Their lovemaking had been even more abandoned that night, animalistic almost, and the thought of it made her tingle. She'd hang onto him for a couple more weeks. He bought her flowers and perfume, anything she wanted really. She only had to ask and he'd get it for her.
Silly old bastard,
she thought. Couldn't he see she was using him? She'd cooked him dinner that night, listened disinterestedly as he'd prattled on about his day's work. She fussed him, teased him, and finally they had climbed into bed. To her it seemed like a fair deal, he got what he wanted from her, she got what she wanted from him. Sometimes it was difficult to tell who was using who. Still, she thought, next time she'd pick up a younger bloke. Burton had the money and he was good in bed, but she wanted someone nearer her own age. He could only manage it twice in a night and sometimes that wasn't enough for her.
Her husband had been the same. She almost laughed aloud as she thought of him. Poor old Ron. He'd joined the army a year before they got married. He was a sergeant in the Signals. Out in Ulster at the moment. She'd had no letter from him for over a week. For all she knew, or cared, he could be lying in some Belfast gutter with an I.R.A. bullet in him. He usually wrote to her once a week to ask how she was, how the family was, and his little joke at the end, to make sure that she was behaving herself. Ha bloody ha, she thought. Dutifully she wrote back, always telling him that she missed him and couldn't wait for him to get home. She smiled to herself. Fucking idiot he was, probably believed her too. She was toying with the idea of moving away from Medworth. It was boring. She wanted to see some life. Ron was happy there, but, of course, he never did have any ambition. London was the place for her. The nightlife. The men. Beneath the sheets she ran both hands over her body, satisfied that she would have no trouble finding someone dumb enough to keep her if she ever should make the trek down there. Any bloke, anywhere, would give his right arm to have her. She was one of that rare breed of women who were not only aware of their good looks but also knew how to use them to get what they wanted. She heard Burton open the back door and wished he would stop farting about and hurry back to bed. She was beginning to feel horny again.
***
The wind hit him like a cold hammer when he opened the door and the newsman shivered, wishing he'd put on a coat. He stepped out into the darkness and hurried around the corner to the passage. Peering up it, he could see the gate slightly ajar. As he started towards it, a gust of wind blew it shut * plunging the passage and back yard into total darkness. Burton placed his hands on one wall and groped his way towards the door.
He cracked his leg on something which was standing in the darkened passage.
'Jesus,' he groaned, rubbing his injured shin.
The object which he'd collided with was a motorcycle. The lad who owned it lived in the next house and he always put it in the passage on bad nights. Burton cursed under his breath and edged past the bike. He reached the gate just as a gust of wind sent it hurtling back. It slammed into the rear wall with a loud thud and momentarily gave the newsman a view of the street outside. All the lamps were out. It was like a bloody coal mine out there. Burton thought he saw something move at the end of the pathway which led out from the gate, but he dismissed it and fumbled with the latch on the gate, finally dropping it into place and tugging on the metal handle to ensure that the wind wouldn't blow it loose again. Satisfied, he turned and groped his way back down the passage, careful to avoid the motorcycle this time. He edged around the corner into the back yard of Stevie's house and smiled at the sight of light flooding from the open back door. He paused for a moment. He didn't remember leaving the door open when he came out. Burton shrugged. The bloody wind had probably blown that open too.
He heard a scratching sound close by and spun round, trying to make out what it was in the light from the open back door.
A dark shape was moving at the bottom of the garden. Hidden by the large hedge, it was difficult to make it out. The newsman hesitated, squinting into the gloom, trying to distinguish shape from shadow. A particularly strong gust of wind rocked him where he stood and he shivered, bringing both arms up and trying to cover himself while still attempting to make out what exactly was moving about at the bottom of the garden. There was another sound, like that of sticks being broken. Finally, his curiosity getting the better of him, Burton strode off down the garden to find the source of the noise.
***
Stevie sighed. What the hell was Burton playing at? Surely it didn't take that long to lock a gate? She hadn't heard it banging for the last couple of minutes so she assumed that he had closed it. What the bloody hell was he pissing about at?
She heard footsteps on the stairs and smiled, deciding to play a joke on him. She rolled onto her side, pretending to be asleep. The landing light went off and she heard movement outside the door. She'd frighten the bastard when he came back in. She'd wait until he was leaning right over her then jump up. Stevie suppressed a grin.
Her back was to the bedroom door when it opened.
***
Burton reached the bottom of the garden, the wind now drowning out all other noises. It gusted around him, roaring in his ears and he began to wish he'd gone straight back into the house. He could hardly see in the darkness and he was freezing but he was determined to find out what it was that was making the scratching noise.
He peered over the top of the hedge, scanning the ground for some sign of movement.
Nothing in sight. He sighed.
Something touched his foot and he jumped back, almost shouting in terror. Controlling the urge to run, he looked down to see a hedgehog scuttling past. It hurried past him and disappeared beneath the wire fence which separated Stevie's garden from the one next door. Burton smiled, amused and angry with himself for his exaggerated reaction. He turned and trudged back towards the house.
He was pleased to regain its warmth and light and he hastily locked and bolted the back door, shivering. Then he made his way back through the darkened house until he reached the hall. Here he paused. The landing light was out, the staircase in darkness. Burton flicked the switch in the hall which also controlled the landing light and the place was illuminated once more. He started up the stairs, slowing his pace as he noticed a strange odour. It reminded him of bad fish and he wrinkled his nose as it became stronger. By the time he reached the landing itself, the stench was almost overpowering. The door to Stevie's bedroom was closed tightly and Burton found that he had to use unexpected force to open it. He stepped inside, reaching for the light switch, the smell now so strong he wanted to vomit. He called her name once and turned on the light.
There were three of them in the room.
Burton froze in the doorway, not quite able to accept what he saw.
The living dead creatures were huddled around the bed like worshippers at an altar. As the light went on, two of them cowered down, trying to hide their blank eyes from the brightness.
Eyes?
It was with mounting revulsion that Burton realized they didn't have any eyes. Just black, empty holes, dark with dried and caked blood. The third of the trio, a man in his thirties, had one hand on Stevie's face, and the newsman saw that one of his bony fingers was still embedded in her, now empty, eye socket. Blood from the torn cavity had run down like crimson tears, staining the sheets. In other places it had splashed over her chest. He noted the wounds around her throat, the bruising and red welts where she had been throttled to death, the numerous other abrasions on her body where the trio of living corpses had attacked her.
Burton couldn't move. All he could do was shake his head slowly back and forth, his eyes gaping wide at the scene before him. Had his mind been functioning properly he would have realized that it was the light that was keeping the things still, but, in his present state, nothing registered. Just the obscene image of those creatures, crouched around Stevie's body like eyeless vultures.
Then, when he seemed beyond horror, something happened which finally galvanized him into action.
Stevie sat up.
Very slowly she turned her head, the bleeding holes which should have been eyes fixing him in a blazing stare.
She was grinning.
Burton screamed and reached down, his fist closing around a hand mirror which lay on the dressing table beside him. He took a step forward and, with all his strength, smashed it into the face of the first living corpse. The impact shattered the mirror and long shards of razor-sharp glass shredded the man's face. So powerful was the swing, it knocked the thing off its feet and it toppled onto the second of the living dead creatures, a woman no more than twenty-five. The third, another man, leapt across the bed at Burton and grabbed him by the throat. Roaring with rage, the newsman pushed the creature away, bringing his foot up. It connected savagely, just below the ribcage and the thing crumpled up. Burton aimed another kick at its head, gratified by the sound of snapping bone as he shattered a cheekbone with the force of his blow.
He staggered for a second, his mind frozen, filled only with one thought. Hatred for the things that had killed Stevie. But now she was upon him, her sharp nails tearing at his face, raking his cheeks. Aiming for his eyes. He punched her hard, the blow splitting her bottom lip, but she staggered a moment then was at him again. They fell back against the wall, her hands reaching for his throat.
The second creature, the woman, clambered over the bed and joined in the attack and Burton felt more sharp nails tearing at his face. Blood spurted from three deep gashes and he lashed out, catching the creature in the throat. It made a gurgling sound, yellow mucous spilling over its lips but it continued with its attack and Burton now noticed that the second woman too, was grinning.
They were all grinning.
Even the first of them, staggering towards him with splinters of glass protruding from his torn face where the mirror had cut him.
Burton screamed once more and, with a last desperate surge of strength, hurled Stevie away. She toppled over the fallen creature and the newsman bolted for the door, slamming it behind him and racing for the stairs. The second woman was after him, catching his arm as he reached the top step. He spun around, the momentum of his swing aided by the turn, and slammed both fists into her face. The nose crumbled beneath the impact and bright blood spurted into the air, some of it onto Burton. He grabbed the woman by the hair and hurled her down, watching with something approaching insane joy as she tumbled down the stairs, finally crashing into the table at the bottom. He almost shouted in anguish as he saw her get up, starting towards him once more.
And now the others were spilling onto the landing, all of them sporting that hideous feral grin. Headed by Stevie they lunged at him but he ducked back into the bathroom, slamming the door and sliding the tiny bolt.
One of the living dead men crashed into the door and Burton knew that it wouldn't hold them back for long. His breath coming in gasps, he looked frantically around the tiny room which had become a prison. There was nothing to defend himself with. He couldn't hope to fight off four of them.
There was one chance…
If he could climb out of the window onto the window sill, he might be able to hoist himself up onto the roof of the house. They'd never be able to reach him up there and, even if they did succeed in climbing up, it could only be one at a time. He'd kick the fuckers off as they reached the top.
The bathroom door rocked once more and the bolt began to bend. Burton crossed the room, opened the window and clambered up onto the sill, using the sink as a foothold.
He could hear them moving about outside the room.
Twenty feet below him was a mass of solid concrete and he was thankful he couldn't see it as he scrambled out onto the sill. The powerful wind tugged at him and, for a second, he tottered but he grabbed at the guttering a foot or so above. his head and steadied himself. He prayed that it would take his weight.
There was an almighty crash as the bathroom door was smashed in. The living corpses crowded into the room, the first of them rushing to the open window, grabbing for Burton's exposed legs. He shrieked and kicked out at the grasping hand, trying, simultaneously, to hoist himself up. The wind roared in his ears, the hands of the creatures tore at his legs. With almost tired resignation, he realized he wasn't going to make it.
He groaned and tried to pull himself up but the guttering buckled under his weight. For precious seconds it held and he actually managed to hook one leg up onto the slates of the roof, but, with a sickening creak, it gave way.
Burton uttered one mournful cry and plummeted to the concrete below.
The impact broke his back and most of his ribs on the left side, one of which tore through his lung. His head slammed down. Blood burst into his mouth and he sensed a feeling of total awareness before he blacked out. The last thing he saw was the living dead things peering out of the bathroom window, as if, somehow, they could see his shattered body. Even though he couldn't see them clearly, he could sense that they would be grinning.
Twelve more people were to die that night.
The night was alive with a kaleidoscope of flashing blue lights as Lambert swung the Capri into Victoria Lane. There were two squad cars and an ambulance, all with their lights spinning, parked in the road outside a house about half way down the street. One of the Pandas was parked on the pavement.