***
Debbie looked down at the medallion. The inscription stood out defiantly, as if challenging her to decipher it. She studied it against the woodcut on the page of the book before her. Beneath it, as Trefoile had shown them, the single word;
MATHIAS.
Owner of the medallion.
She looked at her notes, at the words which she already understood.
MORTIS DIEI - DEATHDAY
REX NOCTU - KING OF THE NIGHT
The inscription around the outside of the medallion still eluded her then, suddenly, she remembered what Trefoile had said, that the words were transposed. The inscription could only be understood when read from back to front. She took the words one at a time:
A
She looked it up in the dictionary. It meant 'to.' Simple as that. She smiled to herself. Now she took the next word. On the medallion, engraved in reverse, it appeared as SIUTROM. She quickly transposed the letters to form the word as recognizable Latin. It came out as:
MORTUIS.
She hunted through the dictionary for that one. Something jumbled here. Not quite right. There were several meanings. Death. Dead. Die. She put a question mark next to the word and looked at the last of the three reversed inscriptions. In its present form it appeared as ERATICXE. She transposed and found that it came out as something more accessible:
EXCITARE.
Another run through the ever present dictionary. Her finger sped over the entries, searching, probing like a doctor in search of some malignant growth. She found it. 'Awake.' She wrote it down then went back to check the second word once more. Perhaps if she could put it into context she could understand. She read her notes, the transcriptions.
A MORTUIS EXCITARE - TO (something) AWAKE.
She frowned. No. That wasn't it. The structure was wrong. The words were in the wrong order. Heart pounding she wrote it out again.
A MORTUIS EXCITARE - TO AWAKE (something).
She re-checked her definitions.
MORTUIS - DEATH. DIE. THE DEAD.
It struck her like a physical blow and she exhaled deeply, quivering slightly as she finally understood. With shaking hand she wrote down the finished translation then transcribed the entire thing onto a fresh piece of paper. When she had done that she read it back, not daring to speak the words aloud. But they were there before her and she was gripped by a strange contradiction of feelings. A feeling of triumph for having deciphered the inscription but overwhelmed by an icy fear which gripped her heart in a vice-like hand and would not let go. She studied the words on the paper. The answer:
A MORTUIS EXCITARE - TO AWAKE THE DEAD.
And beneath that:
REX NOCTU - KING OF THE NIGHT.
Finally:
MORTIS DIEI - DEATHDAY.
Deathday.
And the single word that summed up all that evil.
MATHIAS.
She turned to the second book, searching its age-crusted pages for the information she sought. She looked at the medallion, suddenly distracted from her task. It seemed to glow dully in the dimly lit room and it was a moment or two before Debbie realized that it was nearly dark outside. She crossed to the big bay window at the front of the house and peered out. The street lamps were, as yet, unlit. They didn't come on until six. Another ten minutes. She hurriedly switched on the lamp which perched atop the TV, repeated the procedure with die one on the coffee table and also the taller standard lamp which was propped behind Lambert's chair. The light gave her a measure of reassurance but she found herself still shivering. She hurried upstairs and checked that all the windows were securely closed, particularly the one which looked out over the flat garage roof. She doublechecked that one. Satisfied, she sped downstairs and slid the bolts on both front and back doors before retreating into the living room. She sat in silence, curtains drawn against the darkness outside, surrounded by the paraphernalia of ages gone by. Her nostrils were assaulted by an odour of dampness, mustiness.
The medallion glinted wickedly and Debbie found herself staring at it with the same horrified fascination with which a mouse watches a snake. She finally managed, as if it were an effort of will, to tear her gaze from it. She scanned the large yellowed page before her, dictionary at the ready. The page had the name of Mathias at its head and she began to read, intrigued and alarmed in equal proportions. Maybe by the time she finished she would know who this man really was.
She set to work.
***
The three Pandas were parked outside the station, all facing in the direction of Medworth town centre. From his position in the duty room Lambert could see them, just about. The darkness which had descended was total, almost palpable. He tore his eyes away and looked at the rows of sanguine faces arrayed before him.
Each of the men sat with shotguns across their laps. If not for the circumstances, Lambert could have laughed. It looked like a scene from some bloody western. He cleared his throat and stepped forward. All eyes focused on him.
'Right,' he began, 'I'll keep it simple. Two men to a car, three where possible. Grogan will stay here to take any calls. Bell, Ferman and Davies in Puma One. Vic,' he nodded towards Sergeant Hayes, 'you take Greene and Walford with you in number two. I'll take Puma Three. Briggs and Jenkins, you're with me.' The men didn't speak. Lambert waited, almost hoping for a question but none was forthcoming. He continued, 'Cruise around, that's all you've got to do. If you see anything moving about, anyone…' he searched for the word, 'suspicious, don't waste time finding out details, just shoot.'
A hand went up. It was Greene. He was in his early thirties, a capable lad who just happened to be as pale as death at the moment.
'How do we know the guns will work, sir?' he asked.
'We don't,' said Lambert, flatly. 'Try praying when you pull the trigger.' He tried to smile but it faded, washed away like chalk in the rain.
Another hand. This time it was Walford.
'Sir,' he said, 'how do we know that these… things will be all that's on the streets tonight? I mean, we might kill innocent people.' He swallowed hard.
Lambert nodded. 'Look, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, anything that's walking those streets tonight won't be human.' He became aware that his own hands were shaking and clenched them into fists. 'Whatever you see, blow the fucking thing to pieces.' There was a note of anger in his voice. He scanned the faces once more. Silence hung over the room like some huge invisible blanket. Lambert continued. 'All right, the cars are full of ammunition, you'll have no problems there. It's in the glove compartments, on the parcel shelves, everywhere we could find to put it, it's there.' He tried to-smile again. 'One more thing, I want all the cars to keep in touch. Retain contact at all times and radio in to base every thirty minutes. No more than two men are to leave a car at one time. Understood?'
Nodding. Murmurs of approval.
'Right,' he checked his watch, 'it's seven fifteen now, I want this town patrolled until morning.' He finally found the note of humour he'd been looking for: 'Don't worry, you'll all get paid overtime for this.'
A ripple of laughter.
The men rose to their feet and were filing out of the room when Davies turned and raised his hand.
'What is it, Chris?' asked Lambert.
'These… things,' said Davies, 'they're living corpses, right?'
Lambert nodded.
'Well, then how the hell do you kill something that's already dead?'
The Inspector had no answer and the words hung in the air.
***
It seemed like they were driving into a huge black pit. That, at any rate, was how young Gary Briggs viewed the slow descent into Medworth. The town was in almost total darkness apart from the time switch lights which illuminated shop windows and a sparkling of house lights, most of which were subdued behind drawn curtains. Beside him sat Lambert, the shotgun cradled across his lap. He was stuffing handfuls of cartridges into his pocket. There was a sudden metallic click from the back seat where Dave Jenkins sat and Briggs felt his heart leap. He realized that it was only the older constable cocking his weapon. The youngster tried to relax, attempting to find some comfort in the fact that, if they did sight any of the things, he would be the one to remain in the car. His own shotgun was propped against the dashboard beside him. Even in the chill of the night air which was flooding in through a partially open window, he could feel the perspiration forming on his back.
Dave Jenkins, the oldest of the trio in the Panda, swallowed hard and ran his hand absent mindedly up and down the sleek barrel of his own shotgun. He peered out into the night, squinting into hedgerows, trying to see through the all enveloping gloom. His mind was elsewhere though. It was with his wife, Amy. He'd packed her off to her mother's when this trouble first began, fearing that it could escalate and he had been disturbed to find that it had. But, besides that, she was pregnant. Near her time by now. Jenkins was overcome by a great feeling of helplessness. Even now it could be happening, she could be having the child. He just prayed that he lived to see it.
Inspector Tom Lambert sat back in his seat and scanned the road ahead, lit only by the twin powerful headlamps of the car. The road which led down from the police station into town was a series of sharp curves and bends and Briggs was constantly braking in order to steer the vehicle safely onward. The car they occupied, Puma Three, had been the last of the three to leave. Lambert had watched the other two drive off, then, after all the men had checked their ammunition, he had climbed into the Panda beside Briggs. They were to patrol the Eastern part of the town, the area which took in the small industrial estate, one or two of the housing areas and Lambert's own home. The other two cars had their designated sectors as well. As he watched the darkened countryside drifting by, Lambert's face was etched in an attitude of grim determination. An act he hoped was working. He'd never been so bloody scared in his life. Frightened not just for himself but also for Debbie, but he drove her fleeting image from his mind and concentrated on the road ahead. It was beginning to straighten out.
Paul Greene sat in the back seat of Puma Two and shivered. He felt sick and could scarcely control his rapid breathing. Once already, Sergeant Hayes, seated in the front beside Walford, who was driving, had looked round at him and asked him if he was O.K. Greene had nodded and clutched his gun tighter as if trying to find some comfort in it. He wondered what his mother was doing. He had personally fitted the locks and bolts to her doors when she had decided to stay in Medworth. He had pleaded with her to go but she had refused. The least he could do now was to make sure she was adequately protected. If indeed, that was possible. They had lived together in that little house just outside the town centre for the last twelve years. Ever since Greene's father had left. In his late twenties now, the young P.C. could still recall the vision of his father standing in the doorway of the house, the night he had left, the car of his 'fancy woman' outside, waiting. Greene remembered how his mother had cried for three days afterwards. He was an only child and the departure of his father brought him and his mother even closer together. He had joined the force partly as an attempt at independence but had finally discovered that he preferred the doting of his mother. Now he wondered what she was doing, fearing for her life even more than his own.
Sergeant Vic Hayes closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He felt tired, depressed rather than frightened at the thought of what might confront them that night. He had been sergeant in this peaceful little town for more than fifteen years and now, in the space of a couple of months, all those happy memories had been superceded by the horrors which were occuring daily. He still found it hard to believe.
Tony Walford guided the car slowly through the streets of Medworth's largest housing estate, his eyes alert for the slightest sign of movement. He prayed that they wouldn't come across any of the things that night. Not because of the danger involved but because he didn't think that he could force himself to use his gun on any of them. The very idea of shooting another human being made him shudder. Human being. The words stuck in his mind. Lambert had said that they weren't human. Another thought struck him, one which made the forthcoming task even more difficult. He realized with horror, that he might even recognize some of them. Walford drove on, all the time mouthing silent prayers that they would not see any of the creatures.
'Puma One checking in,' said Chris Davies, holding the transmitter at arms' length to lessen the high-pitched whine of static which had invaded the wavelength. He waited for Grogan's reply, then flicked the switch to 'Off.' He replaced the hand set and returned to gazing out of the window. He and the other two men in the Panda had been given the task of patrolling the centre of Medworth itself. The shopping areas and parks which dotted the town like pieces in a grass and concrete jigsaw. Davies was pleased that they had been assigned this particular sector as there was more likelihood of spotting something. He worked the pump action of the shotgun, chambering a shell, and smiled. God help you bastards, he thought.
In the back, Stuart Ferman was beginning to wish he had never joined the bloody police force. He felt giddy, the smell of plastic, sweat, and gun oil thick in his nostrils. He wished he were at home. He lived alone on the ground floor of a block of flats. Although, strictly speaking, he didn't occupy the dwelling totally without company. He shared it with two enormous Alsatians which he'd had since they were puppies. They'd been handed in to the station by some kid who didn't want them and Ferman had taken them home with him. He had cared for them with a love he didn't think he possessed, watching them grow into the magnificent creatures they were now. He wished he had them both in the car with him at this moment.