Nailed by the Heart (22 page)

Beyond
the horse was a car. A door torn from the hinges hung from the
branches of a nearby tree. He walked slowly now, axehandle held
across his chest at the ready.

No
sign of life.

The
houses looked deserted. The doors of some hung open. At his feet a
pink bedroom slipper rested on the pavement. As if it had come off as
its owner had run down the street.

He
looked inside the car. Dark patches moistened the upholstery.

Blood.

He
licked his dry lips.

Then
from the other end of the village came a commotion. A mixture of
noises-snarls, yelping howls, all breathless and high-pitched as if
something was in pain.

It
was a pack of dogs. They came at him, snarling and howling.

Something
had driven them mad. They ran in a tight pack down the street, eyes
rolling, whites flashing, pink tongues swinging from mouths that
dripped saliva. They were biting one another, ripping off tufts of
hair and shredding one another's ears.

He
raised the axehandle. But they did not even notice him and ran on,
insanely biting each other, even themselves, as if invisible rats
were running across their backs.

Right,
he told himself. A quick look round, five minutes at the most; then
back to the seafort. A glance in a couple of cottages told him the
villagers had deserted the place.

Quickly,
he walked down the village street. A fistful of banknotes littered
the pavement in front of the village store. Another dog lay dead in a
front garden, its body on the lawn, its head ten feet away in a
rosebed. The teeth shone through parted lips.

What
if he saw a man or woman like that? Sweat began to roll down his
forehead.

The
end of the street was in sight through the thickening mist when Chris
heard the voice calling him.

"Chris
... Hey, Chris. Over here."

He
looked round. In the doorway of the corrugatediron hut that served as
the village hall stood Mark Faust. Gesturing for Chris to approach,
the big man looked anxiously up and down the street.

Chris
didn't wait for the invitation to be repeated; he sprinted across the
road and through the doorway. The door banged shut behind him; the
bolts snapped home.

He
had seen photographs of scenes like this before, usually accompanying
reports about refugees.

In
the hall, sitting silently on the orange plastic chairs, were
approximately twenty men and women. He knew most of them by sight.
Now they wore tired, shellshocked faces. They stared forward into
thin air, seemingly not interested in anything but their own private
thoughts. The only movement came from the simple Tamworth girl. She
sat heavily in an old armchair, thumbing through a tot's book on
animals, mouthing the name of each one in her little-girl voice.

"Ducks
... Moo-cow ... Two ducks ... Mr. Rabbit..."

At
the far end of the hall stood the Major, the Westie at his feet. The
only expression of comprehension came when he noticed the dog
nervously circling his feet. Gently he'd pat the dog and say in a low
voice, "Good boy ... Good boy, Mac. Don't worry, we're going
home soon, boy."

As
the old soldier straightened, Chris noticed that he wore a leather
belt with a holster. The butt of the army revolver gleamed dully.
Chris glanced quickly around. A middle-aged man with ginger hair-he
recognized him as Hodgson the farmer-sat by a window with a shotgun
across his legs. Sitting on the low stage was Tony Gateman, anxiously
smoking a cigar.

Chris
wondered if the little Londoner thought he had come to finish the job
when he saw the axehandle.

He
felt a heavy hand grip his shoulder. Mark's gesture was friendly.

"Come
on," he rumbled, "let's talk. Tony's got one or two things
he'd like to share with you."

They
walked down the aisle between the chairs to the stage. Hardly anyone
looked up.

Cautiously,
Tony Gateman nodded a greeting; those shrewd eyes studied Chris's
face through the thick lenses of his glasses.

Chris
nodded back. "What's happening, Tony?"

"I
can tell you that in one sentence." He drew on the cigar.
"Basically we're in the shit."

Chris
sat beside him on the stage. "Tony, I know you know more about
all this than I do. But I've seen enough and ... and it sounds
bizarre, but I feel enough to know this thing is dangerous ... Look,
there are people out at Manshead. They're standing in the water
around the seafort."

Mark
pulled up a chair and sat astride it. "Have they done anything?
Have they tried to attack you?"

"No
... nothing like that. Although someone has built a barrier of stones
across the coast road. We can't get out by car. As for whoever it is
in the water, they just go in and out with the tide. They stand
shoulder-deep in the water, their eyes shut. It sounds crazy, but
they seem to be watching us."

"They're
watching all right."

Chris
looked at him. "You know who they are?"

"Let's
say," said Tony, "that friend Mark here had a run-in with
them about thirty years ago. And believe me, Chris, those bastards
are evil. Evil."

Tony
drew on his cigar. "Ruth and little David all right?"

"Fine.
The seafort's gates are locked. Nothing'll get in there." Chris
noticed Tony and Mark exchange looks in a way he didn't like at all.

"You
know Fox?" Tony spoke in a low, measured voice. "He never
did make it back to the village, you know."

Chris's
mouth stayed dry.

"You
know, Chris, I think he's with his brother now."

"You
mean he's dead?"

"I
mean, Chris, I believe he is with his brother. Dead is debatable."

"Look
... Tony, I don't know what you mean. You're going to have to
explain."

As
Tony began to speak there was a bang from the back of the hall. Chris
started and jumped to his feet.

"It's
only the Hodgson boys," said Mark. "They've been out with
their uncle. They're collecting sacks."

Chris
watched two boys in their mid-teens pile sacks on the plank floor
with more strength than finesse. Both had orange-gingery hair with
faces mottled with freckles. And both were obese enough to make Chris
wonder if they'd ever make forty-five before a thrombosis cracked
their aortas.

"We're
sandbagging the place," Tony explained. "We'll do the doors
and windows."

Their
uncle returned with more sacks under one arm. In his other hand he
carried a double-barrelled shotgun.

Chris
looked around the fragile tin shack of a place. These people had
prepared for invasions before. That time it had been World War II.
They were making the same preparations now: stockpiling food, brewing
up gallons of tea, sandbagging buildings, and forming a home guard
armed with shotguns, old service revolvers, and pitchforks. Again
they faced something that threatened to invade their lives-but this
time not with amphibious landing craft and carrying rifles with fixed
bayonets.

No
one knew exactly what the threat was. The only thing every man and
woman knew was that this danger-this life-threatening danger-would
come.

And
it would come soon.

Chris
watched the preparations as Tony told him what had happened the night
before.

"Woke
up at about three. I heard a car engine revving, gears grating, then
a crash. That was John Wainwright trying to drive out in a bloody
hurry."

"That
was the car in the street? The Ford Fiesta? I saw it."

Tony
nodded to a man sat at the back of the hall. Greyhaired, thin,
dried-up-looking; he wore a bandage around the top of his head and
had a smear of dried blood down one cheek. Chris recognized him as a
partner in a firm of accountants in Munby. The man's face was
expressionless.

"For
the last few days I've been in the habit of sleeping in my clothes. I
managed to reach the front door when the lights went out. The whole
of the village blacked out. I tell you, it was pandemonium, fucking
pandemonium. I can't really explain it rationally ... just a lot of
people running around not able to see a thing. No screaming or
shouting, just running feet, then bang! A window would smash, then
dogs'd bark their bloody heads off. Pandemonium, chaos, bedlam-you
pick the description. But I tell you this, Chris, I've never been so
fucking terrified in all my life. Well, we had some lamps ready and
managed to get everyone into the village hall here. Twenty-three of
them. Everyone accounted for. Which in itself is a bloody miracle."

"Who
attacked you?"

Chris
saw Tony Gateman swallow. "Too dark to see, really."

"Those
people I've seen in the water at Manshead?"

"No
... Just people. This time they didn't hurt any of us."

"Or
maybe we were just lucky, Tony. I don't think those things could see
too well."

Things?
Chris was going to question Mark further when one of the Hodgson boys
came up, breathing hard. "We're gonna barrow sand up from the
beach. Where shall we put it, Mr. Gateman?"

"By
the door, Ian. You don't want to be far away the next time the tide
comes in."

The
boy jogged away down the aisle, his baggy jeans halfway down his
massive backside, revealing what seemed like an acre of pink buttock.

Tony's
mouth stretched into an artificial smile. "They're good workers.
They'll have the sandbags up against the doors in a couple of hours."

Chris
watched Tony's shrewd eyes as the man looked around the hall,
checking the preparations. He realized that the man knew perfectly
well that in a few hours they would all be dead. He was merely
keeping the active villagers busy to keep their minds off the
hopelessness of the situation.

The
Major's dog yapped nervously again.

"Tony,"
said Chris, "this is a waste of time. These walls are so brittle
I could kick holes through them myself."

"So?"

"So
... I'm saying if anyone wants to come back to the seafort with me,
they're welcome."

Tony
let his shoulders fall. It looked to Chris as if someone had removed
a concrete slab from his back. He breathed deeply, then leaned
forward and gripped Chris by the forearm and shook it.

"Thanks,
Chris. We appreciate it."

Chris
zipped up his jacket. "Right, Mr. Gateman. Lead your people to
safety."

David
watched his mother. She still gazed anxiously out across the sands.
The mist had come in thickly now. It drifted in thick white rags
across the beach. David could hardly see the dunes; or the sea. He
could hear it, though. A whoosh-whooshing sound-getting louder and
louder as the tide turned.

He
wished his dad would come back home.

He
ran down the steps to the caravan. Five minutes later he climbed back
up with a mugful of diluted orange. He had tried to warm it in the
microwave but wasn't sure of the setting, so it was only tepid.

"Here
you are," he said, handing his mother the cup. "This might
make you feel better."

His
mum looked at him in a funny way for a moment, then suddenly hugged
him tightly to her. She was on her knees and her face felt wet
against the bare skin of his neck.

"Don't
cry, Mum," he said softly. "I'll look after you."

It
wasn't going to be easy.

Chris
watched the straggling group of villagers make their way onto the
beach. Some had sticks; one lady was in a wheelchair. A married
couple in their fifties both held a handle each and were pushing it
determinedly. The Major had to be constantly reminded where they were
going. Every few paces he would stop, puzzled, as if unsure why he
was there. Mac whined and yelped and sometimes refused to walk at
all, splaying his front legs out in the sand.

The
Hodgsons were the most able-bodied-the farmer and his wife, their two
sons and the uncle. For some reason, Chris didn't know why, the two
sons pushed motorbikes laden with sacks of food. The farmer and the
uncle carried bulging rucksacks and shotguns. Mark Faust carried a
shotgun in his left hand, a PVC holdall in the other, and a rucksack
on his back. A few others carried shopping bags, carrier bags and
holdalls. Rosie Tamworth skipped along as if on a day trip.