T
he sickle came down towards Phil’s face.
He jumped backwards, got out of its path. The Gardener was breathing heavily from the exertion.
Phil dodged round him, ran to the altar. Picked up another blade, turned. Just as the sickle came towards him once more. It caught his arm, cutting through his jacket. He felt a slash of pain as it sliced into his flesh. Blood started to seep through the edges of the tear.
The Gardener advanced. His madness gave him strength, negated the age difference. Phil moved behind the altar, picked up a candle, threw it at the Gardener’s face. It hit the hood, fell to the floor. Sputtered, went out.
Loss of blood was starting to make Phil light-headed. He had to focus, concentrate. Just to stay alive.
The Gardener swung, missed.
Phil used that to his advantage, went on the offensive. Swung his own blade. Connected with the Gardener’s chest. The Gardener screamed, clutched himself where blood started to seep through. He screamed in rage, came at Phil again.
Phil upended the altar, threw it into his path. The Gardener stopped.
In the cage, Finn began to scream. The Gardener turned.
‘Shut up … shut up … ’
Phil was weakening. Stars dancing before his eyes. He couldn’t see straight. He needed to rest.
The Gardener was weakening too. Phil could see it. But he wouldn’t stop. He came at Phil again.
Phil tried to move out of the way, but was too tired.
The blade came towards him.
Phil couldn’t move.
‘P
hil?’
Marina looked round the chamber. Took her iPhone from her pocket, turned on the flashlight.
‘Phil?’
There was no sign of him. She shone the torch round, listened. Looked behind her. Glass hadn’t followed. That was something. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t. She had to do something. Make a decision. Another look round.
‘Phil?’ Louder this time.
Nothing. She shone the torch once more, found the bed. Crossed to it. Made the same discovery Phil had made.
‘Oh my God … oh my God … ’
She looked round once more, frantically this time. She knew, rationally, that the skeleton couldn’t hurt her, wouldn’t rise up and chase her, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t scared by it.
Or by the person who had done that.
She tried to find another entrance or exit to the chamber. Felt all along the walls, the floor. Found a tunnel. She knelt down, listened.
Heard voices. Screaming, shouting.
‘Phil … ’
Giving a quick glance behind her to make sure Glass wasn’t following her, and wanting to get out of the chamber as quickly as possible, she crawled inside.
M
ickey ran. Through puddles and potholes. The rain was still lashing, the lighting in this part of the yard pooled and sporadic. He viewed the night like a static-filled TV screen.
He ran away from the warehouse, down an alleyway between the stacked containers. Fenton still ahead of him. The night, the rain, covering him. Fenton ducked round a corner. Mickey increased his speed.
He ran round the corner. Stopped.
No sign of Fenton.
Mickey slowed, stopped running. Looked round.
The area had opened out, enough space for a truck or two to get between the stacked containers. Open ground. Nowhere he could hide.
But he had gone. Disappeared.
Mickey looked up, thinking he might have climbed above him, tried to escape that way. Squinting against the rain, hand shielding his eyes from the lights. Couldn’t make out anything. No figure was there.
He looked round again. There was nowhere Fenton could have gone. Nowhere.
Mickey sighed. Shook his head.
Impossible.
He looked again. Walked down the side of the containers. On his left-hand side, at the base of the biggest stack, there was a shadow that didn’t seem to belong. Mickey moved closer. Stopped beside it.
It was a slight shadow, and if he hadn’t been looking, he would have missed it. He moved nearer, examined it. A doorway had been cut into the metal side of one of the containers. Secured with two bolts. Padlocked. The bolts were undone, the padlock open. The door hung slightly ajar, casting the shadow.
This was where Fenton had gone. He had tried to close the door behind him but couldn’t bolt it.
Mickey opened the door, stepped inside. Gun drawn. Ready.
He was completely unprepared for the sight that greeted him.
P
hil froze as the blade came towards him.
Finn screamed. ‘No … no … he’ll kill you … no … ’
The boy’s voice undid the spell. Phil jumped, moving quickly out of the way as the sickle cleaved the air he had just occupied.
His head spun. His arm was beginning to feel numb.
The Gardener came again.
Phil pivoted once more, moved just in time.
He couldn’t keep this up. He was weakening, blood loss making him faint. Adrenalin was pumping hard round his system but that just speeded up the rate at which he was losing blood.
He stumbled, almost fell. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t allow himself to. Willed himself to keep upright.
The Gardener was coming again. Nearly as bloodied as Phil was, but still going. Phil knew that this time would be it. Either he would go, or the Gardener would.
He tried to stall him.
‘Take your hood off … ’
The Gardener ignored him.
‘Take it off. I want to see your face … ’
The Gardener made a sound that could have been laughter or could have been him clearing his throat. Still holding the sickle with one hand, he reached up, tugged the hood from his head.
‘That’s better. I can see you now.’
The Gardener threw the hood to the floor. Smiled. ‘I’ll get you this time.’
‘You’ll have to,’ said Phil, hoping he could remain upright long enough to finish this. ‘It’s getting late. The equinox is nearly over. You’re going to miss it … ’
Enraged, the Gardener moved swiftly forward.
‘Phil … look out … ’
A voice. Behind them. Phil recognised it straight away.
The Gardener turned, surprise etched on his features.
Phil didn’t stop to think. He was on him straight away. He sliced the blade across the Gardener’s throat. Jumped quickly back as the blood arced out of his neck, spraying him.
The Gardener dropped the sickle, put his hands to his throat. Gurgling sounds coming from his mouth. He tried to stop the flow of blood by pushing his fingers into the wound. Pushing and pushing. More gurgling. The blood spurted faster. Harder.
Phil watched him. No emotion in his face.
The Gardener sank to his knees, hitting the flagged floor with a thud. He looked up at Phil, eyes asking for an explanation.
Phil had none to give. Just stared at him.
The Gardener pitched forward. Head hitting the stone with a thud. He lay there, eyes wide, staring, as the blood slowed to a trickle, stopped altogether.
Phil sighed. Felt his legs give way.
Marina ran to his side. ‘I’ve got you,’ she said. ‘I’ve got you.’
He put his arm around her, let her take his weight. He looked at the cage, at the boy inside it. ‘You … you saved my … my … life … ’ Phil smiled.
Marina walked him across to Finn.
‘Let’s get you out of here … ’
Finn had stopped crying, stopped screaming. There was disbelief in his eyes.
He wouldn’t – couldn’t – believe it was all over.
It wasn’t.
M
ickey stopped dead. Stared.
The breath knocked from his body.
Inside the container was like a shanty town. Old mattresses were spread over the rusted wet metal floor. Stained, disgusting and damp, they had old blankets on them, people lying there.
And what people. Filthy. Emaciated. Barefoot. Wearing clothes that were little more than rags. Strings of low-wattage bulbs hung from the ceiling, some blown, casting pale, depressing pools, a shadowed glow.
Mickey walked further into the container. The few people there stared at him, pulled away from him. No one spoke. He stepped into the centre. Peered ahead. It wasn’t just one container. He could see where the back wall had been cut from the first container, the jagged, rusted edges welded to the next one along. Light bulbs were strung through there too. More mattresses, more walking-dead people.
He felt like one of the Allied soldiers at the end of the Second World War, walking into Belsen.
He realised, horrified, where he was.
In the Garden.
He walked slowly ahead, looking around all the time. Looking for Fenton, eyes, senses taken by what was before him.
The smell was appalling. Human decay, human waste. The noise, a low moaning, keening. The terminally unwell, too tired to cry out. Adults shielded children as he passed. He communicated terror by his presence. Another smell in the background: food. A rotting vegetable soup smell. Like reheated three-day-old kitchen waste.
He moved forward, eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom. He knew there would be no point asking if Fenton had come in here. He didn’t even know if they could speak English.
Finn came from here. Poor kid, thought Mickey. Poor, poor kid.
He stepped through into the next container. This one had a square hole cut into the ceiling. A metal ladder had been placed there. Mickey, looking around and not seeing Fenton, climbed upwards.
He came out on another level, much the same as the ground floor, though this one was slightly better. Washing was strung out – old, worn, but with a semblance of being clean – and the mattresses weren’t quite so stained as the ones down below. But then these ones didn’t have pooling rainwater soaking through them. Water ran down the walls, though. Mickey felt the damp in his chest immediately.
He looked round. The same layout as downstairs, but still no Fenton. He was about to begin walking round that floor when he felt a tugging on his leg.
He froze, stared down. A woman, huddled and scared, was looking up at him. Flinching away, too frightened to make direct eye contact. His first response had been to pull away. But he fought it. Stayed where he was. The woman didn’t want to hurt him. She was telling him something.
She pointed to a ladder in the next container along. With her fingers mimed travelling upwards. Mickey did the same. She nodded.
He knew where Fenton had gone.
He forced a smile, nodded. Mouthed a thank-you to her.
She just cast her head down as if expecting a blow from him.
Mickey moved quickly to the bottom of the next ladder. Started to climb.
Ready for Fenton.
He reached the top floor. There were no lights here, so he had to wait a few seconds, allow his eyes to get accustomed to the gloom. He focused. It was deserted, no people up here. As if it took too much effort for them to get this far. He saw that the bulbs stretched out as on the other floors, but a constant stream of water had rendered them useless. But possibly live, so he kept away from them.
The rain was battering the metal ceiling. If I had to live here, thought Mickey, it would drive me mad. He thought of the inhabitants downstairs. It explained a lot.
He took his torch out, swung it round, checking out the layout. He caught water coming in, so hard and persistent it seemed like it was raining inside.
And then, several containers along, water shining and splashing all around, he saw a shadow move.
Fenton.
Mickey quickly made his way through the cut-out walls, splashing in rusty brown puddles, careful not to touch the electric wires hanging from overhead.
He saw the shadow flit around another corner. Shone his torch at it.
Dead end.
He had him.
‘Fenton … ’ Mickey’s voice echoed off the metal walls. ‘Give yourself up. I’m armed and you’re surrounded. You won’t get out of here.’
Nothing. The rain the only response.
Mickey lowered his voice, tried a calmer approach. ‘Come on, Michael. It’s over. Let’s talk, hey?’
He heard a scream.
The shadow had detached itself from the back wall and was coming straight towards him. Mickey didn’t have time to react before Fenton was on him, punching and clawing at his face and head, screaming all the while.
He closed his eyes as Fenton’s fingers tried to push inside his eye sockets, gouge out his eyeballs. His turn to scream.
He wrapped his hands round Fenton’s wrists, tried to prise his hands away. He couldn’t. He worked his way along, grabbed hold of Fenton’s fingers, tried to pull them out. They wouldn’t budge.
He felt Fenton’s thumb sink into his left eye socket. The pain was becoming intense. He needed to do something drastic. Taking Fenton’s index finger with both hands, he pushed it back as far as it would go, heard the snap.
Fenton let out an animal howl. Mickey felt the pain in his eyes stop. He grabbed Fenton’s neck with his left hand, punched his face as hard as he could with his right.
Fenton fell backwards.
Mickey scrambled to his feet, eyes still stinging. Fenton was backing away from him.
‘Get off me! Get away from me!’
‘Come on, Michael, let’s go … ’ Mickey, walking towards him.
Fenton turned, got to his feet. Made a break back the way he had come. Mickey reached out for him, but he was beyond his reach.
Fenton turned to see if Mickey was behind him, turned back again. And tripped over the welded metal ridge between the containers.
Mickey reached out for him, but Fenton fell backwards, away from him.
‘No,’ called Mickey, ‘don’t—’
As Fenton fell, he reached up for something to steady himself. Found the soaking wet electrical cable running along the ceiling. He pulled, it detached itself and he slipped back, taking it with him as he went.
‘No … ’
Mickey stepped back. Well away from Fenton now.
The cable, worn and uninsulated, hit the pools of water in the container. Fenton, holding on to it, screamed.
Mickey couldn’t watch.
He turned away, the stench of burning flesh and singeing hair in his nostrils. Heard the wire sparking and humming.
He ran for the stairs.
Wanting to put as much distance between himself and Fenton – and the Garden – as possible.