The Dust: Book Two - Pursuit
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Authors: David H Sharp
The Dust
Book Two – Pursuit
By David H Sharp
Table of Contents
Chapter Twenty Five - Blood Beach
The Dust
Book Two – Pursuit
By David H Sharp
Disclaimer
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events and situations are the product of the imagination of the author. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 David H Sharp. All rights reserved.
Copyright
No part of this e-book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or, transmitted by any means without written permission of the author.
Also available by David H Sharp
The Murder of Crows
The Dust Book One - Bloodlust
This book had been formatted by James MacArthur
Book Cover by Stuart Kelly
Dedication
With love and thanks to my Mother and Father.
They kept me on the straight and narrow.
Chapter One
‘Grandma, why is Grandad in the nude?’ Amber peered back into the darkness of the loft looking for her grandmother.
‘Get away from the hatch Amber.’ Joyce Meadows shouted at her young granddaughter. She knew there was a long piece of copper pipe up here somewhere she remembered seeing it the last time she was up in this god forsaken sweat box.
‘He’s jumping up and down, Grandma.’ Amber had failed to carry out her grandmothers instructions. ‘Grandad stop it.’ She wanted to laugh at Grandad being silly but something didn’t look right and he had blood all over his hands.
‘Out of the way child.’ Joyce Meadows shifted Amber aside and wielding a gleaming length of copper pipe she started prodding it down the hatch towards him.
The naked man below resembled her beloved husband Cyril but he was acting like nothing she had ever encountered in their thirty seven years of marriage. Using the pipe like an old fashion pike she jabbed away trying to fend him off. His eyes were blood red and his teeth stained as if he had been drinking too much Shiraz. He was hissing and spitting but was making no sense whatsoever, just aimlessly jumping at the loft hatch trying to grab the copper pipe.
‘Please go away.’ Joyce whimpered, again she hit Cyril with the metal spear and a bit of flesh flew from his shoulder and splattered the once immaculately painted walls.
She remembered back to when this truly awful nightmare had begun. Joyce had woken from a deep sleep, feeling rotten, she had gone downstairs to the kitchen for some pain killers but was confronted with such a sight she thought she was still dreaming.
There stood completely naked in the middle of the kitchen floor and furiously masturbating was her husband Cyril. Joyce had gasped out aloud but he had taken no notice of his wife. With a crazed look in his eyes he just kept rubbing his erect red-raw penis. Droplets of blood had fallen from his clenched hand onto the limestone floor, amalgamating with his spent semen. The sweat had run from his thinning hair down his temples and off his gleaming chin, he had looked a dreadful sight.
‘Cyril, what are you doing?’ Joyce had asked him, her voice trembling.
The words had brought him out of his self-pleasuring trance and she remembered the almighty high pitched blood curdling yell he had let out whilst running towards her at full pelt.
Scared at his angry bloodshot eyes Joyce had slammed the door, Cyril had run straight into it and he had then fallen to the floor with a dull thud.
She remembered running for the stairs and had instantly thought about her granddaughter, Amber. They had to leave the house to get help. Joyce recalled reaching the top of the stairs and that she could hear her husband slamming himself against the wooden door as if he had lost the ability to open it, he had obviously lost his mind and he needed some urgent medical attention.
She had woken Amber up with a rigorous shake, scooping her up in her arms she had made her way back onto the landing but had been too late. Cyril was climbing the stairs blood flowing down his face from the violent impacts with the solid pine door.
‘Get away from us!’ Joyce had shouted but her husband took no notice. ‘Get back!’ Joyce had shouted once more but to no avail, Cyril just kept coming.
‘Grandma, what’s happening?’ She remembered Amber asking dazed and confused after such a long and feverish sleep.
Joyce hadn’t answered but she had freed her right hand from her granddaughter’s body, she had yanked on the white cord which hung down behind her and out shot a metal loft ladder. Thinking back now she still didn’t know how she got both of them up there and then lifted the ladder before her bloodied husband had got near, adrenaline can make you do super human things sometimes but she was just glad her granddaughter was safe, that’s all she had cared about. Her son Jake would never forgive her if his ‘Barnacle’ came to any harm.
‘Don’t hurt Grandad.’ The words snapped Joyce from her thoughts and again she jabbed at Cyril who was trying to swat the pipe away.
Amber was confused watching her grandmother thrusting the rod up and down as if she was spear fishing in the Amazon. She then noticed the tears running down her creased cheeks. ‘Grandma why are you crying?’
Joyce dropped the copper pipe and fell back onto the loft floor her hands over her face sobbing,
what had they become?
She had found herself holed up in their loft in their house in Caldicot for over a week now. Joyce was lucky that she had grabbed Amber and the large biscuit barrel before they had climbed the flimsy metal ladder. Why had Cyril become so mentally ill that he was now running around the house naked, self-harming and smearing his own blood and excrement all over the walls? What had become of him and why had everyone else vanished? She had been shouting for help ever since they had got up there. They were down to four biscuits and that would last only one more day. She and Amber had been drinking from the water tank and that was now perilously low.
‘Don’t cry Grandma, I’m here.’ Amber’s words gave Joyce some solace in the despair she had found herself in, the two cuddled for a minute. If it wasn’t for Amber she too might have gone completely mad.
***
Charles Rossiter trotted his trusty stallion ‘Chive’ to the hedgerow situated at the bottom of the estate. He was sure he had seen something darting in and out of the foliage.
Damn foxes had to be culled.
Only the night before last, six of his chickens had been killed in a frenzied attack the like he had never seen before. It was as if the fox had gone completely demented, the dead chickens were barely recognisable their innards half eaten and strewn across the roof of the coop.
Chive reared up as he drew closer to the hedge. ‘Woah boy, easy now.’ Charles pulled a little tighter on the well-worn leather reins but the stallion didn’t react and seemed slightly spooked.
The hedge moved once again and this time the horse bellowed and twisted around jolting Rossiter in his saddle.
‘Easy Chive, walk on, walk on.’ He dug his heels into the horse and tried to regain some control. It was no use, the horse had become too frantic so he jumped off and tried to pull him away on foot. This worked to a degree as the further away Chive got the calmer he became. Rossiter patted his stallion on the nose and produced some grapes from his pocket, the horse sniffed the air and devoured the plump treats with gusto. Just as Rossiter had thought a little normality was returning to his early morning ride the rustle of the hedgerow took his eye again.
What the hell was in there? Was it a damn fox?
He took his shotgun from the matching black leather holster attached to the saddle and cocked it back, he loaded two cartridges into the barrels. Rossiter looked at Chive, the blast of his gun could spook him even further and the last thing he wanted was his stallion to run off leaving him with a long walk back to the manor house. He walked Chive about two hundred meters from where the movement was coming from, he then tethered him to a large branch.
Rossiter snapped the gun back to its firing position and marched back down through the wet grass to the spot where the damn fox had been hiding out.
‘You won’t be troubling my chickens anymore you little shit.’ He whispered through gritted teeth. ‘Where are you?’ He pointed the barrels in the direction of the green and brown foliage. Narrowing his eyes to get a better look into the dark hedge he could see something light, something pink and red.
What the fuck is that?
He wanted to shoot but he couldn’t be sure of what it was, it seemed to be moving slightly.
‘I’m going to shoot.’ He shouted, more out of fear than wanting to kill. ‘You have no business on this land.’ He added. Nothing happened, he stepped a little closer but then decided to change tack. Crouching down slowly not taking his eyes off the hedge he dropped down his left hand and foraged around on the damp grassy floor until he found something solid. It wasn’t too long until he grabbed a fairly large stone, he clasped it tight and then slowly stood up.
‘This is your last chance.’ Rossiter shouted. Again nothing happened so he hurled the stone into the hedge at full force and then grabbed his shotgun with both hands.
The hedge moved a little and then it exploded with leaves twigs and dirt, Rossiter fell backwards and let off one round before he hit the grass. Skidding on his feet he tried instantly to get back up but the early morning dew kept dragging him down. It was then out of the gun smoke he could see a naked boy, about fourteen maybe fifteen years of age. He was covered in cuts and bruises and had blood smeared all over his torso. Rossiter then noticed two small chicken feathers stuck to the sole of his foot in the congealed blood.
‘You little shit.’ He said quietly.
‘It’s you!’ This time he shouted but as he took aim to fire above the naked urchins head he came into contact with his eyes, Rossiter lowered his gun a few inches as his arms sagged. They were blood red, and wide open.
Jesus Christ
he thought, he had never seen anything quite like it. Then the boy blinked slowly and when he opened his eyes back up blood trickled from each one and ran down his chin. Rossiter’s gun was now pointing at the floor and the cold sweat on the back of his neck sent a shiver through his body.
The naked boy then took a step forward and hissed at Rossiter, blood spraying from his mouth and landing on the grass in front of him. Charles closed his mouth, swallowed and tried to lift his gun, it felt as though it weighed twice its normal load. The naked boy then gave out a blood curdling cry and took another two steps towards Rossiter. Charles wasn’t going to take any chances and this time he aimed and fired.
The boy seemed to spring into the air as he ran towards Rossiter and the shot grazed his right shoulder but it was force enough to send him backwards. He crashed back into the hedge and this gave Charles enough time to run to his horse. He quickly untied Chive and jumped upon him one hand still clutching his shotgun. The horse still jittery from all the noise twisted once more and Rossiter nearly slipped off the saddle.
The naked boy now with his open wound bleeding profusely picked himself out of the hedge and spasmodically jolted his head to–and-fro looking for his prey eyes darting around as if high on acid. The noise the horse was making gave Rossiter’s position away. The boy ran towards man and horse; spit flying from his mouth.
‘Easy boy, easy.’ The last thing Charles wanted was to be back on the ground and he wrestled with Chive to try and get some control. He yanked hard with his right hand to try and pull his horse away from the naked attacker but Chive was having none of it, instead he reared up onto his back legs bellowing as he went, his front legs kicking out wildly.