Dark clouds scurried through the night, hiding the bright moon for long seconds, blacking out the land below them.
‘I’ve lost it!’ Holly cried, her head craned forward to look through the cockpit’s Perspex dome. ‘I can’t see a bloody thing down there!’
Baruch felt himself spin and he knew he had hardly any strength left. ‘It . . . it must be somewhere . . . below us. I will keep to this area.’
‘It’s no good, Baruch. Even if we find it, what can we do? They’ll be under cover down there. This gun won’t stop them.’
The Israeli was silent, his head beginning to loll down on to his chest. The helicopter began to weave dangerously close to the ground. Suddenly, the moon appeared again and the grassy slope below was bathed in its silvery light.
Holly gripped the Israeli’s shoulder. ‘Over there! The small building – the outhouse! It’s near there. Yes, I can see it, that circle of undergrowth. They’ve cleared the opening.’
Baruch’s head jerked up and he looked in the direction the girl was indicating. The helicopter veered towards the spot and Holly was thrown back against her seat. They reached the shaft within a matter of seconds and Baruch hovered the machine before it.
Without turning towards his companion he yelled, ‘Jump!’
Holly regarded him with astonishment. ‘What are you going . . . ?’
‘Jump!’ His voice had reached a screech and he shoved her roughly towards the door at her side. Then she realized his intention and knew it was the only way.
‘Get out! Now!’ Once more he pushed her, and this time she reached for the handle and threw the small side-door open. She tumbled to the soft grass eight feet below and lay flat, unhurt but the wind knocked from her. She raised her head just in time to see the helicopter surge forward, hover for a brief second, then plummet down into the deep, brush-surrounded hole in the grassy slope.
Major Brannigan waited patiently for the second-hand to reach the appointed time, his body and brain keen with the excitement of a military operation that would alter the course of history. He and his staff were tucked away in a small alcove set in the side of the deep circular shaft, a thin metal partition erected at the alcove’s entrance to protect them from any back-blast of the missile. The sound of crashing waves was driven up from the beach by the wind, along a winding tunnel, and the sea tang was strong in Brannigan’s nostrils.
He quickly looked over the metal barrier’s top to check visually that everything was in order. The stone staircase built around the shaft’s circumference was free of personnel, the missile, bathed in a dim red light, was poised, waiting for its thrust into the sky. The surface-to-air missile stood only ten feet high and resembled the Soviet Goa in design, but it had been manufactured in Edward Gant’s own weapons factory, and to his specification.
‘Broad Band Jamming in action?’ he asked over his shoulder.
The technician seated at the control unit gave him a thumbs up and was immediately relieved that the major had his back to him: such informal gestures were frowned upon by the stiff-backed officer. ‘All’s fine, sir,’ the technician answered quickly. None of the nearby radar stations dotted along England’s south-west coast would pick up the missile’s flight path.
‘Target on screen?’
‘On screen and our beam locked in.’
Brannigan grunted with satisfaction. Their missile would home in on the US Secretary of State’s jet like a needle drawn to a magnet. They knew the exact flight path and time schedule thanks to Cutbush. He looked up at the circular area of sky, the inconsistent moon a silver bright circle encompassed by the larger black circle of the shaft’s entrance. He listened intently for a moment. He thought he had heard the whirring sound of rotor blades, but the crashing sea echoing up the long cave and swirling around the shaft’s walls made it impossible to be sure. He glanced down at his watch. No time for pondering now. Only five seconds to go.
‘Right,’ he said, crouching down.
The technician was intent on the dials in front of him, his finger poised over a particular button. He had his own timer and that alone would give him the signal to press the button and not an order from the major. Two of Gant’s special militia stirred uncomfortably behind the technician; they didn’t like their confinement with the missile, even though they had been assured there was no possible danger.
‘Three. Two . . .’ Brannigan’s index finger ticked the seconds away on his knee ‘. . . One. Let her go!’
The technician’s finger stabbed at the button as Brannigan spoke and, on the other side of the metal screen, the surface-to-air missile roared into life, vapour pouring from its base and filling the sunken cavern with its flames.
Just as it began its ascent, Major Brannigan looked up through the gap between the top of the screen and roof of the alcove, and had time to frown and wonder what the huge object blocking out the round circle of moonlight was before the helicopter plunged down the shaft and met the missile on its way out.
There was not even time for the men inside the deep well to scream their terror as the explosion created a massive ball of fire which swept around the shaft, filling it completely, and searing their flesh and bones to charcoal.
Steadman stared at the obscenity in the chair and felt every hair on his body stiffen, a coldness running up his back and clamping itself against his neck. His skin crawled with revulsion and the urge to urinate was almost irresistible. He tried to push himself back, to get away from the decayed creature, but his strength was drained, there was no power in his muscles. Kristina’s energy had been taken completely by this dead thing; she had not had the power to control its ravenous demands and now it was feeding off her psyche, had become a living entity. Now it was drawing on his, Steadman’s, spirit, sucking the life from him as it had sucked Kristina’s.
The head leaned forward, and Steadman shuddered as tiny white crawling worms were dislodged from the cavities in its cheeks. He saw one shaking, skeletal hand reaching down, flesh flaking from the fingers, and he drew in his breath at the thought of being touched by it. But the hand was stretching down towards the stone floor and he realized it was reaching for the ancient spearhead lying near the jackbooted feet. Steadman knew, beyond all doubt, that if the monstrosity grasped the Spear it would derive more strength from its strange power, and the weapon would once again be used against him, used to take his life.
With a cry of desperation, the investigator lunged forward and grabbed the spearhead just as the corpse’s fingers curled around it. As he pulled the ancient weapon away, one of the creature’s fingers fell to the floor, the rotted skin and brittle bones unable to resist the sudden movement.
Steadman drew the Spear to him, clasping it to his chest in both hands. He felt new strength coursing through him and though the pressure still drugged his brain, he was able to fight against the sensation, was able to rise from the floor and stagger away from the moving carcass. He backed away, stumbling over the dead body of Kristina, losing his grip on the spearhead, feeling the weakness again, crawling after the talisman, gripping it tightly, turning to see the dead thing rising from the chair and walking towards him, one arm raised, mouth gaping open, willing him to return the Spear, urging him to come back and be embraced.
Steadman screamed and staggered to his feet. He found the stairs on the opposite side of the chamber’s curtained entrance and clambered up them, the weakness making his movements slow, his footsteps leaden. He reached the door and slammed against its rough surface, one hand scrabbling madly for the handle, sensing the figure was behind, mounting the stairs, reaching for him.
He pulled at the handle, but the door was locked. He half-collapsed against it and, as he sank to his knees, he saw a rusted iron key projecting from the lock. He tried to twist the key, but it was jammed and his strength was useless. A shadow fell over him and he refused to turn round, too frightened to look into the corrupted face again, knowing the sight would paralyse him with its closeness. The foul smell swept over h
im, drawing his senses with its stench, and he wanted to close his eyes, to roll himself into a ball and hug himself tight.
Instead, he dropped the Spear and used both hands to turn the key, praying to God the mechanism would be released. His hands and arms shook with the exertion, but he felt the lock give, slightly at first, only a half turn, and then completely. He swung the door open as a hand grasped his shoulder and he pulled himself away from the deathly grip, scooping up the ancient weapon as he stumbled through into the black passage beyond.
There was no light. Only the freshness of the air drew him on, for it had to come from above ground, from the world of the living. He had no idea how long the passage was for he could see nothing ahead, only total darkness. Soft, tenuous material clung to his face and he thrashed wildly at the unseen cobwebs, smashing through them, revolted by their touch. His flesh crawled as tiny legs scurried across his cheek, and he slapped the spider away, shuddering at the sensation as its fragile body popped against his face. The floor was wet and he slipped, crashing painfully to his knees, his hand reaching out and scraping down a slimy wall. He turned his head as he rose and saw the corpse silhouetted in the doorway, a black shape growing larger as it moved forward. Then the door, urged by the breeze flowing along the passageway, slammed shut, and he knew the husk was in the darkness with him.
A sudden muffled sound came to his ears, the noise of a distant explosion, and the earth beneath his feet seemed to tremble with its force. He slipped again before he had fully risen, and heard the metal of the spearhead clang against the wall, nearly falling from his grasp. He gained his feet and forced himself on, a sudden thought bringing him to an abrupt halt. He wasn’t sure in which direction he was headed. In the panic-stricken moment of rising he had lost his bearings; for all he knew he was running straight back into the decomposed arms of the corpse. He held his breath and listened.
A shuffling noise to his left sent him scuttling away, once again using his hand as his only guide forward. The slowness of his actions taunted him, but he could not make his limbs move any faster. It was only his greater fear of what stalked him that made him progress at all. When he stumbled into the stone steps ahead, it was his own lethargy that prevented any serious injury. The freshness of the air drifting down seemed to confirm that the stone steps led outside. Steadman began to climb, his breath escaping in short, sharp sobs.
As he climbed, the effort became greater, as though the creature below were using a stronger force to prevent him from reaching the surface. He fell against the stairs, too tired to move, too exhausted to try, and the shock of clammy, cold fingers entwining themselves around his exposed ankle made him scream again, sending the blood pounding round his system, releasing the adrenalin that sent him crawling upwards, tearing himself free from the loathsome grip.
The husk that had once been a living being followed.
The stairs ended abruptly and Steadman knew he had reached ground-level. A thin silvery bar lying horizontally before him made him halt; then he realized it was moonlight – beautiful, silver moonlight – shining beneath a door. With an exclamation of hope, he rushed forward, crashing against the wooden structure in his haste. But this door, too, was locked. And this time, there was no key in the lock.
He looked around the room, searching for something with which to prise open the door, but the silver bar suddenly vanished as clouds obscured the moon’s rays. He groaned with frustration and footsteps made him look towards the stairway he had just emerged from. Even though he could not see in the dark, he knew the corpse was mounting the steps, was near the top, its head level with the room’s floor. He turned back to the door and banged against it with the spearhead, striking out in anger, fear, dread. The sound of the metal against wood brought him to his senses: he was holding the tool for his escape in his own hands.
He felt again for the lock, then moved his hand to the right, feeling for the gap where door joined frame. He found it and inserted the spearhead’s tip into the narrow gap, pressing his whole body against the rest of the blade, praying it wouldn’t snap with the force. Fortunately the wood was rotted and the lock none too strong.
The door flew inwards with a sharp cracking sound and fresh night air flew in as though to do battle with the nauseating stench of the thing that was now on the top step. Steadman rushed through the door and the cruel wind whipped at his body, unbalancing him in his weakened state. He went down and, in a night of bizarre sights, his eyes focused uncomprehendingly on yet another. In the darkness ahead, huge flames leaped into the sky, flames that seemed to spring from the very earth. It acted like a beacon for him, for it was light among total darkness.
He clutched the Spear to his chest as the corpse appeared in the doorway of the strange, vault-like building, the black uniform now blood-red in the glow from the fire. Steadman sensed that this creature – this abomination – wanted not just him but the Spear also. It needed the Spear to exist.
He lurched to his feet, the drugging sensation making his head reel. He staggered towards the flames, the corpse of the Reichsführer following, the wind tearing strips of parchment skin from its body, revealing the bones beneath.
The grass beneath Steadman’s feet was soft, sending new life into him as though the earth was trying to help him escape the unnatural thing. The fire was close and he swayed like a drunken man towards it, feeling its heat, welcoming its attack on the abnormal coldness behind him. His legs were in quicksand, but he forced them on, each step a single battle, each one taken, a new victory. He finally reached the brink of the pit, swaying dangerously before it, the heat singeing his hair and eyebrows, his skin reddening and beginning to scorch. He turned his back to the inferno and faced the advancing demon, knowing he could run no further, that if he could, he would drag the thing down with him into the depths below, back to the hell it had risen from.
Then the creature was before him and he was gazing into one sightless eye, the pince-nez torn away by the wind, the eye that had rested against the lens hanging down on to a fleshless cheek. The mouth was open wide as though the creature was screaming at him, but no sounds came from the lipless gap. Loose skin hung in flaps, breaking away, flaking into swirling dust. The corpse of Heinrich Himmler raised its withered arms to take Steadman in its embrace, the skeletal hands reaching behind the investigator’s neck to draw him forward, to touch its face to his. And Steadman was powerless to resist, mesmerized with horror, feebly trying to twist his head away as the skull came forward, a small cry of terror his only sound.
He felt his senses swimming and though he turned his head, his eyes refused to look away from the terrible face. For a moment, he thought he saw the images of Edward Gant and Kristina in the hideous features, screaming out at him from their new-found torment. The skull seemed to grow larger, to fill his vision completely, the eaten-away features sharp in detail. He knew the creature wanted to drag him back to the crypt, to take his will and exist on it. The thing pulled at him and Steadman was powerless to resist.
The ravaged head suddenly burst apart in a hail of bullets, exploding into a fine powder, the remnants toppling from the corpse’s body and rolling in the grass at its feet. Steadman drew back and felt his strength return, surging through his body till every nerve-end tingled with the sensation of it. He saw Holly on her knees no more than four yards away, her arms stretched before her, the gun she held in both hands aimed at their swaying figures. He called out her name, the relief of seeing her alive almost too much for his battered emotions, and her face was a mask of fear and incomprehension.
Inexplicably, the headless corpse remained erect, the hands having dropped from Steadman’s neck to its side. It stood like a statue, the howling wind whipping at its clothing and threatening to disintegrate the frail body completely. Lights in the distance distracted Steadman for an instant and the crackle of gunfire came faintly to his ears, telling him it really was all over for Edward Gant’s macabre New Order. He saw figures scurrying around the house and heard shouted
commands, the breaking of glass as they forced their way into the building. Other figures had broken off from the main body and were hurrying towards them, towards the blaze.
He felt the vibration running through the spearhead and looked down, the power from its black metal seeming to course along his arms, penetrating his bloodstream. Then he felt the weakness again, the dragging sensation of energy being drained from him, syphoned from his body by a magnetic force. He fought against the sensation, against the power from the Spear. The headless figure before him reached out, the withered fingers grasping his wrists, and Steadman felt the strength in his arms begin to leave him, to flow from the Spear into the body of the dead Reichsführer.
Steadman screamed in rage, pulling away from the corpse, twisting his arms to break the grip. He staggered and the corpse lurched forward, almost toppling on to him. The investigator turned his body, the heat from the fire burning into his face again, his eyes narrowing with its intensity. In a last desperate effort, and with the agonized cry of the near-defeated, Steadman raised the ancient weapon and plunged it down at the figure’s chest, aiming at the heart that had long ceased to beat. The spearhead sank deep, seeming to melt into the rotted flesh. The screech that tore into Steadman’s mind was from a tormented creature, a piteous soul suffering the final torture.
Steadman pressed the spearhead in even deeper, pushing the body back towards the flames, ignoring the fresh screams that came from it, closing his mind to its beseeching, wailing cries. They were at the edge of the pit and he saw smoke rising from the black uniform as it began to smoulder. The pain was too much; Steadman knew he would soon collapse with it. But then the body was over the edge, the jackbooted feet scrabbling against the shaft’s side, falling away from him, a black shape disappearing into the inferno below, to be devoured by the fires. Consumed into non-existence.