The sight of the guns frightened Debbie and she shuddered when she thought to what use they were to be put. Even now, the shotgun stood propped up against the far wall of the kitchen, the Browning hanging in its shoulder holster from the back of the chair on which Lambert sat.
He finished eating, leaving a sizeable portion on his plate, and pushed the remains away from him. They regarded one another across the table, their eyes locked together like magnets. She finally got to her feet and walked around the table to him, reaching for him. He drew her close, squeezing her hard and he could hear her weeping softly. Lambert swallowed, his fingers tracing patterns in her hair. When she sat back, propped on his knee like some little child, tears stained her cheeks and he wiped them away with his finger.
'I love you,' he said, quietly and she smiled a little, fighting back the tears which threatened to spill forth once more.
'Tom,' she said, her voice catching, 'I don't understand any of this.'
He smiled humourlessly. 'Join the club.'
'I don't know why it's happening here. Not here in Medworth. I don't understand why it's happening at all.' Now the strength was returning to her voice and he felt a new power in the soft hands which gripped his.
'Perhaps the answer is in the books. Maybe that's the only explanation.' He peered past her into the living room to where the books lay open on the coffee table. Beside them was the medallion. Was it indeed as important as he suspected in getting to the bottom of this horror? Would the inscription finally reveal something of value? Something which they could use to aid them in the coming fight?
He exhaled deeply and kissed Debbie on the forehead.
'I'd better get moving,' he said and she slid from his knee, watching as he strapped on the shoulder holster, finally pulling on his jacket to cover the weapon. He held her close once more, not wanting to let her go. He closed his eyes and felt her arms grip him tight around the waist. Finally he stepped back, still resting his hands on her shoulders.
'As soon as it starts to get dark,' he began, 'lock and bolt all the doors and windows. Don't open them to anyone but me.' He swallowed hard, the next set of words coming out in fits and starts. 'If anything happens, get in touch with the station. Someone will be able to reach me wherever I am.'
'What do you hope to do, Tom? How can you fight them?' she asked, a note of tired desolation in her voice.
He picked up the shotgun, taking a box of shells from the drawer nearby. 'We'll cruise the streets, pick them off as they come out.' She noticed that he was shaking. He saw too, that his hands were quivering and he tried to laugh.
'I don't think there's anything in the rule book about this.' He was scared and he didn't mind admitting it. They kissed a last time and then she closed the door behind him, listening as the Capri started up, its wheels crunching gravel as Lambert reversed out into the street, did a quick three point turn and drove off.
Debbie felt more alone than she ever felt in her fife.
She drank another mug of coffee and retreated into the living room. Back to the books. She continued deciphering.
***
Lambert drove slowly, the shotgun propped up on the passenger seat beside him. He looked at the weapon, its shiny blue-black colour contrasting with the light wood of its stock, the ribbed slide set firmly beneath the huge barrel.
The box of cartridges bounced about beside it as he swung the car into a street, gazing out at the houses on either side of him, many of them now empty. Whether their occupants had been killed to join the ranks of the living dead, or simply just left town, the windows of the houses were as blank and vacant as blind eyes. The toll, both of murders and departures, had been mounting daily and the Inspector wondered how long it would be before there was no one left.
He drove through the centre of town, reassured by the sight of a few more people. By day things were not so bad, but once darkness descended the town became deserted. A ghost town. It was possible, if anyone were foolish enough to do so, to walk the centre of Medworth, in fact the entire town, without bumping into a single living soul. Everyone was secure inside their houses. At least that was what they thought. The only person who didn't mind the current wave of devastation was Ralph Sanders, the local locksmith. He had a little shop in the main street of Medworth and he had virtually sold out of door and window locks and bolts. Those people who had decided to stay seemed intent on keeping out anything that tried to enter their homes. Lambert wondered how many of them had been successful. Hayes would probably have new figures waiting for him when he reached the station but, at the present time, they knew for certain that there were ninety-three people missing. Probably more and, when totalled with the number that had just upped and left, he was staring at a figure closer to three hundred. But, as yet, ninety-three was the figure they had. A question stood out vividly in the Inspector's mind and it was one which was to plague him for a long time to come.
Where the hell did that many people disappear to during the day?
He tapped absently on the wheel as he drove, his mind elsewhere. He was so absorbed in his own thoughts that he almost ran into a woman as she was crossing the road. He braked sharply, making the woman jump back in shock. Lambert raised a hand in a gesture of apology and drove on.
***
'No, no,' shouted Hayes, 'squeeze the bloody thing.'
P.C. Ferman jerked his finger around the trigger of the shotgun, groaning as the recoil slammed it back into his shoulder, the roar of the discharge deafening him. He worked the pump action, ejecting the spent shell and lowered the weapon, rubbing at his bruised shoulder.
Beside him, Bell was squinting down the narrow sight, trying to line up the bottle before him. He fired, the savage blast nearly knocking him over. The shot missed wildly, leaving the bottle unscathed but peppering the wall above with pellets. Davies groaned and took the weapon from him, demonstrating how it should be used. He swung the shotgun quickly onto its target and fired, smiling as the bottle exploded, showering glass everywhere.
Briggs was having a little more luck. He'd managed to hit two of the bottles lined up before him and was beginning to feel proud of himself. He worked the pump action vigorously and sent three expert blasts tearing into the wall behind, each punching football size holes in the concrete.
'Very flashy,' said Hayes, appearing at his side, 'but let's see you hit the bloody bottles.'
Briggs coloured slightly and returned to the smaller targets, missing twice. He pushed in five fresh cartridges and worked the pump action, chambering one.
'But Sarge,' he protested, 'why do we have to shoot at bottles?'
Hayes shook his head. 'Because, mastermind, if you can hit something that small then you shouldn't have too much trouble hitting a body.' Both men looked at each other for long seconds, the words hanging on the air. Hayes shuddered. By God, that didn't sound right. Hitting bodies. He coughed awkwardly and rested a hand on Briggs' shoulder. When he spoke again, his tone was softer.
'Come on, lad, keep at it.'
Hayes walked up and down the short line. There were only six of them out there but, even so, in the still morning air, the sporadic explosions of fire from the shotgun muzzles were thunderous. The sergeant remembered the first time his Dad had taught him how to shoot. An old.410 it had been. Hayes had been twelve at the time and he could still remember the clouds of black smoke which belched from the twin barrels as he fired. His Dad had loved that gun, just like he had loved all his other weapons. Particularly the special weapon he had made. A single barrel rifle which, when unscrewed and disassembled, could fit into its own stock. Hayes had that gun at home now, along with the old.410 and his own under-over shotgun. He had been brought up with guns but never did he imagine that he would need to call upon that experience in a situation like this. He stood still and watched as the men fired, and as he stood he shivered, trying to convince himself that it was the coldness of the wind which caused it.
Davies joined him, his own shotgun still smoking from recent fire.
'Have you tried out the pistol yet, sarge?' asked the constable.
Hayes shook his head and fumbled in his jacket for the Browning. It felt heavy, its thirteen shot clip snug in the butt. He'd only fired pistols a few times and never anything as powerful as this. He drew the weapon and, steadying it with both hands, fired.
There was a loud retort and the pistol bucked in his grasp, the golden cartridge case spinning from the weapon, the bullet tearing a hole in the wall beyond.
'Christ,' muttered Hayes and, excited by the power of the thing, squeezed off two more rounds. Both missed the bottles but he was beginning to get a feel of the thing.
'I hope it's enough,' he said under his breath. And both men looked at each other.
Neither saw Lambert approaching. The Inspector had heard the sporadic gunfire as he had parked his car outside the station. He'd popped inside and found Walford behind the desk. There'd been a couple of calls from people outside the town asking about relatives who they couldn't contact. Walford told the Inspector that he'd informed the callers that inquiries were being made.
'Good lad,' said Lambert and hurried off towards the field behind the station, the shotgun gripped firmly in his grasp, a box of shells in his pocket. That was one thing he was thankful for, at least they had plenty of ammunition… The sound of the savage discharges grew in volume as he neared the line of men.
Davies was the first to see him. The constable nodded and Lambert smiled in return.
'Morning, guv,' said Hayes.
'How's it going?' asked Lambert, watching more holes being blown in the wall.
'Not too bad,' said Hayes, trying to smile. 'With a little time…'
Lambert cut him short. 'That's one thing we haven't got.'
He strode past the sergeant and Davies and pushed cartridges into his own shotgun before raising it to his shoulder and firing. The recoil cracked savagely against his shoulder.
'Shit,' muttered the Inspector under his breath.
'They're powerful.' Hayes said it as if he were telling Lambert something he didn't know.
The Inspector worked the slide, fired, pumped, fired. The third shot hit a bottle and shattered it. He lowered the weapon and rubbed his bruised shoulder. Hayes was grinning. Lambert felt somewhat reassured, having seen the power of the weapon. He handed the shotgun to Davies and drew the Browning, trying, at first, to sight it with one hand. When he fired, straight armed, the recoil nearly threw the gun from his grip-
'Jesus Christ,' said Lambert aloud and now the other men laughed too. The bullet sped past the wall and disappeared into the distance.
'Two hands, guv,' said Hayes, grinning.
Lambert steadied himself and fired, still surprised by the force of the recoil. He sighted carefully and squeezed off five rounds in quick succession. When he finally lowered the pistol, his ears were ringing and the palm of his right hand felt numb. He exhaled deeply and holstered the pistol. The other men began firing once more and again the morning air was filled with the roar of shotguns, occasionally accompanied by the strident explosion of a shattering bottle.
Hayes and Lambert stood together, watching. The Inspector was pushing more shells into the weapon, hefting it back and forth before him.
'Keep them at it for a couple of hours,' he said. 'No one's asking them to be bloody marksmen, I just want to be sure they hit what they aim at.'
Hayes nodded, watching as Lambert turned to the wall once more and fired the five shells in rapid succession, each one smashing holes in the concrete, two of them even hitting bottles. The Inspector watched as the last empty case fell to the ground, aware finally of the stink of cordite in the air. Then he strode past the sergeant, slapping him on the shoulder as he did so.
Hayes watched the young Inspector leave the field then turned back to the bruised constables before him.
'Well, come on then,' he shouted, 'let's see those bloody bottles get hit for a change. Many more shots off target and you'll have that fucking wall down.'
The intermittent roar of fire continued.
***
Debbie Lambert reached for the coffee mug and took a sip. Wincing, she noted that it was stone cold. She put the mug down and returned to the two books spread out in front of her. She swallowed hard and scanned the notes she had made. The name Mathias was beginning to crop up with surprising regularity. Debbie felt a twinge of something which she likened to excitement run through her and she almost forgot the steadily growing ache at the back of her neck. She massaged the stiff muscles with one hand, scribbling away frantically with the other. She reached the bottom of another page and turned it, the musty smell of the old book making her cough. She closed her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger.
'Enough for a minute,' she said aloud and got to her feet, padding into the kitchen where she switched on the kettle. More coffee. She ached all over her body but, somehow, she sensed that she was near her goal. A quick glance up at the wall clock told her it was approaching three thirty in the afternoon.
***
Lambert stood alone in the field, ignoring the spots of rain which bounced off him. He looked up at the sky, already dark with storm clouds. It would soon be dusk and he felt a shudder run through him. He looked into the box of shells at his feet. Nine left. He'd use them up then go back in. The men were waiting. He raised the shotgun and fired, watching with satisfaction as a bottle exploded under the impact. Again he fired, blasting a huge hole in the wall. His hands and shoulders ached but he kept up the steady fire until the shotgun was empty, the final spent cartridge spinning away as he worked the slide. He laid the weapon gently on the grass and reached inside his jacket for the Browning. He studied the pistol for a second before raising it with both hands and fixing one of the remaining bottles in his sights. Closing one eye he fired. He smiled weakly as he saw it shatter. The grass round about was littered with empty shell cases. It looked like a bloody battlefield. Lambert holstered the pistol and picked up the shotgun before trudging wearily down the hill to the station. He glanced at his watch. Four-fifty. It would be dark in an hour.