Sepulchre (33 page)

He was rambling, and when he coughed, there was a pin kiness to the spittle dampening the corners of his mouth. He gasped, as though anxious to tell. 'We searched the world for disciple's . . . our kind. And we found them. It wasn't difficult. And Kline caused havoc wherever we went. All for the glory of Bel-Marduk . . .' He drifted away once more.

Kline had spoken that name before. Halloran shivered, for the air was very cold. He looked around at the shadows: the torch beam was frail.

A stirring of the makeshift bedclothes. then a shrivelled hand, more like a claw, fingernails long and curled, stained brown with age, appeared. It reached for Halloran's arm and the operative shuddered when it came to rest on him.

'He . . . Felix . . . used me . . .'

He was drifting away. The trembling hand flopped from Halloran's arm. 'No longer afraid . . .' came the hushed words. 'No worse Hell than . . . here . . . ahhhh . . .' Life seemed to flow out from him.

Overcoming his revulsion, Halloran shook the covering over the old man's chest. 'Tell me who you are.' he demanded, both angry and frustrated. 'How can you guard this estate, control the dogs'' How do you keep the gates locked? You're old, you're sick . . .'

A dry, reedy chuckle. The remnants of life flickered. 'I have . . . power, too. Kline . . . working through me. My mind holds the . . . gates. My . . . mind controls . . . the beasts, the demons . . . But no more . . . too weak. He needs another . . . Someone corrupted to his ways . . .'

'Who are you?'

'I am nothing.'

'Tell me!'

'Nothing. Although once . . . I was a merchant.' He drew in a grating breath. 'He . . . he is vulnerable.' Again he clasped Halloran's arm. 'Is it you? Are you the one?'

'To take your place? Is that what you mean?' A different kind of fear in Halloran now.

The slighest inclination of the wizened head. 'No something more . . . than that . . .

There were noises from downstairs. A soft rushing. Halloran remembered he had left the window open.

He felt a tightening of the clawed hand on his arm. Then the fingers uncurled and the hand fell away.

A scuffling in the hallway below.

There was a liquid rattling in the old man's throat as a long exhalation of air escaped him.

Pattering on the staircase.

Halloran scooped up the black bag as he rose and leapt for the door in a desperate bid to close it before the jackals came through.

But he was too late.

39 A TERROR UNLEASHED

The first of the beasts burst into the room, a glistening an its jaws caught by the beam of light.

To Halloran's surprise, the jackal bounded past him. He quickly stepped behind the door, using it as a shield as others, snarling and yelping, their fur bristling, streamed through. They made straight for the bundle of rags in the corner of the room.

Halloran drew in a sharp breath as the first jackal reached the lifeless figure and tore into the bedding, its jaws snapping and rending material. He heard a feeble cry above the frenzied yapping and realised that the disfigured old man was not yet dead. The puckered skull suddenly emerged from the rags, its mouth a toothless, jagged hole, the eyes now totally white. The second jackal buried its teeth into the scrawny throat.

And still more poured through the doorway.

Halloran reached into the bag and pulled out the MPSK, not bothering to yank out its retractable stock as he aimed at the welter of shoving and tumbling bodies. Blood suddenly mush.-d upwards to drench the agitated backs of the jackals, its smell, its taste, driving the animals into even greater frenzy. They ripped into their broken victim, shaking him in feverish rage.

Halloran loosed fifteen rounds of 9mm bullets into the pack, aware that the old man would also be hit and knowing id really didn't matter any more.

The jackals screeched, some leaping into the air, others thrown against the wall by the impact. In little more than a second, the room was a carnage of convulsing bodies, a redness coating the floor and running down into the cracks. But not all the beasts had been killed outright. Several had just been wounded. Others had only been frightened.

These turned towards their attacker.

Halloran quickly switched the weapon to single-shot, unwilling to waste the rest of the magazine on one short burst.

The howling subsided to an agonised whimpering, the sound piteous but invoking no pity from Halloran. He pointed the gun at the nearest advancing jackal. The animal leapt, carnassials bared and already stained. The bullet entered its neck and exploded from the other side, taking fragments of flesh and spine with it into the ceiling.

Halloran was pushed back against the wall, the torch he had kept locked against the weapon falling from his grasp as the contorting body struck him. The dead animal dropped away, head loose from its shoulders, and Halloran, crouched now, heard rather than saw the rush of another jackal. He raised the weapon and fired blindly.

The first bullet did not stop the animal, merely creasing its flank, and teeth sank into the operative's wrist. He scarcely felt the pain.

The next bullet, the weapon itself directed downwards by the jackal's weight, scythed along the creature's underbelly. The piercing yelp set off a renewed howling from its injured companions and Halloran cringed under the cacophony. He tugged his arm free, the brute's teeth scraping across the skin of his wrist as it slid to the floor. He reached for the torch, swiftly turning the beam into the mass of juddering scavengers. Those that were still able were crawling towards him, some limping badly, others squirming on their stomachs. The mattress and bedrags behind them were sodden with dark, seeping liquid.

Sub-machine gun held in one hand against his hip, Halloran stooped to retrieve the bag, which contained extra magazines, never once letting the light beam waver away from the creeping bodies. The howling had died, to be replaced by a low, menacing growling. He edged around the door.

A limping jackal suddenly made a dash at him. Its legs gave way and it slumped at Halloran's feet, jaws weakly snapping the air, a low snarl coming from deep within its throat. He backed out the door as the others gathered their strength and staggered forward. Halloran pulled the door shut with a jarring thud and heard the jackals scratching at the wood on the other side.

He leaned against the frame, forehead resting on a raised arm, breathing slowly, giving himself time to recover from the horror.

But a scuffling on the stairs would not allow that.

He stiffened, then moved to the rail overlooking the stairway. More jackals were bounding up the steps, their backs to him. Halloran leaned over and took them one by one, shooting at the base of their skulls, shattering the bone there. The first jackal stopped dead, as if stunned, then toppled downstairs, the one close behind becoming entangled with the falling body. The third, startled by the gunfire and trying to avoid its companions, dodged to the side and received a bullet in its shoulder. The jackal howled and tumbled out of sight.

Halloran swiftly walked along the landing and paused at the top of the stairs, shining the light down. Only two corpses lay at the bottom.

He descended cautiously, anxious to get away from the charnel-house, but wary of what might still be waiting below. Hopefully these were the last of the stragglers. From above came the continued scratching against the door and a kind of mewling whimpering.

Halloran stepped over the dead bodies at the foot of the stairs and backed away to the frontdoor, keeping his eyes on the corridor leading to the rear of the lodge-house. Slipping the bag over his shoulder and gripping the pen-torch firmly between his teeth, he tried the doorhandle. It resisted his pressure at first, the mechanism obviously rusted, then grudgingly turned. But the bolts, top and bottom, were rusted solid and would not budge.

He guessed the entrance hadn't been used for many wears, but was reluctant to leave through the backway. Instead he went into the room on his right.

Halloran was halfway across the floor heading for one of the windows, when something dripped onto his extended arm. He stopped, curious. Liquid spattered against his cheek. He pointed the beam upwards and saw the blood dripping through the ceiling. That was when he heard the throaty snarling from behind the door.

The jackal was on him before he had time to aim his weapon. He went down, dust rising in great clouds as he hit the boards. The torch flew from his grasp, striking the wall and blinking off when it fell to the floor.

The slathering animal was only a dim form above as Halloran clenched its fur and tried to keep the snapping jaws away from his face. He was forced to release the sub-machine gun so that he could fend off the attack with both hands. Its long legs were sturdy, much more powerful than they appeared, and they raked his clothes, scratching the skin beneath. Halloran felt blood trickling down his wrist, but realised it was from his attacker"s Own wound. Using one hand again to hold the jackal off, with his other he reached for the blood-soaked shoulder and squeezed hard. With a sharp, high-pitched yelp, the jackal sprang away, but Halloran went with it, keeping the pressure on the wound. Because of their skeletal structure, he knew dogs or wolves were virtually armour-plated, their vulnerable points few; but a sharp blow to the jackal's neck, just before the shoulders, numbed it into immobility. Halloran followed through before it had a chance to recover by slipping both arms beneath its shoulder, joining hands behind the creature's neck, and bringing up his elbows while pressing down his hands in one fast, vigorous action. The jackal's breastbone split with a sharp crack, the shock killing it immediately.

He let the limp body fall away and without taking time to recover his breath, Halloran searched around the floor for the weapon. When he had it in his hands, as well as the black bag carrying the extra ammunition, he returned to the door and closed it, a barrier against any other jackals not dealt with. He went to the window, felt for the catch and, with some difficulty, forced it open. When he attempted to lift the window, however, he discovered it was stuck solid.

Wasting no further time, he covered his eyes with one hand and used the stubby butt of the sub-machine gun to smash the glass. Halloran squeezed through the opening and dropped to the ground outside. The Mercedes waited in the gloom a short distance away.

He had taken only a few paces towards it when a window above shattered and screeching shapes rained down on him.

He stumbled when one landed on his shoulder, tripped when another jackal fell at his feet. There was no way of telling how many there were around him and he knew there was little chance of recovering the weapon in the darkness. He pushed an animal away, its resistance weak because of its wounds, kicked out at another when he had risen, sending the beast tottering backwards on legs that were already unstable. Something tugged at his ankle and he lifted the jackal off the ground, hurling it away from himself. He ran for the car drawing the Browning from its holster, just as a section of moon appeared. Throwing open the door, he leapt inside. He changed gun hands to close the car door, pulling at the handle as another jackal launched itself at him. The animal became wedged and Halloran leaned away to avoid its gnashing teeth. With his left hand he touched the automatic to the jackal's head and squeezed the trigger. The beast jerked once, then slumped lifeless. Halloran pushed the body away from the car and pulled the door shut.

He sat there, chest heaving, his arms and forehead against the steering wheel. When he raised his head again to stare back at the lodge, the moonlight revealed a macabre scene: the wolf-like creatures were staggering around in circles, shocked by their wounds as well as in pain, baying at the moon, their stumblings almost a ritual dance.

Halloran reached for the RT, intending to alert the patrol cars of the estate's loss of inner security. It had been unfortunate that neither car had been passing the gates a minute or two earlier when gunfire from the house would have brought them in to assist, but that was always a problem if manpower was stretched; not for the first time he cursed Kline for his faith in his own security. Static blared out at him when he pressed the transmit button. He switched off, then on again, hoping that interference would clear. It didn't. He spoke into the mouthpiece anyway, but the static became even worse as he waited for a reply. Glancing up at the sky, he saw that the clouds were big and thunderous, the atmosphere itself muggyclose, charge-filled. With a muttered curse, he returned the RT, holstered the gun, and switched on the Mercedes' ignition.

Something was calling him back to Neatly a certainty that there was trouble there, that not only was Kline in danger, but so, too, was Cora. And it was her safety he cared about most. After what had happened inside the lodge-house, reason or logic was of minor importance. Sensing - intuition - was all.

He flicked on full-beam and swung the car towards the gates, turning in a tight circle that threw up earth and gravel, cutting through undergrowth on the far side of the road. Instead of setting a straight course for the main house, Halloran veered to the left, bumping across the rough piece of ground, in front of the lodge. He ploughed into the dazed and dying jackals, crushing them beneath the Mercedes' wheels, smashing into those that tried to run so that they hurtled into the air. Only then did he make his way towards Neath.

The car tore down the road, headlights throwing back the darkness, dust curling in its wake. He saw the first flash, of light silver the clouds, a strobe effect that reminded him of the fulguration on the lake the previous night. Into the tunnel of trees he sped, the low-hanging branches never more threatening than now. Around the curve, tyres screeching as they gripped.. The road somehow seemed narrower, as if the trees on either side conspired to join together, only the searing lights forcing them to retreat. Yet the feeling that the path behind him had closed up was uncanny.

The road began to dip and the car burst clear of the woods.

He could not help but wonder if the trees behind had finally linked.