Heathen, p.31
Heathen, page 31
His surprise lasted only seconds.
Peter Farrell reached for his gun.
Ninety
The movement was smooth and efficient.
Donna raised the .357, steadied herself and fired off two rounds.
The roar as the weapon spat out the high-calibre shells was intolerable in the confined space; both she and Julie were deafened by the thunderous retort. The muzzle-flashes seared white light onto their retinas and the stink of cordite filled the air.
The impact lifted Farrell off his feet. The first bullet struck him in the chest, the second hit him just below the chin.
He was slammed back against the wall, blood spouting from the wound in his throat. For long seconds he stood there, eyes gaping wide, his body twitching.
Donna fired again.
The third shot caught him in the face slightly to the left of his nose. The bullet drilled the eye socket empty, powered through the brain and exploded from the back of his skull, carrying a confetti of pulverized bone and sticky pinkish-red matter with it. Farrell pitched forward, what was left of his head smacking hard against the floor, blood pouring from the remnants of his blasted cranium.
Donna stepped over the body and into the room from which he’d emerged, her ears still ringing.
Julie followed, glancing down at the body as she passed.
The room beyond was large and well lit, particularly the area in the centre. It was there that Donna saw a naked man scramble to his feet, a look of horror on his face as he saw the gun. The woman beneath him, also naked, rolled over and tried to get up but she slipped, screaming in terror.
Donna saw perhaps a dozen men in the room, most dressed in suits. And instead of attacking her and Julie, they were fleeing.
A door at the far end of the room seemed to be their only means of escape. They rushed at it en masse, struggling with each other in their haste to get out.
Donna spun round, the gun levelled.
Dashwood and Parsons stood immobile at the head of a long table.
The Grimoire was on the table in front of them.
There was another thunderous roar of gunfire. Donna hurled herself to the ground as the bullet sang past her, slicing empty air before blasting a hole in the wall.
David Ryker got off two more rounds before Donna managed to return fire.
The room was filled with the massive sounds, thundercracks of noise that threatened to burst the eardrums.
The naked man ran towards Ryker.
He shot him.
Donna looked on in bewilderment as Ryker put two shots into the man’s chest. She saw him hurled backwards by the impact, one shell erupting from his back close to the right scapula. Gobbets of lung tissue sprayed across the room as he fell.
The woman who had been with him went on screaming until Ryker shot her, too, one .45 slug in the head. It smashed in her temple as surely as if she’d been hit with a sledgehammer.
Donna fired and hit Ryker in the shoulder. He dropped his gun and clapped a hand to the wound, feeling jagged bone against his fingertip as his index finger slipped inside the hole.
‘Get the book,’ Donna shouted to Julie, who sprinted across the rapidly emptying room.
The other people who had been in the room had mostly scrambled through the door at the far end.
Julie picked up a chair and hurled it at Dashwood, who raised his arms to shield himself, falling back.
Parsons snatched at the Grimoire, catching Julie across the face with a swipe of his hand. She shouted in pain, feeling her bottom lip split under the impact.
Parsons gripped the book in his gnarled hands.
Donna stood up and fired at him.
The shot caught him in the left arm, tearing through the bicep.
Blood exploded from the wound, thick, dark blood that spattered the wall behind him.
He dropped the book and Julie made a grab for it, knocking it away, sending it skidding across the floor.
Parsons shouted something and leapt after it.
Donna drew a bead on him and fired.
The hammer slammed down on an empty chamber.
She threw the .357 away, pulling at the other shoulder holster, freeing the Beretta.
Parsons shouted in triumph as he reached the book but Donna swung the 92S into position and pumped the trigger.
One, two, three times she fired.
Parsons was hit in the chest and thigh. The third bullet missed and buried itself in the far wall.
Four, five, six.
The room had become like the inside of a cannon barrel, the noise incessant and deafening. Julie screamed but could not hear her own cry.
Parsons had fallen face down on the floor across the naked woman, his body torn and bleeding from the impact of the 9mm bullets. He reached out towards Donna, his fingers gradually twitching less and less.
He lay still.
Smoke hung like a gauze net across the room.
Julie, on her hands and knees, looked around for the Grimoire. Donna could see that the only living people left now were herself, her sister, Ryker, who was slumped against an overturned table holding his smashed shoulder, and Dashwood, who stood defiantly facing her.
Donna’s breath came in gasps as she looked from one man to the other.
The floor was awash with blood from the dead man and woman and from Parsons.
The Grimoire lay in the centre of the floor.
A prize.
The trophy in a game of death.
No one moved.
The retorts of the guns still filled their ears, the muzzte-flashes still flamed in their eyes. But the room was all but silent.
Donna could see that Ryker’s .45 was lying within two or three feet of him. She saw his eyes dart to one side.
He moved very slightly towards the weapon, still holding his shoulder. Blood was pumping through his fingers; every movement clearly brought him fresh agony, as the two pieces of his shattered clavicle grated together.
Nevertheless, if he could just reach the gun ...
Donna shot him three times.
His body jerked as each bullet thudded into him, then he slid to one side and lay still, his chest and face covered in blood. It looked as if someone had upended him and dipped him in the crimson fluid.
Donna aimed the pistol at Dashwood.
Julie was crying softly now. Her hearing all but gone, her eyes stinging from the smoke, she could only watch helplessly as Donna and Dashwood faced each other.
He was smiling.
Ninety-One
‘You should have been dead by now,’ Dashwood told her. ‘Both of you.’
Donna kept her eyes fixed on him and the automatic aimed at his head.
‘What did you hope to gain by this little show?’ The words were heavy with scorn. ‘You think what’s happened here tonight will make any difference? Do you think you can stop us? Your husband thought the same thing, and he ended up joining us.’
‘No,’ said Donna, shaking her head.
‘Why do you find it so hard to believe?’ Dashwood asked. ‘Did you know so little about him? Or were you too stupid?’ He glared at her. ‘He knew this place well enough. And our other meeting houses. He wanted our knowledge and he found it. He paid the price to be one of us. He abandoned all he believed in, all his morals, all his ethics. He had nothing left but us.’
‘It’s not true,’ Donna said tearfully.
‘He knew a woman called Suzanne Regan,’ Dashwood said flatly, as if he were telling her something she didn’t already know.
The surprise registered on her face and Dashwood saw it.
‘True?’ he continued.
She nodded.
‘Do you know what she was? She was what this woman was to have been.’ He nodded towards the corpse of the naked female at Donna’s feet. ‘She was a carrier. She had been for a number of our other members. And she was for your husband.’ Dashwood held Donna’s gaze. ‘You said you had read the initiation rites. You knew of the fornication, the offering of a child, the need to keep that child’s skull. Suzanne Regan carried a child for your husband. A child he then killed.’
Donna’s body stiffened. She felt an icy coldness envelope her, as if she’d been wrapped in a freezing blanket.
‘He knew he had to sacrifice a child as an offering to us,’ Dashwood told her. ‘He made Suzanne Regan pregnant. She knew what would happen to the baby, but it didn’t bother her. She handed it over willingly, so your husband could kill it. He killed it in front of us, just as he had copulated with Suzanne Regan as we watched. He cut the child’s head from its shoulders as we watched.’ Dashwood shrugged. ‘We welcomed him into our ranks and then he betrayed us. He stole the Grimoire and threatened to expose us, as I told you. He knew too much about us.’
‘You’re lying,’ Donna said, wishing she could inject more conviction into her voice. She had lowered the gun slightly.
‘You traced us, you learned about us. You know that every member of The Sons of Midnight entered his name in the Grimoire. Your husband’s name is there. Look at it.’
He motioned towards the book.
Kill him.
‘Go on, look,’ he urged.
Kill him and destroy the book.
She had to know.
Donna moved towards the Grimoire and flipped it open. There were hundreds of names there, some faded from the passing of time.
‘The last name,’ Dashwood told her.
She turned a couple of pages and looked at the list.
‘Oh God,’ she whispered. She felt the freezing blanket being drawn tighter.
On the parchment-like paper she saw her husband’s name, recognized his handwriting.
Donna took hold of the page and tore it out.
Dashwood shouted in pain, his teeth gritted, as he looked at the ripped-out page.
Donna folded it and pushed it into the back pocket of her jeans.
She tore out another page.
‘No,’ shouted Dashwood. A deep gash appeared above his left eyebrow, as if slashed by an invisible blade.
He lunged at Donna, trying to get hold of the book.
‘Leave it, you bitch,’ he roared.
She hurled the book away and fired at it, putting two bullets into the ancient tome.
To her surprise and horror, blood exploded from the book.
Dashwood screamed and clapped hands to his chest.
Blood was jetting from two wounds there.
Donna fired more shots into the book.
Pieces of it flew into the air, propelled by the dark blood pumping from it.
Dashwood dropped to his knees, holes appearing in his leg and stomach.
More of the crimson fluid spilled over his lips. He turned to face Donna.
‘You know the truth now,’ he grimaced, teeth clenched, bloodied. ‘Search your house. The cellar.’ His eyes blazed. ‘He was one of us,’ he roared.
Donna shot him in the face as he knelt in front of her.
He raised his hands towards her and she saw the skin beginning to yellow, to peel away from his fingertips. A nail came free, pus and blood spewing from the digit. Huge pieces of flesh began to curl away from his cheeks, leaving the network of muscles beneath exposed. One eye burst in its socket. Dark fluid began to run from both his nostrils and suddenly the room was filled with an overpowering stench of decay, a nauseating odour that made the two women feel sick.
Dashwood clapped his hands to his face and pulled them away dripping. Flesh was liquefying on his bones, the bones themselves crumbling.
In a corner of the room the Grimoire was dissolving into a seething puddle of reeking muck, a gelatinous mess that looked like the contents of a huge, freshly milked boil.
Dashwood fell forward and his body seemed to fold in on itself, his chest collapsing, lungs transformed into reeking sacks which burst, spilling more black fluid into the cavity of the torso. His legs seemed to shrivel, shrinking up inside his trousers, already stained with blood.
Donna finally managed to stagger away from the sight. Julie followed.
They headed for the door through which they’d entered, hurdling the body of Farrell, aware now that the breathing that had been ever-present since they entered the house had stopped.
Blood oozed from the walls.
All the way up the flight of stone steps and along that corridor the dark fluid coursed down the plaster and stone.
They burst free into the hallway, then through into the room beyond, and struggled out of the window by which they’d first entered.
The cool night air washed over them but could not drive the stench of decay from their nostrils.
Julie was already running for the alleyway that ran alongside the house. Donna took one look back at the building, then ran after her.
The wailing of sirens already filled the air.
It would be a matter of minutes before the first police car arrived.
Ninety-Two
From where they sat they could see the uniformed men approaching the house in Conduit Street. Donna watched them scrambling out of their cars, running towards the front door. Others headed off up the alley at the side of the building.
She watched impassively, her mind blank, her eyes devoid of emotion. She felt as if every last ounce of feeling had been sucked from her. She was drained, incapable of movement let alone rational thought.
And yet still Dashwood’s words echoed in her mind:
‘He was one of us.’
She lowered her head momentarily and closed her eyes.
‘The police will be looking.’
Julie’s voice seemed a million miles away.
Donna raised her head and looked at her sister.
‘The police will be looking for whoever killed those men,’ the younger woman continued.
‘They won’t be looking for us,’ Donna said.
Julie gazed at her for long moments.
‘Are you satisfied now?’ she said finally.
Donna didn’t speak.
‘They’re dead. You’ve got what you wanted. How does it feel?’
‘We have to go back to the cottage,’ Donna said quietly. ‘Dashwood said I’d find the truth in the cellar. Only the cottage has a cellar. We have to go back and look there.’
‘Not we, Donna. You. I’m finished. I’m leaving now. If you want to stop me, you’ll have to kill me.’ There were tears in Julie’s eyes.
Donna looked wearily at the younger woman.
‘I wanted to hate you for this,’ she said softly. ‘For what you did. For taking Chris from me.’
‘I didn’t take him,’ Julie protested.
‘I know he didn’t leave me, but like I said to you before, you shared part of his life. A life that should have been just mine and his. And I do hate you.’ She felt her own tears beginning to run warmly down her cheeks. A bitter smile creased her face.
‘You’ll never see me again, Donna, I promise you,’ Julie said, wiping her eyes. She opened the car door.
‘You think I’d just let you walk away?’
‘What else are you going to do? I’m sorry. Believe that, at least. I am sorry for what I did.’
Julie held her sister’s gaze for a moment, then moved to pull herself out of the car.
‘I can’t let you walk away, Julie,’ Donna said almost apologetically.
‘You can’t stop me,’ the younger woman said, and swung herself out of the car.
Donna slid her hand inside her jacket and pulled out the Beretta, keeping the pistol low, aimed at Julie’s stomach.
She shook her head, tears streaming down her face.
A look of fear flickered behind Julie’s eyes.
‘You’re right,’ Donna said, her voice cracking. ‘It is all over.’
Donna turned the gun round quickly, bent her head forward and opened her mouth.
She pushed the barrel into her mouth and squeezed the trigger.
Ninety-Three
