Nailed by the Heart (42 page)

For
a moment the boy looked as if he couldn't speak, then with a flash of
inspiration he bent down and picked up a white pebble. "Like
this." He drew on the wall:

O
X O

o

./-/.

"The
dotted line's the wall, them slash marks are the gates, right?"

"Keep
going, son."

"The
O's are Saf Dar. The X is Mark. They're on the rocky ledge that runs
around the bottom of the walls. And-and there's a couple of the
things in the sea. But not close."

"We'll
do it," Chris said quickly.

"Best
get everyone into the building," rumbled John.

"There's
not time." He waved to Ruth to get back. "We open the
gates. John ... shoot the monster between Mark and the gates. He can
run for it." He turned to Hodgson's son and nodded at the
shotgun leaning against the wall. "Know how to use that?"

"Yessir."

"Cover
your father's back. There's still the one to the right of the gates.
Don't fire unless you have to."

"Yessir."

Tony
slipped one of the three bolts back. His fingers shook.

"Might
I be of any assistance?"

Chris
looked round.

Shit.
No.

The
Major stood there, the dog sitting beside him; he had pulled the
revolver from its holster.

"Move
back from the gates." This wasn't the time to be polite to
senile old soldiers. And Chris hoped that the museum exhibit of a
revolver wasn't loaded. "Right, Tony. Open the gate."

Tony
dragged back the other two bolts then heaved the gate back.

The
causeway beyond the gates was empty.

Cautiously,
John, his son at his side, stepped through the gates. Chris and Tony
followed to stand between father to the left and son to the right.

John
raised his shotgun but did not fire.

Chris
glanced first to his right. One of the Saf Dar stood like a red
statue at the far end of the rocky narrow ledge. The sea was washing
in a milk-white froth all around the little island now.

To
his left he saw why the farmer had not fired.

Mark
Faust, smeared with black mud, stood with his back to the seafort
wall. Like an animal's prey he had frozen up with fear.

There
the ledge was at its narrowest. Beyond Mark stood a Saf Dar.

But
between Mark and the safety of the gateway in a half-crouching
position was another of the red man-shaped things. It didn't even
glance back at Chris and the others standing outside the gates. Every
shred of its concentration was focused on Mark. It was hunched, great
slabs of muscle on its back tensing in corrugated ridges. Chris knew
it was ready to leap forward, then probably batter Mark against the
wall like a cheap doll.

"Shift,
you bastard, shift..." John stood, the shotgun to his shoulder.
Sweating, he stared down the barrel, his eyes bulging.

"I
can't get a clean shot. Fucker's too close to Mark."

"Do
it," hissed Tony. "Fucking do it."

"I
can't. ... this fires shot. I'll hit Mark as well."

"Well,
do something ... quick. They're coming thick and fast."

Twenty
yards along the causeway one of the red beasts had half pulled itself
out of the surf onto the roadway. Like some hungry alligator, it
paused half in and half out of the water, outstretched arms taking
the weight of its top half. Smoothly, its head turned to look at the
men in the gateway. The cruel eyes glittered hungrily.

In
the surf, almost at Chris's feet, two more Saf Dar stood waist-deep,
the water washing around them in wave after hissing wave. Even the
water was repelled by the skin of the things. It rolled off in
glistening white beads like rain-water off a freshly waxed car.

"I
can't. ..." The farmer's plump face shook. "If I fucking
well fire I kill Mark as well."

Chris's
head spun. Answer this one, Stainforth.

No
answer.

Mark
was trapped. He couldn't go backwards along the yard-wide strip of
bedrock; he couldn't go forward; he couldn't jump in the sea.
Whichever way he moved put him into the hands of the red monsters.

A
voice ran through his head. Get back inside and shut the gates. You
can't save Mark. You've got to leave him there. Soon Mark would
become like Wainwright. Like the Fox twins. Like the others. Standing
on the beach, crying out, gripped by alternating waves of mind-warped
terror-pain and fury.

As
the realisation sped through his mind he noticed a figure behind him.
Before he could turn around a crack split the surf's hiss. Instantly
the red man between Chris and Mark rolled sidewards into the sea.

Chris
twisted round.

The
Major stood, one arm stretched out, the revolver bleeding blue
gunsmoke.

"Didn't
know I still had it. Was a gold-medal-winner, you know. New Delhi
handgun league. Top of fifty-six contestants, when the-"

Chris
recovered. "Move!" he yelled at Mark. "Come on!"

Mark
snapped out of the spell. He ran toward them.

Behind
him the thing on the rock ledge suddenly began to run after him. Mark
was fifteen yards from the gates.

"Mark!
Down!" bellowed John.

Mark
threw himself down onto his stomach as John let rip with both
barrels. The force of the blast sliced away the creature's face,
punching it backwards. The monster bounced off the rock ledge and
into the sea.

Mark,
powered by pure fear, punched himself to his feet to run at the
gates. Chris urged the Major, still talking, through into the
courtyard, followed by Tony, Mark, the Hodgson boy, then John.

Within
three seconds they had crashed the gates shut and snapped the bolts
home.

Chris
left John to lean the timbers against the gate, jamming them tight
shut. He knew that Mark brought bad news but he wanted to hear it
from the man's own mouth.

Three
o'clock. Middle of the afternoon.

Mark,
still coated in cracking scales of marsh mud, swallowed what was left
of the coffee. He sat exhausted in the caravan's doorway, the cup
held tightly in both hands. Ruth, Tony and Chris watched him. In a
voice barely above a whisper he told them what had happened.

"Sorry
... Jesus Christ, I'm sorry ... I just couldn't get through the
marsh. Whichever way I went I always returned to the same place. ...
Going in circles ... Just going around and round. I couldn't get
through."

"The
mist disorientated you," said Chris, feeling as if nothing now
stood between them and the fires of hell.

"No
... It was more than that. Something weird ..."

Tony
nodded. "I suspected as much. We've been quarantined here. No
one gets out. No one gets in. Not until this is over."

"The
Saf Dar?"

"No.
Not them. I'm talking big power now. Big, big power. The thing that's
visited here every few centuries. It wants this trade-through
sacrifice-to be very private. For a little while it divides this
place off from the rest of the world. No interruptions, no outsiders.
Just the local people and. ..." He shrugged. "It. One of
the old gods-not one that people can discuss or say little rhyming
prayers to. This is one of the ancient gods. You don't have to make
an effort to believe in this one; when it gets close to you the
animal part of you feels it. It would be like standing next to a huge
bonfire; even before you can begin to put a name to it, its presence
burns into you; you can't ignore it. Any more than you can ignore the
bonfire; you feel it burning into your mind. It paces back and forth
behind your modern religions, without a name, without a face, without
any gospels or churches. Without Bibles. It doesn't need them. But
it's there still. Still powerful, and still hungry for trade."

"Shit.
... Sacrifice, sacrifice, sacrifice ..." Chris spat out the
words. "It always comes back to that. If it's so fucking
powerful, why does it need a sacrifice?"

"Sacrifice
is a commercial transaction, remember? Between gods and men. When you
buy, it's to acquire something you haven't got but you need, whether
it's food, a box of cigars, a magazine. This old, old god craves that
thing we possess."

"Our
emotions," said Ruth. "It milks them from us when we grieve
at losing something that's precious to us."

"That's
right. It can't get that thing-the human rush of emotion-from
anywhere else. It needs it badly. Maybe like a dope addict needs a
fix of heroin. So here it comes. To Manshead. It's friendly downtown
emotion store. It takes what's offered-say the agony of a father
sacrificing his own beloved daughter-and it pays something back in
return. A chunk of its own supernatural powers."

"David
... Have you seen him recently, Ruth?" Chris, suddenly
uncomfortable, looked around the courtyard.

"I'll
check," she said. "He might be with the Hodgson boys."

Chris
shivered. For some reason the sound of the surf washing around the
seafort sounded far louder than usual. He glanced around the
courtyard as Ruth went to hunt for David. It was deserted. The
villagers, depressed by Mark's failure to get help, had drifted back
indoors.

Mark
rubbed his eyes. "What now?"

Chris
shrugged. "What can we do? We've tried everything short of
sprouting wings and flying out. Any suggestions, Tony?"

"I
don't know. My problem is, Chris, I think too much. It's all up here.
I'm a hard-headed cynic. Too cerebral. My grandmother would have said
you should think more with your heart, not with your head. A
psychologist would say you should let the unconscious part of your
mind supply the answer, rather than the conscious mind. Don't think
your way forward to a solution, feel your way forward; in an animal
way. As they did ten thousand years ago when the first men knocked a
few branches together here and called it home. You know, inspiration.
Don't let the civilized man get in the way of the primitive chunk of
brain you've got in there."

"I
reckon what he's saying, Chris, is think like a child.

Do
what feels right-not what you think is right."

"Right
now I don't think or feel anything." Chris leaned back against
the caravan. "I feel shell-shocked."

Tony's
face was stony. "Believe me, the best-or the worst-is yet to
come. I think that thing, the old god, is on its way. By tonight,
probably, it will all be over."

"Chris!"
Ruth ran across the courtyard so fast her arms windmilled to keep her
balance.

"Chris!
He's gone ..." Terror deformed her voice. "David's gone.
Someone's opened the gates. ... He's outside."

Chris
ran around the caravan and past the car. The timbers once propped
behind the gates lay on the ground, the bolts were back.

The
gates lay half open. Beyond, the causeway, now feeling the first lick
of a new tide, was deserted.

He
didn't stop to think about it.

The
Saf Dar could have been waiting outside to welcome him with open
arms, then crack the life from his body as easily as snapping a
biscuit.

With
no weapon, Chris ran out through the gates onto the head of the
causeway before stopping to look round.

By
chance there were no Saf Dar in sight. Nor was there any sign of his
son.

"David!"

Nothing.

With
a triumphant hiss, the sea creamed around the rocks, sending the
first sheets of foam sliding across the causeway.

Where
on earth was he? Chris stared hard at the beach, blurred with mist. A
couple of Saf Dar stood at the far end of the causeway. But no sign
of David.

No,
not this. They couldn't lose David. Chris felt something bleeding
inside him. This was pain he'd never felt before.

"David!"