Clare Nichols.
‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she cried, and for precious seconds he hesitated. He couldn’t hold onto her. She was pulled free and he found that men in uniforms were backing away from him, shielding the children from him.
Wallace hauled himself up and stood, sword in hand, his mad eyes flicking from one figure to another.
‘Give the children to me,’ he shouted.
The ground to his right was rippling, dirt and stones flying up in a series of tiny explosions. Elsewhere, huge rifts had scarred the earth. Men were running back and forth.
He saw a car topple into a large fissure, the driver screaming for help as the vehicle disappeared, then exploded in a sheet of flame as the earth contracted around it.
‘Give them to me,’ Wallace roared, his voice drowned by the shouts of his former colleagues, the roaring flames, and now, a low but growing cry which built to a terrifying crescendo. Beginning like a strong wind, it increased in ferocity until the sound was unbearable. Men nearby screamed and covered their ears, feeling blood burst from them as the onslaught grew worse, reaching an incredible pitch, forming into one monstrous obscene bellow of triumph.
Wallace looked up to see the sky turning red. Redder than a thousand sunsets, as if it had been drenched in the blood of millions. Then, against that redness, he saw a black outline. A shape so huge, so enormous that it stretched up into and beyond the clouds.
The shape was unmistakably humanoid, but grotesque beyond description. And it was still growing.
Wallace clapped his hands over his hears. Inside his head he could hear his own laughter.
The laughter of the mad?
Of the damned?
And all the time that loathsome black shape expanded, its monstrous roar filling the night as it stretched across the boiling skies. Its hideous form blotting out those blood-soaked clouds, filling the heavens.
Then there was only darkness.
Born and brought up in Hertfordshire, Shaun Hutson now lives and writes in Buckinghamshire where he has lived since 1986. After being expelled from school, he worked at many jobs, including a cinema doorman, a barman, and a shop assistant - all of which he was sacked from - before becoming a professional author in 1983.
He has since written over 30 bestselling novels as well as writing for radio, magazines and television. Shaun has also written exclusively for the Internet, a short story entitled
RED STUFF
and an interactive story,
SAVAGES.
Having made his name as a horror author with bestsellers such as
SPAWN
,
EREBUS
,
RELICS
and
DEATHDAY
(acquiring the nicknames 'The Godfather of Gore' and 'The Shakespeare of Gore' in the process) he has since produced a number of very dark urban thrillers such as
LUCY'S CHILD
,
STOLEN ANGELS
,
WHITE GHOST
and
PURITY
. At one time, Shaun Hutson was published under no fewer than six pseudonyms , writing everything from Westerns to non-fiction.
Hobbies include cinema (he has seen over 10,000 films in the last 20 years and cites director Sam Peckinpah as his biggest influence), rock music and slumping in front of the TV.
Reformed alcoholic, Shaun was diagnosed by a psychiatrist as having mildly psychotic tendencies. He is extremely unsociable and used to shoot pistols for a hobby (four perfect qualifications for being a novelist, really.)
Shaun has appeared on and presented a number of TV shows over the years. He has lectured to the Oxford Students Union. He has appeared on stage with heavy-metal rock band Iron Maiden 13 times and received death threats on a number of occasions due to his work.
His work is particularly popular in prison libraries.
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