Death Day

PART THREE

'Hast thou found me, O mine enemy?'

-1 Kings; 21:20.

Dawn rose grey and dirty over Medworth and Tom Lambert shivered as he tugged back the bedroom curtains. He stood in the window for a moment, gazing out into the street below. There were one or two people on the street, on their way to work probably. He wondered if they realized what was going on nightly around them. Shaking the thought from his mind he washed and dressed quickly and hurried downstairs, the smell of cooking bacon meeting him as he reached the living room.

Debbie stood over the pan, stirring with a wooden spatula. He kissed her gently on the lips and ran a hand through her uncombed hair before sitting down. There was a mail, a couple of letters, but he didn't bother to read them. He glanced briefly at the paper, setting it aside as Debbie laid his breakfast before him.

'How long have you been up?' he asked, taking a mouthful.

'Since about five.'

He looked surprised.

'I couldn't sleep, and besides, I thought I'd try and get a bit further through those bloody books that Trefoile gave us.'

Lambert nodded. He had read through her transcriptions the night before and, although she was almost half way through the huge volumes, nothing of any importance had turned up yet. Anything of note she had ringed in red marker but, as yet, there were precious little pieces of information to be had. However, on one sheet, one of the most recent ones, the name had appeared for the first time. That name which had caused Trefoile so much distress.

Mathias.

Lambert had studied the name over and over again, finally discarding the piece of paper.

Debbie sat opposite him and sipped her coffee. He looked up at her, concern in his eyes.

'Do you think Trefoile was throwing us a line about the medallion?' he said.

'What do you mean?'

'The secret,' he emphasized the words with scorn. 'I wonder if the answer really is in those bloody books.'

'What reason would he have to lie?' asked Debbie, stifling a yawn.

Lambert shrugged.

Now it was Debbie's turn to look at him. She warmed her hands around her mug and watched him as he ate. He had come home late the previous night, looking pale and drawn, as if he were in need of a good night's sleep. They had lain together on the sofa while he told her of what Baron had said. How there was to be no help for them, and she had shuddered involuntarily when he had said' that. Lambert had received much the same reaction when he told the men at the police station of Baron's words. A feeling of isolation, but something more, foreboding, had greeted the declaration that they were to fight the menace alone. The guns had given little reassurance to most of them; but the older members of the force, Hayes and Davies in particular, had listened to Lambert's words with grim resolution etched on their faces. Both, fortunately for the Inspector, knew how to use guns. Davies had done National Service and Hayes informed them all, to a great peal of laughter, that his father had been a poacher, and consequently he himself had grown up with guns. Upon hearing this, the tension amongst the men slackened off a little. Briggs and Walford, youngsters that they were, seemed anxious to use the weapons and were positively delighted when Lambert announced that they would all have to practise. They must all become proficient with the weapons. It could, he had told them, save their lives. They were probably all out now in the field at the back of the station blasting away at the targets, under the watchful eyes of Hayes and Davies. Lambert had given the other Browning to Hayes, keeping the first for himself.

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.

Debbie looked down at the medallion. The inscription stood out defiantly, as if challenging her to decipher it. She studied it against the woodcut on the page of the book before her. Beneath it, as Trefoile had shown them, the single word; MATHIAS.

Owner of the medallion.

She looked at her notes, at the words which she already understood.

MORTIS DIEI - DEATHDAY

REX NOCTU - KING OF THE NIGHT

The inscription around the outside of the medallion still eluded her then, suddenly, she remembered what Trefoile had said, that the words were transposed. The inscription could only be understood when read from back to front. She took the words one at a time:

A

She looked it up in the dictionary. It meant 'to.' Simple as that. She smiled to herself. Now she took the next word. On the medallion, engraved in reverse, it appeared as SIUTROM. She quickly transposed the letters to form the word as recognizable Latin. It came out as:

MORTUIS.

She hunted through the dictionary for that one. Something jumbled here. Not quite right. There were several meanings. Death. Dead. Die. She put a question mark next to the word and looked at the last of the three reversed inscriptions. In its present form it appeared as ERATICXE. She transposed and found that it came out as something more accessible:

EXCITARE.

Another run through the ever present dictionary. Her finger sped over the entries, searching, probing like a doctor in search of some malignant growth. She found it. 'Awake.' She wrote it down then went back to check the second word once more. Perhaps if she could put it into context she could understand. She read her notes, the transcriptions.

A MORTUIS EXCITARE - TO (something) AWAKE.

She frowned. No. That wasn't it. The structure was wrong. The words were in the wrong order. Heart pounding she wrote it out again.

A MORTUIS EXCITARE - TO AWAKE (something).

She re-checked her definitions.

MORTUIS - DEATH. DIE. THE DEAD.

It struck her like a physical blow and she exhaled deeply, quivering slightly as she finally understood. With shaking hand she wrote down the finished translation then transcribed the entire thing onto a fresh piece of paper. When she had done that she read it back, not daring to speak the words aloud. But they were there before her and she was gripped by a strange contradiction of feelings. A feeling of triumph for having deciphered the inscription but overwhelmed by an icy fear which gripped her heart in a vice-like hand and would not let go. She studied the words on the paper. The answer:

A MORTUIS EXCITARE - TO AWAKE THE DEAD.

And beneath that:

REX NOCTU - KING OF THE NIGHT.

Finally:

MORTIS DIEI - DEATHDAY.

Deathday.

And the single word that summed up all that evil.

MATHIAS.

She turned to the second book, searching its age-crusted pages for the information she sought. She looked at the medallion, suddenly distracted from her task. It seemed to glow dully in the dimly lit room and it was a moment or two before Debbie realized that it was nearly dark outside. She crossed to the big bay window at the front of the house and peered out. The street lamps were, as yet, unlit. They didn't come on until six. Another ten minutes. She hurriedly switched on the lamp which perched atop the TV, repeated the procedure with die one on the coffee table and also the taller standard lamp which was propped behind Lambert's chair. The light gave her a measure of reassurance but she found herself still shivering. She hurried upstairs and checked that all the windows were securely closed, particularly the one which looked out over the flat garage roof. She doublechecked that one. Satisfied, she sped downstairs and slid the bolts on both front and back doors before retreating into the living room. She sat in silence, curtains drawn against the darkness outside, surrounded by the paraphernalia of ages gone by. Her nostrils were assaulted by an odour of dampness, mustiness.

The medallion glinted wickedly and Debbie found herself staring at it with the same horrified fascination with which a mouse watches a snake. She finally managed, as if it were an effort of will, to tear her gaze from it. She scanned the large yellowed page before her, dictionary at the ready. The page had the name of Mathias at its head and she began to read, intrigued and alarmed in equal proportions. Maybe by the time she finished she would know who this man really was.

She set to work.

The three Pandas were parked outside the station, all facing in the direction of Medworth town centre. From his position in the duty room Lambert could see them, just about. The darkness which had descended was total, almost palpable. He tore his eyes away and looked at the rows of sanguine faces arrayed before him.

Each of the men sat with shotguns across their laps. If not for the circumstances, Lambert could have laughed. It looked like a scene from some bloody western. He cleared his throat and stepped forward. All eyes focused on him.

'Right,' he began, 'I'll keep it simple. Two men to a car, three where possible. Grogan will stay here to take any calls. Bell, Ferman and Davies in Puma One. Vic,' he nodded towards Sergeant Hayes, 'you take Greene and Walford with you in number two. I'll take Puma Three. Briggs and Jenkins, you're with me.' The men didn't speak. Lambert waited, almost hoping for a question but none was forthcoming. He continued, 'Cruise around, that's all you've got to do. If you see anything moving about, anyone…' he searched for the word, 'suspicious, don't waste time finding out details, just shoot.'

A hand went up. It was Greene. He was in his early thirties, a capable lad who just happened to be as pale as death at the moment.

'How do we know the guns will work, sir?' he asked.

'We don't,' said Lambert, flatly. 'Try praying when you pull the trigger.' He tried to smile but it faded, washed away like chalk in the rain.

Another hand. This time it was Walford.

'Sir,' he said, 'how do we know that these… things will be all that's on the streets tonight? I mean, we might kill innocent people.' He swallowed hard.

Lambert nodded. 'Look, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, anything that's walking those streets tonight won't be human.' He became aware that his own hands were shaking and clenched them into fists. 'Whatever you see, blow the fucking thing to pieces.' There was a note of anger in his voice. He scanned the faces once more. Silence hung over the room like some huge invisible blanket. Lambert continued. 'All right, the cars are full of ammunition, you'll have no problems there. It's in the glove compartments, on the parcel shelves, everywhere we could find to put it, it's there.' He tried to-smile again. 'One more thing, I want all the cars to keep in touch. Retain contact at all times and radio in to base every thirty minutes. No more than two men are to leave a car at one time. Understood?'

Nodding. Murmurs of approval.

'Right,' he checked his watch, 'it's seven fifteen now, I want this town patrolled until morning.' He finally found the note of humour he'd been looking for: 'Don't worry, you'll all get paid overtime for this.'

A ripple of laughter.

The men rose to their feet and were filing out of the room when Davies turned and raised his hand.

'What is it, Chris?' asked Lambert.

'These… things,' said Davies, 'they're living corpses, right?'

Lambert nodded.

'Well, then how the hell do you kill something that's already dead?'

The Inspector had no answer and the words hung in the air.

It seemed like they were driving into a huge black pit. That, at any rate, was how young Gary Briggs viewed the slow descent into Medworth. The town was in almost total darkness apart from the time switch lights which illuminated shop windows and a sparkling of house lights, most of which were subdued behind drawn curtains. Beside him sat Lambert, the shotgun cradled across his lap. He was stuffing handfuls of cartridges into his pocket. There was a sudden metallic click from the back seat where Dave Jenkins sat and Briggs felt his heart leap. He realized that it was only the older constable cocking his weapon. The youngster tried to relax, attempting to find some comfort in the fact that, if they did sight any of the things, he would be the one to remain in the car. His own shotgun was propped against the dashboard beside him. Even in the chill of the night air which was flooding in through a partially open window, he could feel the perspiration forming on his back.

Dave Jenkins, the oldest of the trio in the Panda, swallowed hard and ran his hand absent mindedly up and down the sleek barrel of his own shotgun. He peered out into the night, squinting into hedgerows, trying to see through the all enveloping gloom. His mind was elsewhere though. It was with his wife, Amy. He'd packed her off to her mother's when this trouble first began, fearing that it could escalate and he had been disturbed to find that it had. But, besides that, she was pregnant. Near her time by now. Jenkins was overcome by a great feeling of helplessness. Even now it could be happening, she could be having the child. He just prayed that he lived to see it.

Inspector Tom Lambert sat back in his seat and scanned the road ahead, lit only by the twin powerful headlamps of the car. The road which led down from the police station into town was a series of sharp curves and bends and Briggs was constantly braking in order to steer the vehicle safely onward. The car they occupied, Puma Three, had been the last of the three to leave. Lambert had watched the other two drive off, then, after all the men had checked their ammunition, he had climbed into the Panda beside Briggs. They were to patrol the Eastern part of the town, the area which took in the small industrial estate, one or two of the housing areas and Lambert's own home. The other two cars had their designated sectors as well. As he watched the darkened countryside drifting by, Lambert's face was etched in an attitude of grim determination. An act he hoped was working. He'd never been so bloody scared in his life. Frightened not just for himself but also for Debbie, but he drove her fleeting image from his mind and concentrated on the road ahead. It was beginning to straighten out.

Paul Greene sat in the back seat of Puma Two and shivered. He felt sick and could scarcely control his rapid breathing. Once already, Sergeant Hayes, seated in the front beside Walford, who was driving, had looked round at him and asked him if he was O.K. Greene had nodded and clutched his gun tighter as if trying to find some comfort in it. He wondered what his mother was doing. He had personally fitted the locks and bolts to her doors when she had decided to stay in Medworth. He had pleaded with her to go but she had refused. The least he could do now was to make sure she was adequately protected. If indeed, that was possible. They had lived together in that little house just outside the town centre for the last twelve years. Ever since Greene's father had left. In his late twenties now, the young P.C. could still recall the vision of his father standing in the doorway of the house, the night he had left, the car of his 'fancy woman' outside, waiting. Greene remembered how his mother had cried for three days afterwards. He was an only child and the departure of his father brought him and his mother even closer together. He had joined the force partly as an attempt at independence but had finally discovered that he preferred the doting of his mother. Now he wondered what she was doing, fearing for her life even more than his own.

Sergeant Vic Hayes closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He felt tired, depressed rather than frightened at the thought of what might confront them that night. He had been sergeant in this peaceful little town for more than fifteen years and now, in the space of a couple of months, all those happy memories had been superceded by the horrors which were occuring daily. He still found it hard to believe.

Tony Walford guided the car slowly through the streets of Medworth's largest housing estate, his eyes alert for the slightest sign of movement. He prayed that they wouldn't come across any of the things that night. Not because of the danger involved but because he didn't think that he could force himself to use his gun on any of them. The very idea of shooting another human being made him shudder. Human being. The words stuck in his mind. Lambert had said that they weren't human. Another thought struck him, one which made the forthcoming task even more difficult. He realized with horror, that he might even recognize some of them. Walford drove on, all the time mouthing silent prayers that they would not see any of the creatures.

'Puma One checking in,' said Chris Davies, holding the transmitter at arms' length to lessen the high-pitched whine of static which had invaded the wavelength. He waited for Grogan's reply, then flicked the switch to 'Off.' He replaced the hand set and returned to gazing out of the window. He and the other two men in the Panda had been given the task of patrolling the centre of Medworth itself. The shopping areas and parks which dotted the town like pieces in a grass and concrete jigsaw. Davies was pleased that they had been assigned this particular sector as there was more likelihood of spotting something. He worked the pump action of the shotgun, chambering a shell, and smiled. God help you bastards, he thought.

In the back, Stuart Ferman was beginning to wish he had never joined the bloody police force. He felt giddy, the smell of plastic, sweat, and gun oil thick in his nostrils. He wished he were at home. He lived alone on the ground floor of a block of flats. Although, strictly speaking, he didn't occupy the dwelling totally without company. He shared it with two enormous Alsatians which he'd had since they were puppies. They'd been handed in to the station by some kid who didn't want them and Ferman had taken them home with him. He had cared for them with a love he didn't think he possessed, watching them grow into the magnificent creatures they were now. He wished he had them both in the car with him at this moment.

Ron Bell, driving, slowed the car as he saw something move ahead of him. He nudged Davies, who had been peering out of the side window and pointed to the area where he had seen the movement. All three men felt the tension rising as Bell edged the Panda closer. Its bright headlamps suddenly swung on the source of the disturbance.

It was a cat.

Caught in the sudden glare it hissed and fled from the blinding light. The trio of men in Puma One felt the tension drain from them and Bell breathed a sigh of audible relief.

They drove on.

Debbie Lambert had found what she searched for.

She had discovered the information about fifteen minutes ago and now she reread it, translating quickly, scribbling the words down like a journalist with a scoop. There were two entire pages about Mathias. She looked back through her notes, found that she was running short of paper and realized that she had more upstairs.

It was as she dashed into the hall that she heard the scratching at the front door.

'Puma Three to all cars. Anything to report?'

Lambert's voice rasped in the closed confines of the other two Pandas. Hayes and Davies responded that, as yet, they had seen nothing.

'Keep in touch,' ordered Lambert, 'over and out.' He replaced the hand set and wound the window down a little further, gulping in the crisp night air. They had now reached the edge of the industrial area and its countless tall chimneys towered above them as Briggs guided the car slowly along the wide roads, keeping it dead centre.

'If you see anything,' said Lambert, 'let me know.'

It was darker than he had imagined, especially in this part of the town, for there were no street lights, just the occasional naked bulb which shone outside a factory entrance. The Inspector made a mental note to have this area checked out in the morning. The things had to be hiding somewhere and out here offered countless possibilities. A thought crossed his mind. There was no evidence to support his own theory that they were, indeed, all holed up in the same place during the day and the thought that they could well be spread out all over town made his heart sink. It would mean searching every empty house, every cellar, every disused shop. He shook his head and sighed deeply.

When Debbie first heard the scratching she paused, heart pounding against her ribs, listening. It stopped abruptly but still she stood in the darkness of the hall until, at last, she sprinted upstairs to their bedroom and found some paper. When she reached the hall again, she switched on the light and stood there for a second. The lock and bolt were secure but she tested them just to set her mind at ease. Satisfied, but nonetheless uneasy, she returned to the living room which was comfortingly aglow with the light of three lamps. She sat down at her desk and reread the passage on Mathias, this time transcribing onto a fresh piece of paper. Her eyes stung from the hours of continual reading but she persevered, realizing that she had reached her goal.

The medallion glinted dully beside her and she looked at it for a second.

There was a rattling from the back of the house. Debbie heard it but ignored it, or tried to. She continued writing.

It grew louder.

A noise now at the front again. That scratching, only more insistent this time.

It stopped.

She looked up, glanced across at the telephone and wondered whether or not to call the station. But, when the sounds didn't persist, she shook her head, told herself that it was her imagination and returned to her work. The transcription was beginning to take shape, almost finished in fact. She read it through twice, struggling with its ancient construction. The meaning was in there somewhere, it was just a matter of finding it. The words on the paper stood out starkly, written in her own neat script. She read them to herself:

This year of the Almighty, 1596, in ground not Blessed of the Church is buried the one known as Mathias. This man did dare to oppose God: buried without tongue or eyes, removed in the sight of those present by hot pincers: Blasphemer, Servant of the Fallen Angel. Buried with him be the symbol of his evil. The instrument with which he hoped to reverse the very rightful process of death; to defy the Almighty; to bring life to the Dead.

Debbie shuddered. My God, that was the tie up. She looked at the medallion.

A MORTUIS EXCITARE - TO AWAKE THE DEAD.

She had more below that first transcription:

May he he, buried yet whilst alive, forever in the place chosen. Without the Kingdom of the Almighty for the rest of Eternity.

So engrossed was she in her find, she didn't even hear the rattling begin once more at the back of the house. Debbie read on:

And now, though he wear that symbol of his Blasphemy let it not be removed; but, if so done, be it not returned to its owner for there is a power beyond that of man in its presence. Reunited with the symbol of his evil the one known as Mathias may yet attain The Power.

Debbie put down the transcript and looked at the medallion. She felt compelled to reach out and touch it but something told her not to. The gleaming metal winked up at her and she shuddered. 'The Power.' She glanced at her notes once more. At last, they knew the secret of the medallion.

It was then that she heard the rattling.

Breathing heavily, she got to her feet and crossed to the door which led out into the kitchen, suddenly aware of how cold it had become. She pushed the door and peered into the room, taking a step in, the linoleum cold against her bare feet. The rattling grew louder and she looked towards the locked back door.

The handle was being turned frenziedly back and forth.

'Oh God,' murmured Debbie under her breath. She flicked on the kitchen lights, watching as the bank of fluorescents burst into life. The door handle was slammed back and forth with renewed strength and now, a series of dull thuds began to break against it, gradually building to a crescendo which she realized were powerful blows.

She turned, slammed the door behind her and dashed for the phone in the living room. Her shaking fingers found the required digits and she dialed, the pounding growing in intensity. Her breath came in gasps as she waited for the receiver to be picked up at the other end. She heard three words: 'Medworth Police Station…'

The line went dead.

'Hello,' gasped Debbie, flicking desperately at the cradle. Her voice grew in volume. 'Hello!' Almost in tears, she flung the useless receiver down. She murmured Lambert's name, ran to the window and dragged back the curtains.

With a mournful puff, the street lamps blew out.

Debbie bit her fist and spun around, the smashing of glass telling her that the window had been shattered. Then, as she spun round to draw the curtains once more, she found herself staring into the grinning face of Ray Mackenzie, those twin blood red blazing orbs fixing her in an unholy stare and she finally summoned her voice for a scream.

Puma Three cruised around the industrial estate five or six times. Every so often Lambert and Jenkins would get out to check an open gate or some movement in the shadows, but each time, to their relief, they found nothing. On such occasions, one man would investigate while the other stood nearby, gun at the ready; never were they far from the car. Lambert told Briggs to keep his engine running whenever they stopped and its idling hum was something of a comfort in the stifling silence of the night.

Finally, satisfied that the area was clear, Lambert told Briggs to head for the outskirts of town with the intention of sweeping the country roads and outlying houses for any sign of activity. After that, they would head back into the built up areas.

As they drove, Lambert fumbled inside his jacket and pulled the Browning from its holster. He pressed the magazine release button and the slim metal box slid from the butt.

'Shit,' muttered the Inspector, noting that it was empty. He fumbled in his pockets, already remembering that he'd left the extra clips at home.

'Turn the bloody thing round,' he said to Briggs, 'we've got to go back to my house. I left the ammo for the pistol there.' He slid the empty weapon back into its holster, cursing himself. Briggs spun the wheel and the Panda completed a perfect U-turn. Within seconds they were heading back into town.

Debbie managed to step back from the window just as Mackenzie thrust a hand at her. It crashed through the glass, showering her with shards of crystal, one of which slashed her cheek drawing a tiny tear of blood. She saw others out there with him. A woman no older than herself, another man. She saw that Mackenzie wasn't looking at her but at the medallion. It glinted invitingly on the desk and the living dead thing grunted, stepping back. Debbie saw him launch himself at the bay window, almost rooted to the spot in awe and terror as his large frame smashed through wood and glass and landed on the carpet a foot or so from her. She screamed once more and grabbed the medallion, vaulting over the stunned man and grabbing at the handle of the hall door. Still lying on the floor, Mackenzie grabbed at her ankle and she felt his clammy hand touch her bare foot as she slipped by.

She didn't even see the kitchen door burst open and two more of the things rush into the living room.

Mackenzie, on his feet now, was racing up the stairs behind her, and Debbie was whimpering as she reached the landing. She could sense his closeness, and smell the fetid stench which came from his body.

A hand closed on her shoulder. Screaming, she fell against Mackenzie, the medallion falling from her grasp. She grabbed the wooden bannister rail to prevent herself from sliding down the stairs.

Mackenzie was not so lucky. The force of Debbie striking him was enough to make him lose balance and with a startled grunt, he fell back, rolling head over heels down the stairs.

Debbie scrambled to her feet, peering over her shoulder.

Mackenzie was on his feet again, corning up at her once more but now there were others behind him. She didn't stop to count, guessing that there were perhaps six. All ages, all sizes. All with one intent.

She grabbed the medallion, bolted for the bathroom and hurled herself inside, slamming the door shut. She slid the flimsy bolt. There were footsteps on the landing and she heard the sound of doors being flung open, then an almighty crash as one of them threw his weight against the bathroom door. She looked around frantically for a weapon. Anything to fight back with but, all she could see was Lambert's safety razor. She grabbed it, screaming as a fist punched through the thin wooden door. Debbie lashed out, slicing open the back of the hand, ripping away a large chunk of skin which stuck to the hooded razor blade. Blood jetted onto her and the hand was hastily withdrawn but the blows kept raining on the door and she knew that they would be in at any second. Big salt tears welled in her eyes and she said Lambert's name over and over again, watching as more of the door was torn away. She could see them all on the landing peering in at her. One of them, a man in his fifties, stuck his face into the gap and, screaming madly, she raked the razor across his lips. Blood burst forth but there was no expression of pain registered in his eyes because he had no eyes. Just those empty, red-rimmed holes. And yet they saw her. Saw the medallion. And they were grinning.

Lambert saw two of the things on his front lawn as Briggs swung the car into the street.

'Oh God,' he shrieked, with pained horror.

Already he was grabbing for the shotgun. Briggs stepped on the accelerator and the car sped forward. It mounted the pavement about thirty yards from the house, smashed through the hedge of the house next door and skidded to a halt on the grass in front of Lambert's house. Obvious to the danger, with only thoughts of Debbie in his mind, Lambert leapt from the car, swinging the shotgun up as the two things cowered away from the blazing light of the car headlamps. The Inspector fired three times. The first blast hit the leading creature squarely in the chest, blew half its torso away and flung it a good twelve feet across the lawn.

'You fuckers,' screamed Lambert, now joined by Jenkins who also fired.

The second thing was caught in the crossfire and both men were almost joyful as they watched its head disintegrate, a dark shower of blood, brain and shattered bone spraying out into the night.

Lambert saw the broken front window, the front door hanging uselessly from one torn hinge. He dashed into the hall followed by Jenkins. Briggs, shaking with sheer terror, reversed and brought the headlamps of the car to bear on the front of the house, their powerful beams piercing the blackness and pinpointing two more of the creatures in the living room. He reached for his own gun and scrambled out of the car, aiming at the first of them, a man in his twenties.

There was a roar as he fired, the shot missing and blasting a hole in the wall beneath the window. Gasping, Briggs worked the pump action and fired again, screaming in terror as he saw the things scrambling over the window sill. Coming for him. He fired again and the discharge was on target. It hit the man in the lower abdomen, blasting away his genitals, almost severing his right leg. The second creature, a woman not yet in her forties, flung herself at him and the young constable went down under her weight. He felt sharp nails tearing at his face and his screams filled the night.

From his position on the stairs, Lambert could see from the concentration of the creatures clustered around the shattered bathroom door that Debbie was trapped inside.

One of them came at him and he fired from point blank range, ignoring the blood which splashed onto him. He dashed up the stairs, stepping on the body as he did so. Jenkins followed and the two men reached the landing together.

For a second, everything froze. A still frame in a broken down film. Suddenly, the film was running again. Jenkins raised his shotgun and fired twice, bringing down one of the living dead.

Lambert heard Debbie scream. A scream which was immediately replaced by the sound of snapping wood.

Mackenzie was no more than a foot from Debbie, his fetid breath filling her nostrils. Yellow, bubbling mucous trickling down his chin. He grabbed for the medallion and tore it from her grasp; she expected the grip of his bloodied hands on her throat at any second. But he turned and blundered out, clutching the gold circlet to his chest.

Lambert saw him and lifted the shotgun, jerking wildly on the trigger. The recoil slammed the stock back against his shoulder and the blast blew a huge hole in the wall beside the grinning Mackenzie who bolted for the tiny window at the far end of the landing. Lambert worked the pump action and fired again but he was too late.

Mackenzie launched himself at the window and hurtled through it. The Inspector's shot exploded beside him as he met the cool night air. The living corpse of Mackenzie hit the roof of the garage and rolled once. Lambert dashed to the window and looked out just in time to see him leap from the flat roof and lope off into the darkness.

He turned, cursing, and dashed into the bathroom, throwing the shotgun to one side and grabbing Debbie in both arms. She was sobbing uncontrollably. He closed his eyes and pressed her close to him, his own body shaking. She breathed his name over and over again, sobbing.

He eased the blood-spattered razor from her hand and dropped it into the bath.

Jenkins appeared in the doorway.

'Check outside,' said Lambert softly and the constable nodded, stepping over two bodies as he made his way down the stairs. The house stank of blood and cordite and, Jenkins noted, something else. A carrion odour of corruption. He worked the pump action of his shotgun, ejecting the spent cartridge and walked out into the night. It was then that he saw the woman coming towards him.

She had him fixed in those gaping, empty sockets, and, in the glaring brilliance of the Panda's headlamps, Jenkins could see that her hands were soaked in blood. She raised them towards him and ran, arms outstretched like some kind of obscene sleepwalker.

He took a step back, swinging the shotgun up just in time to get off one shot.

The blast tore through her shoulder, ripping away most of the left breast and splintering both scapula and clavical. She staggered, the wound gaping wide, one arm dangling by thin tendrils of flesh and sinew. Then, to his horror, she started forward once more. He already knew that his gun was empty, realized that he would have no time to reload.

With all the power he could muster, he swung the shotgun like a cricket bat. The butt smacked savagely into her face.

Her jaw bones crumbled beneath the impact. She fell to one side, empty sockets stared up at him. Revolted, Jenkins brought the wooden stock down repeatedly upon her head until it split open like a bag full of cherry syrup. Then he dropped the gun and retched until there was nothing left in his stomach.

He staggered away from the body, avoided the two other bodies laying on the lawn, and gulped down huge lungfuls of air. He leant against the side of the Panda for a moment, his breath coming in gasps, and the bitter taste of his own vomit strong in his mouth. His head was spinning.

'Oh God,' he groaned, rubbing his stomach with a bruised hand. For a second he thought he was going to throw up again, but the feeling passed and he shook himself. He pulled open the passenger side door and climbed in.

The car was empty. No sign of Briggs.

Jenkins sat still for a second and peered out into the gloom, trying to catch a glimpse of his younger companion. Briggs' shotgun was missing from its position beside his seat and Jenkins assumed that the youngster must have got out of the car to help when they had arrived. He pushed open the door and stepped out, walking around to the other side of the car.

'Gary,' he called.

There was no answer. Jenkins stood in the reflected light of the car's headlamps, his face darkened into grotesque shadow. He looked down.

Lying just beside the driver's side door was Briggs' peaked cap. The other constable knelt and picked it up, noting with concern that it was splattered with blood. In fact, there was blood all over the ground near the door, great blotches of it staining the white paintwork of the car.

Jenkins picked up the discarded shotgun, suddenly afraid, and backed off towards the house, the barrel levelled. He stumbled over the body of the woman and nearly fell but he retained his balance and retreated into the welcoming light of the hall.

Footsteps behind him. He turned.

Lambert and Debbie were descending the stairs, the Inspector with his arm wrapped tightly around his wife's shoulders. Her head was bowed and Jenkins could see that she was sobbing quietly-tiny, almost imperceptible movements of her shoulders signalling the tortured spasms. The constable suddenly thought of his own wife, of his child. Had she given birth yet? He drove the thought away.

'You all right?' asked Lambert, the shotgun propped up over his shoulder as if he were off on a hunting trip.

Jenkins, his face the colour of cream cheese, nodded.

'I can't find Briggs,' he said.

Lambert looked puzzled but his expression changed to one of worry when the constable held up the bloodstained cap. The three of them stood in the burning light from the car headlamps, the two policemen looking at one another, Debbie weeping softly. There was a harsh crackling, then a voice from outside.

'The radio,' said Lambert, helping Debbie out, guiding her past the gun-blasted bodies of the living dead.

Jenkins nodded and crossed to the car. He-picked up the handset and heard Grogan's agitated voice at the other end:

'Puma Three, come in.'

'Puma Three,' said Jenkins wearily.

'Thank Christ for that,' said Grogan, 'you hadn't called in, I thought something had happened.'

Lambert helped Debbie into the back seat of the car where she lay down, curling up in a fetal position, then he took the handset from Jenkins.

'Puma Three here, this is Lambert. Contact the other two cars, tell them we have encountered a number of the bloody things. Tell them the guns do work.'

Grogan muttered an affirmation.

Lambert continued, 'Anything to report, Grogan?'

'No sir, we've had a number of calls from people, sightings and what have you, but nothing from the other two cars. They both reported in a while back to say that they'd seen nothing.'

Lambert nodded as he listened, glancing over to where Debbie lay. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks tear-stained.

'Puma Three, out,' he said and switched off the set.

'What now, sir?' said Jenkins, sliding behind the wheel and locking the door.

'I want to get my wife to Doctor Kirby. Let's go-'

Jenkins nodded and started the car. The wheels spun on the grass but, as they reached the concrete of the road, they caught and the Panda sped off.

Lambert sat back in the seat and closed his eyes. Christ, the vile things had nearly killed Debbie.

He prayed that she would be all right. Mackenzie had got the medallion, it seemed to have been the object of the attack. He gritted his teeth. It had to be the answer. No wonder Trefoile was frightened of the bloody thing. The Inspector realized that he would have to find out if Debbie had managed to discover the truth about it. He looked around at her. She was still curled up. Asleep.

At least the encounter had proved that the guns were of use. That much he was thankful for. He didn't dare think what would have happened if they had not been…

One thing did trouble him though.

Where had Briggs got to?

Run off in fright perhaps? Lambert wouldn't have blamed him if he had. He'd probably stagger in the next morning, ashamed of his own cowardice. Lambert half-smiled; he could quite easily have run off with him.

Even if anyone had noticed, no one would have wondered why there were blood spots on the trunk of the Panda. The whole car was splashed with the crimson fluid after all. What might have interested them was the contents of the trunk.

Gary Briggs had died painfully, his eyes torn from living sockets but now he lay in the boot of the car, fresh blood from the sockets still spilling down his cheeks.

He had had no chance against the woman who had attacked him. She had been too strong.

He had crawled into the trunk to escape the blinding lights of the Panda's headlamps. It was dark in there. It stank of petrol and rubber. But didn't care.

He lay silently.

Waiting.

Lambert breathed a sigh of relief as dawn clawed its way across the sky.

Now, as he stood by the window of John Kirby's spare bedroom, he had never been so pleased to see the light of day. He looked down at the cup of coffee in his hand and drained it, replacing the empty vessel on a small sideboard. He watched the sun appear, preceded by golden shafts of light and finally, a tiny portion of it peering over the horizon and filling the heavens with the first glow of morning.

He turned and looked at Debbie who was lying on a bed in one corner of the room. She was sleeping and the slow rhythmic heaving of her chest reassured him. He crossed to the bedside and knelt beside her, reaching beneath the sheets to grasp one of her hands. He stayed there for several moments, gripping her soft hand and gazing at her face. Eventually he got to his feet, kissed her lightly on the forehead and whispered, 'I love you.' Then he carefully replaced her hand under the sheets and left the room. He closed the door behind him and leant against it for a moment, exhaling deeply. The memory of the previous night was still vivid in his mind, burned deep into his consciousness like a red hot brand.

They had arrived at Kirby's at around three that morning. Bleary-eyed, the doctor had let them in and led Lambert, with Debbie's inert form in his arms, upstairs to this bedroom. He had sedated her with Thorazine. Then he and Kirby had gone downstairs to where Jenkins waited. Lambert had told the doctor what had happened and Kirby had listened, his apprehension growing by the second. Finally the doctor had treated their minor cuts and bruises and the three of them had then sat down over a cup of coffee to wait for morning. Jenkins had managed to catch a few hours sleep on the couch in Kirby's surgery. When Lambert walked into the kitchen he found the doctor sitting alone at the table.

'Is she all right?' asked Kirby.

Lambert nodded. 'Still sleeping.'

'She will be for quite a while; it's the best thing for her after what she's been through.' The Inspector poured himself another cup of coffee and sat down opposite Kirby.

'Where's Jenkins?' he asked.

Kirby hooked a thumb in the direction of the surgery, 'He's still asleep too.' The doctor studied the young policeman's face, the beginnings of stubble on his chin, the dark rings beneath his eyes. 'You look like you could do with some rest yourself.'

Lambert smiled humourlessly and ran his index finger around the lip of his cup. Finally he looked up.

'They could have killed her, John,' he said, his voice softening.

'But they didn't,' said Kirby, trying to inject a note of reassurance into his voice.

'They were like animals. They would have killed her.' His voice broke and he lowered his head, his tone flat, dropping almost to a whisper, 'If I hadn't have gone back to the house, if…'

Kirby saw a single tear plop onto the table and, when Lambert looked up, his eyes were red-rimmed, big salt tears pouring down his cheeks. The Inspector clasped his fingers, propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands.

'I'm sorry,' he said, softly, wiping his face.

'Drink your coffee,' said Kirby, smiling.

Lambert managed to smile back. He coughed, shook himself, blew out a harsh lungful of air. He raised a hand to signal that he was O.K., nodding to himself as if to reinforce the idea.

'What's your next move?' asked Kirby.

'Find them. Find out where they hole up during the day. Find them and kill them.' He finished his coffee. He got to his feet, a new purpose about him, the old strength returning.

'If my theory is right,' he said, 'then they're all in the same place. They seem to function in groups, so it's only logical to assume they sleep in groups too. It's just a matter of finding the right place.'

He went through into the surgery and woke Jenkins. In minutes he was on his feet and the two of them were ready to leave. They paused in the doorway.

'How long before she wakes up?' asked Lambert.

Kirby shrugged, 'It's hard to say, four, five hours perhaps longer.'

'Let me know as soon as she does; it's important.'

Jenkins walked out to the waiting Panda, the blood on it now dried to a dull rust colour, and slid behind the wheel. Lambert paused and extended a hand which Kirby shook warmly.

'Thanks, John,' said the Inspector and he was gone, walking across to the car. Jenkins started the engine and Kirby watched as they disappeared from view down a sharp dip in the road. He went back indoors and poured himself another cup of coffee.

P.C. Bell was distributing cups of tea when Lambert and Jenkins entered the duty room. Mumbled greetings were exchanged and Lambert slumped down into a chair, dropping the shotgun down beside him. The other men looked pale but none looked as downright shagged out as he did. He later learned that they had taken it in turns to sleep as they cruised around. Two men in the front keeping watch while the third snatched a few hours in the back seat.

'We lost Briggs,' said Lambert flatly, taking the cup of steaming tea which Bell offered him.

'How?' Hayes wanted to know.

Lambert shrugged, 'I don't know.' He paused.

'My house was attacked last night; they nearly killed my wife.'

'Jesus,' murmured Walford.

'There were about a half a dozen of them. Ray Mackenzie was one.'

A chorus of sighs ran around the room. Lambert continued. 'That medallion that we found at his place in the very beginning, my wife was trying to make out the inscription on it. I think she succeeded. Mackenzie stole it, he got away before we realized what was happening.' He finished his tea and stood up, crossing to the end of the room. The men's eyes followed his progress. When he finally spoke, his tone was flat, no inflection at all.

'We've got to find them,' he began, 'and we've got to do it before nightfall. Now that means searching every empty house, every cellar, every shop, every attic; anywhere where they could hide. Now, if you do find one of them I don't want any heroics. Get help, as much as you need and let's wipe the bastards out.' His face was set in deep lines as he spoke. 'Let's just pray that I'm right and that they're all in one place because that'll make our job much easier. Now, to date, there's upwards of ninety people missing. I want them all.' There were a vehemence in his last words which made one or two of the men sit up. 'Every last one of the fucking things has got to be found and destroyed. Understand?'

Nods and murmurs.

'Any questions?'

There were none.

'Right. Work in twos. I'll take my own car, and like before, keep in contact at all times.' Lambert made a mental note to pick up a walkie-talkie on the way out. He looked at his watch…

'It's five-twenty now. That gives us eleven hours of daylight.'

He mentioned something briefly about checking their weapons to make sure they had enough ammo. Hayes told him that it had already been taken care of. Lambert nodded. He picked up the shotgun and worked the pump action then, checking that this time the magazine was full, he slid the Browning from its holster and pulled the slide back and cocked it. The metallic click was amplified by the silence in the room. He stood before the men, grim determination etched on his face.

'Let's go.'

In the boot of Puma Three the thing that had once been Gary Briggs lay in torpor, hidden from the painful rays of the sun. It lay still.

Waiting for the night.

Jenkins brought the Panda to a halt on the dirt track which ran alongside the hedge flanking the garden. The house, invisible behind the tall hedge, belonged to Nigel Moore, Medworth's most prosperous farmer. As Hayes stepped from the car he could see the gleaming metal towers of the pasteurization plant further back.

The farm was large. The house itself formed the apex of a triangle which was made up by a configuration of sheds and outbuildings at one corner and the actual pasteurization plant at the other. The area between the three buildings was part concrete (near to the house) and mud which was thick and clung defiantly to the sergeant's boots as he walked.

He could see cattle and the occasional horse moving lethargically about in the fields beyond. Hayes took a deep breath, enjoying the purity of the early morning air even though it was tinged with the pungent smell of manure. He didn't seem to care.

Jenkins flicked off the engine of Puma One and climbed out, carrying his shotgun at his side.

'You wait here,' said Hayes when they reached the rusty iron gate which opened into the farm yard. 'That way, you'll be able to cover me and hear the radio if anyone calls.'

Jenkins nodded, watching as the sergeant strode towards the house, avoiding the worst patches of mud. The constable glanced around him. There were plenty of places out here for the things to hide. He shuddered and looked up at the sun, finding reassurance in its growing heat. The sky was cloudless, a deep blue which promised a beautiful day.

Hayes reached the concrete path which ran up to the front door of the farmhouse and he scraped his boots clean of mud before proceeding. The house itself was traditional in appearance, whitewashed, low roofed and covered with climbing ivy. There was a low wooden porch over the doorstep and the sergeant had to duck to avoid banging his head on it. He rapped three times and waited.

There was no answer.

He turned and shrugged at Jenkins who felt his own heart quicken. He gripped his shotgun tighter, his eyes scanning the empty yard furtively.

Hayes sighed wearily and knocked again. Receiving no answer this time, he took the narrow path to the back of the house. The sergeant took time to admire Moore's sizeable vegetable patch before knocking on the back door. After a few seconds he heard bolts being slid back and then the door swung open.

He found himself looking down the twin barrels of a shotgun.

'Morning, Nigel,' said Hayes, grinning and pushing the gun to one side.

Moore shrugged. 'Hello Vic.' He looked down at the shotgun. 'Well, you can't be too careful these days, can you?'

Hayes didn't answer, just looked around the kitchen and asked, 'Have you seen anything suspicious around here lately?'

'Any of those things you mean?' said Moore, his round red face lighting up excitedly.

'Anything?' Hayes repeated, refusing to be drawn.

'I checked all the barns and sheds myself,' he nodded vigorously, 'and the cellar and attic.' He smiled broadly. 'If any of the bloody things come round here they'll get a dose of this.' He lifted the shotgun proudly.

Hayes smiled, aware that the farmer was looking down at his own weapon.

'That bad, is it?' asked the man.

Hayes nodded, 'It's bad.'

Moore shook his head and sighed. 'You wouldn't believe it could happen in a place like this, would you?' There was a tinge of sadness in his voice.

Hayes turned to leave. 'You wouldn't think it could happen anywhere.'

Moore waved him away and closed the door behind him. Hayes took one last look at the expansive vegetable patch and made his way back to the waiting Jenkins.

'Nothing,' he said, 'old Nigel's fine; he says he's checked the place out himself.'

Jenkins nodded, relieved, and they trudged -back to the car.

'If one of those things came up against old

Nigel, I'd lay my money on him winning,' said Hayes, sliding into the car. They both laughed.

Davies checked his shotgun, running a hand down the sleek barrel, then he sat back in his seat and gazed out of the windscreen. The houses on either side were empty. The entire street was devoid of people. Those who had not been killed had simply packed up and gone. Redhoods Avenue was as dead as a doornail and there were many more streets in Medworth like it.

'Stop the car here,' said Davies as Greene turned into the road.

Davies sighed. There was no other alternative. Each and every house would have to be checked individually.

'How do you want to do this?' asked Greene, a bead of perspiration popping onto his forehead.

'You take that side, I'll take this one,' said the older PC.

Green swallowed hard, 'That's what I was afraid you were going to say.'

Both men swung themselves out of the car, checking their weapons once more, stuffing handfuls of extra shells in their pockets. Greene prayed that they wouldn't have the need for them. He watched as Davies reached for the radio.

'Puma Two to base.'

Grogan acknowledged.

'This is Davies. We're leaving the car to check every house in Redhoods Avenue, right? Over.'

Grogan said something about reporting in if they found anything.

'Will do. Puma Two out.'

The two policemen looked at each other for a moment, both sensing the other's fear.

'How do we get into the houses?' Greene wanted to know.

'Break in,' offered Davies and he walked away, the shotgun slung over his shoulder. Greene watched him walk up the path of the first house in the road, check the front door and then disappear around the back. The younger constable heard the crashing of glass as Davies broke a window and he realized that his companion must be inside by now. He stood still beside the stationary car for long seconds, just looking down the street. A street just like any other on any normal housing estate in any town in the country. A narrow road flanked on both sides by grass verge and carefully planted trees, their branches still, bare. Just an ordinary street.

He was sweating profusely as he set off for the first house. It lay directly opposite the one which Davies had entered, and, like his companion, Greene found that he had to break a window to get in. Using his elbow, he smashed a hole in the frosted pane set in the back door and reached through, fumbling for the key, wondering whether anything were going to grab his exposed hand. He breathed an audible sigh of relief as the lock gave and the door swung open. Clutching the shotgun, he stepped inside.

The kitchen was small, identical to all the others in the street. There was a yellowing calendar on the far wall and Greene noticed that it had not been turned to the appropriate month. It was two behind. He wished that time could, indeed, be reversed, so that all this had never happened. He drove the thought from his mind and continued through into the living room, pleased to find that the curtains were drawn and sunlight was flooding the small room. Tiny particles of dust fluttered in the golden rays. Nothing here. Shaking a little more, Greene made his way upstairs towards the narrow landing.

Three doors faced him. Two open, one closed.

All the houses on the road had either two or three bedrooms as well as an inside toilet. Greene could see through the two open doors that the rooms were both bedrooms. Not much chance of anyone hiding out in a bathroom, he told himself, trying to find reassurance in the assumption. He placed a hand on the knob of the closed door and, praying, shoved it open.

Nothing.

The house was empty. Thankfully, he hurried back downstairs out of the back door and made his way to the next house.

Meantime, across on the other side of Redhoods Avenue, Davies too had found the house he was searching to be empty. Almost disappointed, he left the building vaulting the low fence which divided the adjacent garden.

There was a loud crash, a shattering of glass and Davies looked down to see that he'd landed in a cold frame. He groaned and stepped clear of the wreckage, cursing himself for not being more careful. The grass of the lawn hadn't been cut for a while and it grew knee high, competing for supremacy with large growths of chickweed and dandelions. There was a rusted lawn roller propped up against the fence beside the remains of the cold frame. The constable walked up the path towards the back door which he found was already open. The lime green paint had peeled away in places, leprous slices of the stuff chipped away to reveal the thin wood beneath.

Davies lowered the shotgun, the barrel pointing ahead, and took a step inside. The kitchen smelt damp* the cloying stench mingling with something else. A more pungent odour which caused the constable to cough. He looked around, searching for the source of the odour. There was a white door to his right which he took to be a larder and, as he took a step towards it, he realized that his suspicions were right. The stench grew stronger.

Davies lowered the shotgun and pulled open the door.

'Christ,' he grunted, discovering the source of the smell. On the lowest stone shelf of the larder was a rotting joint of beef. It lay on the place in a solidified pool of blood which spread into a rusty circle around it. Davies heard the somonolent buzzing of flies; some were crawling on the meat. He also noted with disgust the loathsome writhings of maggots on the joint.

He pushed the larder door shut and walked into the living room. The curtains were drawn here, the room in semi-darkness but for the thin beams of sunlight lancing through gaps in the dusty drape. Wary of the darkness, Davies advanced further into the room and tore the curtains down, flooding the room with bright sunlight and throwing up a choking cloud of thick dust. The policeman stepped back, eyes darting round the room. Come on you bastards, he thought, where are you? Satisfied that downstairs was clear, he pushed open the hall door and made his way up the narrow staircase finally emerging on the landing. Four doors. Two bedrooms, an airing cupboard and a toilet. All empty.

Shaking his head he descended the stairs and made his way across the front lawn to the next house, wondering how Greene was doing across the road.

As it turned out, his younger companion was having as little luck as he in finding anything. There were not even any signs of the creatures and Greene was beginning to think that the search of the street would end up being fruitless. At least that was what he hoped. The perspiration which soaked his back was beginning to stain his uniform as he began searching the fifth house. He didn't even attempt to tell himself that the sweat was heat induced. It was the product of fear. Pure, naked fear. He wiped his brow and pushed the door which he knew led into the living room of the house. The curtains once more were open and he passed through without checking, anxious to scan upstairs and get out of the bloody place. There was a sofa and two chairs in the room, and no carpet on the floor. The sofa was stretched across one corner of the room, a sizeable gap behind it.

It was as the young constable made his way up the fifth staircase that morning, that the sofa was pushed forward and the creature sheltering behind it crept slowly forward.

From his position in one of the bedrooms, Greene didn't hear the slight squeaking of castors as the sofa moved. Having thoroughly searched the upper story, he hurried downstairs once more, his heart slowing a little.

He walked into the living room.

All he heard was a high-pitched rasping sound as the thing launched itself at him.

Greene screamed and swung the shotgun round, his actions accelerated by sheer terror. Luckily, the monstrous discharge hit its target and the young constable slumped back against the wall gasping.

At his feet lay what remained of a cat. It was now little more than a twisted heap of fur and blood, large lumps of it splattered around the room by the horrendous force of the blast. Had it not been for the fact that the partly obliterated head stared up at him, Greene wouldn't have known what he'd killed, so great was the destruction wrought by the gun.

He bolted from the house. Fortunately, he managed to reach the back door before vomiting. Sweating profusely, he leant against the wall, gulping in the grass-scented air and shaking madly. It was some time before he found the courage to move on to the next house.

Across the road, Davies has heard the shot and he smiled. That's one of the bastards gone, he thought. He was surprised that Greene had had the guts to use the shotgun, he seemed such a spineless little sod. Davies himself was more than half way down the street by now, having discovered nothing so far and he, like Greene, was beginning to suspect that all the houses were, indeed, empty. The house he was in this time was built somewhat differently from those further up. He stood in the kitchen, his eyes alert. No pantry here, just a door in front of him, which, he found, led out into a hall. Peeling wallpaper once more, flaking away like dried skin. There was a door to his immediate right and another to the left. Between them lay the staircase. He chose the right hand door first and found that it was a bathroom with toilet. Piss stains up the wall, more flaking paper and a yellowed plastic shower curtain. The place smelt like a urinal.

Davies closed the door behind him and nudged open the other across the tiny hall with the barrel of his shotgun. The living room. He checked it quickly, anxious to inspect the upper floor but even more anxious to get out into the sunlight again. He left the living room and started slowly up the uncarpeted stairs. His heavy boots sounded conspicuously loud in the deathly silence and the policeman swallowed hard, aware that anything up there would most certainly have been alerted to his presence by now. There was a small guard rail running along the side of the landing and, through its wooden slats, he could see the half-open door of a bedroom. It was in darkness, the dirty blue curtains drawn tight against the invading sunlight. He gripped the shotgun tighter and finally stood still on the cramped landing.

Two more doors in addition to the one he had already glimpsed. He kicked open the nearest and walked in. Nothing in there, just bunk beds and an old dressing table. At the far end of the room, a cupboard door had fallen open, spilling toys across the wooden floor. Davies closed the door behind him and crossed to the second bedroom, pulling at the curtains as he did so.

It too was empty.

The last of the three doors was locked tight and the handle twisted impotently in his grasp. He took a step back then threw his weight against it. There was a shriek of buckling metal as the lock broke and Davies tumbled into the room. He sprawled heavily. The shotgun fell from his grasp and skidded across the floor. Suddenly seized by a spasm of terror, he grabbed for the weapon and looked up.

The room was empty. He cursed himself, realizing that the atmosphere was getting to him. Another empty room he thought and shook his head. Where the hell were the bloody things hiding?

It was as he emerged onto the landing that he heard the scraping from above.

His heart leapt, thudding against his chest, the breath catching in his throat. He looked up.

'Oh God,' he gasped.

The trapdoor of the attic was out of place, half of it drawn back, revealing the impenetrable blackness within. The sound came again, louder this time. Davies leant back against the wall, his eyes fixed on the half open hole. My God, he thought, it was so obvious. The attic. What better place for them to hide? It was dark, out of sight, not easily accessible. His heart began racing and he took three deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down. Perhaps his imagination was getting the better of him, maybe it was just birds up there. They very often nested in lofts. Nevertheless, he would have to know for sure.

But how to get up there? He looked around for something to stand on and remembered a chair in the second bedroom. Hastily retrieving it, he positioned it carefully beneath the black hole, his eyes constantly alert for any sign of movement. Cautiously he climbed onto the chair and found that he could reach the wooden surround of the attic entrance. He shook his head. That would mean him hauling himself up gradually, getting a firm handhold and dragging his bulky frame into the enveloping darkness. It was too risky, besides the fact that he would be momentarily unable to use his gun if there were any of the things up there. He shuddered at the thought, leaning against the guard rail which ran along one side of the landing.

That was the answer.

If he could use the guardrail as a further step up from the chair then he could ease himself up into the attic and still retain a firm grip on his gun. Davies set the plan in motion, finding that it was not as easy as he had anticipated. The guard rail creaked protestingly under his weight but he grabbed the wooden lip of the attic entrance, laid the shotgun inside and hauled himself up.

Christ, it was dark in there. He reached for his flashlight, fumbling around inside his jacket. He grabbed it and swung its powerful beam around the inside of the attic.

There were four of them in there and, even though he had half expected it, Davies was still shocked by their appearance. In fact, one, a man in his fifties, was already on his feet and advancing towards the policeman. Davies shone the light in his direction and the man covered his face against the bright light. The eyeless sockets remained open, glaring at Davies through meshed fingers. With a grunt of disgust, the policeman fired.

The blast hit the man in the chest and blew him across the small attic, but now the others were stirring and Davies realized that he couldn't hold the light up and fire at the same time. Praying, he fired off th6 remaining four cartridges, using each subsequent muzzle flash as a guide. When he'd finished, the room stunk of cordite and his ears were ringing from the swift deafening explosions. Hurriedly, he reached for the light and shone it in the direction of the living dead things. Joyful at first, he counted three bodies but then suddenly the awful realization hit him. He had seen four when he first entered the attic. Where was the fourth creature?

He swung around in time to catch it in the beam. What had once been a girl in her twenties, her eyeless sockets still caked with dark dry blood, ran at him, dark liquid gushing from a savage wound in her side which had exposed the intestines. Her mouth was open in a soundless scream of rage and, arms outstretched, she lunged at Davies. He rolled to one side and the girl tripped, falling head first through the open trapdoor. There was a sickening thud as she hit the landing below. Davies leapt down after her, his full weight landing on her torn body. His gun now empty, he snatched up the chair and brought it crashing down on her head. The one blow was all that was needed. Her skull collapsed like an egg shell, greyish slops of brain plopping onto the carpet. Seized with an almost insane hatred, the policeman reloaded his shotgun and fired two more shots into the inert form as if not quite satisfied that the creature was finally dead. The second blast tore off her head. What remained of it.

He stared down at the body, shaking with rage and fear.

'Bastard,' he said. 'Bastard. Fucking bastard.' It was a moment or two before he recovered his composure and left the house, wondering what he would find in the next.

Walford brought Puma Three to a halt in the car park at the back of the block of fiats where constable Ferman lived. The two of them had been ordered to check out the block with its twelve storeys and ninety flats. The two men sat in the car for a moment, gazing upwards to the top storey.

'Shit,' muttered Walford, 'we'll be here all day checking this lot.'

Ferman grinned and climbed out of the car. Walford followed a second later, wondering what his companion found so amusing.

'Don't worry about it,' said Ferman, 'we'll have this done in less than half an hour.'

They were already inside the main entrance hall, the lifts in front of them, two corridors on either side stretching away for hundreds of yards.

'Half an hour my backside,' said Walford, indignantly.

'Just shut up and come with me,' Ferman told him, heading for the flat nearest them. He fumbled in the pocket of his trousers and produced a key. 'My flat,' he announced. He opened the door and Walford shrank back. Curled up in front of the dormant gas fire were two of the biggest Alsatians he'd ever seen. The first animal looked up, saw Ferman and bounded across to him. He smiled and grabbed the dog, patting it and running his hand along its sleek body. 'This is King,' he announced, stroking the animal which looked at Walford lazily, regarding him as if it were looking at its next meal.

'They're big bastards, Stuart,' said Walford, trying to hide his apprehension. He wasn't too keen on dogs at the best of times and these bloody things looked like ponies, he'd never seen any as big.

'I look after them,' said Ferman proudly, stroking the second dog which licked at his hand. 'This one is Baron. If they can't sniff out those bloody things then no one can.'

'You know, you're not as daft as you look,' said Walford, smiling.

Both men checked their weapons. Ferman led the dogs out into the corridor and hastily locked his flat door behind them.

'What makes you so sure they'll be able to find anything?' Walford asked as they set off up the first corridor, the dogs leading.

'Dogs can usually sense when something's wrong,' Ferman said. 'It'll save us a lot of time if they can.'

They checked the place, floor by floor, all the time their ears and eyes alert. Ferman watching the two dogs, observing their reactions as they paused now and again at a door, one of them sniffing around, the other pacing back and forth.

On the fifth floor a door opened and a woman stuck her head out, suddenly alarmed by the sight of gun-carrying policemen and dogs.

'What's going on?' she asked, worriedly.

'Nothing to worry about,' lied Walford, 'just a check. We got a call from someone in the flats who'd reported someone suspicious hanging round.'

The woman looked at the two men and then at the dogs. She hesitated a moment then closed her door and both policemen heard a bolt being slid into place on the other side. They walked on.

'Mrs Cole,' Ferman announced, 'we probably interrupted her and one of her customers.' He laughed to himself. Walford looked puzzled. 'She's a bit of a goer if you get my drift.'

Walford did.

'Her husband's in the nick, some big black bloke. Right fucking headcase, alcoholic too. He used to knock the shit out of her. I dragged him in twice for assaulting her but she stayed with him. I suppose she's making up for lost time now. There's a different bloke in there every night.'

Walford started to sound interested. 'How old is she?'

'Thirty, maybe younger. Who knows?'

They reached the flight of steps which led up to the sixth floor and the dogs raced ahead. Ferman watched them go, wondering if they'd found something at last. When he and Walford finally caught up with the animals he saw that it was a false alarm. They continued their endless trekking along the maze of corridors. Doors were tried; those that were open they investigated, the ones that were locked they bypassed.

'I hope you're right about these bloody dogs,' said Walford. 'I mean, what if they've missed something?'

Ferman shook his head. 'No chance. If there's anything here, they'll find it.'

Someone else popped their head out of the doorway on the tenth floor. Mr Wilkins. A retired solicitor, Walford was told afterwards.

'Pompous old sod,' said Ferman as they walked on. 'He's a nosey old cunt, too. There's not a thing goes on in this bloody block that he doesn't know about.'

'Do you know everyone who lives here?' asked Walford, irritably.

Ferman smiled.

Eleventh floor and still nothing. The sun was beaming in through the huge picture windows at either end of the corridor and Walford leant back against the wall to rub his aching thighs.

'Only one more floor,' Ferman told him. 'Thank Christ for that. My bloody legs are killing me, all these stairs.'

It was King who started barking first. Walford looked around to see the animal standing at the far end of the corridor, hackles raised, barking madly at something which he couldn't see. A second later, Baron joined in and the entire corridor was filled with a cacophony of harsh yapping and growling. King began scratching at the door, growling, backing off then barking once more. The two policemen ran to where the dogs stood and Ferman grabbed their collars, pulling them back, finding that he needed all his strength to do so.

'Try the door,' he said, watching as Walford gently turned the handle. The dogs' frenzied barking had now subsided to a low guttural growling; both had their sharp eyes fixed on the door as the policeman turned the handle and pushed it open a few inches.

'What do we do?' asked Walford. 'Let them go in?' He nodded towards the waiting animals.

Ferman bit his lip contemplatively. 'There is the chance they could be wrong.'

'You said…'

'All right. But I'll go in with them.' Ferman swallowed hard. He told his companion to hold the two Alsatians while he himself worked the pump action of his shotgun, chambering a shell. Walford held the dogs as best he could, stunned by their power.

'Let them go,' snapped Ferman, simultaneously kicking open the door.

The two animals hurtled in, Ferman following. There was a flurry of barking and howling from the room beyond him as he ran to catch up with the dogs. They had barged through a half open door inside which the policeman knew led into one of the bedrooms. All the flats were built the same; this one was no different to his own. He kicked open the second door and froze.

What had once been a man in his forties was struggling with the two animals, yellow spitde dribbling over his chin. He snarled and bit like they did, uttering the same harsh animal sounds so that it was difficult to determine who was making the noises. He had one hand clamped round Baron's throat, while the bulk of King clung to his other arm, teeth firmly embedded in the flesh. The living dead thing grunted and hurled Baron away, the animal smashing into the far wall, staggering for a second then racing back at the creature. He tried to bludgeon King away and, by turning, left his face exposed. Baron launched himself at the man's unprotected side and tore away a large chunk of skin. Blood spurted into the air and the dog fell away. The living dead thing spun round, bringing one hand down hard on King's head. The animal dropped like a stone and Ferman raised his shotgun, anger boiling within him.

'You bastard,' he muttered, and fired twice. Both shots hit their target and the man was slammed back against the wall. He stood there for a second before slumping forward, a huge crimson smear trailing out behind him, his entrails spilling in an untidy pattern on the floor before him.

Ferman dropped his gun and ran to King. He knew before he reached it that the animal was dead, its skull crushed to pulp by the powerful blow it had received. Baron, whimpering softly, licked at the policeman's hand and he had to fight hard to keep back a tear.

Walford appeared in the doorway. He looked in, saw the dead dog and the corpse and left, staggering into the corridor outside. Ferman finally emerged, carrying the body of the dog, Baron close behind him. The policeman's face was set, his jaw firm, the knot of muscles at its side pulsing angrily.

'I loved that dog,' he said, softly. And Walford reached out to touch his shoulder.

'Come on,' he said, still shaking from what he'd just seen, 'we'd better report in.'

Lambert was surprised at how many people there were in the centre of Medworth that morning. Perhaps they just chose not to hide or realized that they were not in so much danger during the day light hours. The sun shining brightly overhead seemed to add much needed reassurance.

He had just received the reports from the three other cars, well over half the town had been covered now and, as yet, only eight or nine of the things had been found. The evidence seemed to support Lambert's own theory that the bulk of them hid together during the day. But where?…

He glanced up at the clock on the council offices as he guided the Capri along the main street. It was 1:30 P.M. They had less than five hours of daylight left. Bell and he had covered an extensive area themselves that morning but had found nothing. A search of two pub cellars had revealed nothing, neither had a house to house probe which had taken in most of Medworth's largest estate.

Lambert swung the Capri round the roundabout at the top of the main street and guided it into the narrow delivery road which led up to the back of the supermarket which was the next sight of their quest. It had, up until three days ago, been a large branch of Sainsbury's but, as events in the town had become progressively worse, the management had pulled out, closing the store down. The Inspector brought the car to a halt in one of the loading bays and shut off the engine. Better to go in the back way, he thought. The people in the town were jumpy enough without seeing two coppers walking around with shotguns. He radioed in to the station, telling Grogan that they were going in. The Inspector hesitated a second, considering the handset which he held, then, almost as an afterthought, he said, 'Any word from Doctor Kirby yet?'

Grogan said that there wasn't and Lambert switched off the set. He sat for a second then reached for his shotgun and swung himself out of the car. Bell followed. As they reached towards the twin doors which marked the back of the supermarket, the Inspector's thoughts returned to his wife. Kirby had promised to contact the station as soon as Debbie woke up. He must have given her a pretty strong dose of sedative if she was still out. Lambert hoped that she would wake up in time. She was, after all, the only one who knew the horrendous truth behind all that had transpired these last two months. He hoped that her knowledge would be enough.

The two men reached the large doors and Lambert pressed down hard on the locking bar. It wouldn't budge an inch either way.

'Stand back,' he said, working the pump action of the shotgun.

Bell took several steps back and watched as his superior fired a blast, point blank, into the end of the bar. Lumps of metal and pieces' of shot ricochetted into the air. Lambert kicked at the bar and it gave. The door swung back.

Both men looked at one another and, with the Inspector leading, walked in.

From the piles of boxes and cans, both men realized that they were in the supermarket's vast storeroom. On all sides, every kind of tinned and packaged food rose in huge towers and Lambert almost smiled to himself. Christ, the owners must have been anxious to get out to leave this amount of stuff behind. There was a fruity smell in the room, a more pleasant odour than the perpetual mustiness they had encountered nearly everywhere earlier in the day. They separated, ensuring that every inch of the storeroom was searched.

Away to his left, Lambert heard a crash and spun round, the shotgun at the ready.

'Bell,' he called.

'I'm all right, sir,' came the reply. 'Just tripped over a box of bloody baked beans.'

Lambert smiled and made his way cautiously towards the next set of doors which confronted them. Bell joined him and the men found themselves faced by row upon row of shopping trolleys, all arranged in front of the doors. They heaved them to one side, making a path. Lambert pushed the doors, relieved to find that they opened easily. The two policemen found themselves in the supermarket proper. He remembered it when it had been full of people, bustling up and down the aisles like ants moving around the nest, snatching things from the shelves to put in their baskets and trolleys. Now the place was deserted, as quiet as a grave, its once powerful banks of fluorescents now dead, leaving the entire huge amphitheatre in a kind of semi-darkness. Lambert thought about turning on his flashlight but realized that he could see perfectly well without it. Away to their right was another doorway, this one open; it led into the meat storage area. There would be time later to check that.

'You take the end aisles,' said the Inspector, softly, almost reluctant to disturb the peace and solitude within the vast empty building. 'Work your way to the middle. I'll do the same from that side.' He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. Bell nodded and walked off, his boots echoing conspicuously on the tiled floor.

As he made his way slowly down the furthermost aisle, Lambert had already made the assumption that this was not the resting place of the creatures. It was too open, even the fridges didn't have tops. He reached the bottom of the aisle and peered across through the gloom to see Bell emerge at the far end of the supermarket. The constable raised a hand and Lambert nodded. They both started up the next aisle, giving mutual signals when they reached the end.

This procedure continued until they met in the central aisle.

'What now?' said Bell, relieved that nothing had turned up.

'The freezers,' said Lambert, motioning with the barrel of his gun, 'where they keep the meat.'

The two men headed for the storage room, Lambert noting that a pile of cans was strewn across the floor near the entrance. Probably someone had knocked them over in their hurry' to leave. Or perhaps…

The door to the cold storage room was open and the Inspector walked in. The place was larger than he'd expected. All down the left hand wall was a stainless steel topped work bench, the butchers' implements still spread out upon it. Carving knives, cleavers, saws and the Inspector could see that some of it was still dark with dried blood. Running the full length of the room were six metal rods, each about four inches thick and placed more than six feet from the ground. A number of meat hooks hung from them, suspended from one of which was a whole pig. Lambert wondered why just one carcass should have been left behind. Probably no reason at all; maybe his imagination was getting the better of him again. The far end of the room was made up entirely of fridges, huge coffin-like things which must have been more than four feet deep. The white tiled floor was spotted red in places and, with the coolant turned off, both men began to notice the pungent odour of putrifying meat. It was dark in there, very dark and now both of them switched on their torches. Lambert smelt another odour, the sharp smell of sweat which he realized was his own. He swallowed hard and walked slowly towards the waiting fridges at the far end of the room, gun in one hand, torch in the other. Bell followed his example. They reached the first of the freezers and Lambert laid his flashlight on top of the adjacent fridge.

'Shine the light here,' he told Bell, both men's faces looking white in the powerful beam. The constable obeyed, watching as Lambert hooked one powerful hand under the lid and flipped it back.

Empty.

Both men breathed heavily and Lambert's voice was low when he spoke: 'I'll start at the other end. We'll check each one. Then we'll get the hell out of here.' He was nervous and he didn't mind admitting it. He retrieved his flashlight and hurried to the end of the line of fridges. There were eight in all. He laid his light on top of the metal lid of the next freezer along and, propping the shotgun up against the wall, raised the-first lid.

Empty.

Further along, Bell was repeating the procedure. He too, found nothing. Both men moved along, hearts thumping and, twice, Lambert was forced to wipe beads of perspiration from his forehead.

He opened his third fridge and found it empty.

Bell actually had his hand on the lid when it shot up, knocking the shotgun and the torch from has grasp. He shrieked and Lambert spun round, the torch beam highlighting the horror before him.

The creature, a woman (Lambert wasn't sure because of the long hair and bad light), had one powerful hand clamped around Bell's neck and was dragging him into the fridge. He clung to the sides, fighting against the strength which held him, his eyes bulging wide in pain and terror. Lambert reached for the Browning but, as he pulled it free of the holster, he realized that he dare not shoot for fear of hitting his companion. He shone his flashlight full in the face of the thing which he now saw was a youth in his early twenties. The creature opened its mouth in silent protest, trying to shield its eyeless face with one hand while throttling Bell with the other. Lambert ran forward and struck the thing full in the face with the flashlight. The room was plunged into darkness and Bell fell to the ground. Lambert flung himself down, his desperate fingers searching the floor for the dropped light.

Grinning, the thing was dragging itself out of the fridge.

Lambert saw the light, lying not more than ten feet from him. He threw himself towards it, hearing Bell shriek again as the thing grabbed for him. The constable rolled clear and the living dead creature was caught in two minds for a second, not sure which of the two men to pursue. It saw Lambert reach the fight and came after him, anxious to extinguish it. The light which brought so much pain.

The Inspector felt the crushing weight of the creature on him and powerful hands snaked around his neck, choking him. He gripped the hands and tried to pull them free. Bell stood motionless, watching the tableau, too frightened to move.

'For fuck's sake get it off,' screamed Lambert, his shout finally galvanizing the stunned constable into action. He looked around for a weapon, squinting through the gloom to the table of butcher's implements. His eyes sought, and found, the cleaver. Whimpering, he grabbed it and brought it crashing down on the living dead corpse, aiming for its head. But the blow missed by inches, sliced off one of its ears and powered into the shoulder at the point of clavicle and jugular vein. There was an enormous fountain of blood which sprayed out like a crimson jet.

Lambert felt the pressure on his throat eased and he struck out, knocking the creature off. It fell back, the blood still spouting from its neck but, in the darkness, both men saw it wrench the cleaver free and, despite the frenzied spurtings of dark fluid from its wound, come at them once more. Scarcely believing what he saw, Lambert backed off. The thing made a last desperate charge and brought the cleaver hurtling down with the force of a steamhammer. Bell, retreating also, slipped in a pool of blood and raised his hand to shield himself from the attack.

The bloodied blade sliced through his arm just above the wrist, the severed limb flying into the air. He began screaming, holding up the shattered stump as if it were a prize, blood pouring from the remains of his arm.

Lambert at last had a clear shot and, with Bell's screams ringing in his ears, he squeezed off two, three, four shots.

Moving at a speed of over 1,100 feet a second, the heavy grain bullets tore into the living corpse, blasting exit holes the size of fists. The impact hurled it across the darkened room where it slammed into the fridges, blood spattering up the smooth white sides. Lambert fired again, again, again. Blasting the body into an unrecognizable bloody rag. Finally he lowered the gun, the muzzle flashes still burned onto his retina, the roar of fire in his ears but, above all that, the delirious screams of Bell as he staggered a couple of feet before dropping to his knees still holding up the stump of his wrist.

Screams. Screams.

Lambert vomited. Only by a supreme effort of will did he manage to stop himself fainting. Leaving Bell alone in the store room, he staggered out.

He managed to reach the Capri and radio for help, but then, as he dropped the handset, he lost his fight and finally did pass out.

Lambert sat up, felt hands on his shoulder. He grunted and reached for his gun, suddenly frightened. But slowly, as his wits returned to him, he saw the face of Hayes looking in at him.

'You all right, guv?' he asked, his big hand still on the young Inspector's shoulder.

Lambert was still dazed. He saw the two dark uniformed men carrying someone to the back of a waiting ambulance. Its blue light was spinning and the engine was humming but there were no other sounds. He caught a brief glimpse of Bell's face, milk-white as they manoeuvred him inside the vehicle. The Inspector exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

'Where the hell did you come from?' he asked, groggily.

'Grogan picked up your message. We were the nearest car, so here we are.' The sergeant smiled.

'I blacked out,' said Lambert, not that the explanation was really necessary.

One of the ambulancemen, a tall man with sad eyes, walked across to the car and looked in at Lambert.

'Will you be O.K.?' he said.

The Inspector nodded. 'Thanks.' He paused. 'What about Bell?'

'He'll live, but he's lost a lot of blood.'

Lambert nodded again and rubbed his face in the imitation of washing. The ambulanceman took one more careful look at him then walked away and got into his vehicle. In seconds, it was pulling out, the scream of its siren now filling the air. Lambert shook himself, then felt something being pressed into his hand. He looked down to see that it was a silver hip flask. Hayes nodded towards it and the Inspector drank, allowing the liquor to burn its way to his stomach.

'Purely medicinal of course,' said Hayes, smiling.

Lambert too found the strength to grin, handing the flask back to the sergeant. A thought suddenly struck him.

'Any news of my wife?' he asked, hopefully.

'Grogan called about ten minutes ago. You must have been in there,' he pointed to the supermarket, 'at the time. Doctor Kirby says that she's conscious.'

Already Lambert was starting the engine but the sergeant reached out a hand and switched it off.

'What the hell are you doing?' snarled Lambert angrily.

'Let me drive, guv,' said the sergeant softly.

The Inspector nodded. 'I'm sorry.' He slid across, allowing Hayes to settle his considerable bulk behind the wheel. He called to Jenkins to follow them and the constable nodded, gunning Puma One into life.

The two cars swung out of the loading bay and, within minutes, were on the road leading to Kirby's house.

Kirby had hardly got the door open when Lambert barged in.

'Is she all right?' he demanded.

Already he was bounding up the stairs to the bedroom where he knew Debbie to be. He flung open the door and she turned her head and smiled at him. Lambert rushed across to her and took her in both arms. They hugged each other for long minutes. Finally, he let her go and he saw the tears in her eyes. She gripped his hand and he reached out to brush her cheek with his finger tips.

'Are you O.K.?' he asked, his voice little more than a whisper.

She nodded, squeezing his hand harder. 'Tom, those things…' He saw more tears welling up and ran his hand over her forehead.

'Don't worry, we found some of them this morning.'

'And?'

'We killed them.'

She seemed reassured and her tone brightened a little, but her voice was still croaky. He saw a jug and glass on the small bedside table and poured her some water. She drank and handed the glass back to him.

'Tom,' she said, 'I found out about Mathias, about the medallion. What Trefoile told us about him was true. He was a Black Magician, and that medallion belonged to him. He'd found the secret of reversing death, bringing the dead back to life. That's what the inscription on the medallion means: "To Awake the Dead." ' She gripped his hand and he edged closer, putting one arm around her shoulder as she continued.

'Mathias was buried alive for his crimes, his blasphemies they called them, but before that, his tongue was torn out and he was blinded. They gouged out his eyes. It was some old superstition, so that he couldn't see or speak of the evil he'd committed. It's all in my notes at home.' As she mentioned the word he felt her body stiffen.

'Oh God, I don't think I can ever go back there, Tom, not after what happened last night.' She hugged him, fighting back the tears. He ran his hand through her hair, kissing the top of her head.

Kirby appeared in the doorway.

'Come on, Tom,' he said, quietly, 'don't tire her too much.'

Reluctantly, Lambert broke away but Debbie held onto his hand. 'What are you going to do?'

'I'll drive back to the house,' he told her. 'See if there's any clue in your notes as to where Mathias's grave might be.'

'It said he was buried in ground not blessed by the church. Unconsecrated ground.'

Lambert nodded.

'Tom.'

He looked at her.

'You know why they took the medallion?'

He looked vague.

'If it is ever returned to Mathias, it'll enable him to rise again. They must know where he's buried.'

Lambert looked across at the clock on the dressing table. It said 4:30 P.M.

They had ninety minutes of daylight left. Lambert's mind was spinning. He had to drive back to the house, pick up Debbie's notes, praying that there might be some clue as to where the grave of Mathias was, but, above all, he had to find the remaining living dead before nightfall. He shuddered. Debbie pulled him close one last time and this time the tears flowed in an unceasing river. They held each other for a long time, Debbie sobbing softly, her head buried within his arms. Finally he pulled away, supporting her head in his hands. He kissed her. 'I love you,' he said, softly.

'Tom, for God's sake be careful,' she sobbed. He kissed her on the forehead and then he was gone, his heart seized with the icy conviction that he might never see her again. But overriding that feeling was one of grim determination. As he left Kirby's house, the doctor heard him muttering one phrase over and over to himself, like some kind of litany…

'I'll get you, you bastards. All of you.'

He bypassed Hayes and Jenkins and climbed into the Capri, shouting at the two other policemen to keep up their search. Then he drove off, not even thinking to look up at the bedroom window where Debbie stood, watching as the car disappeared out of sight.

Already, the first warning clouds of dusk were beginning to gather on the horizon.

Lambert sat in the Capri for precious minutes before he could actually pluck up the courage to walk up to his house. The memory of the previous night was burned indelibly into his mind and he wondered if the image would ever fade. But, at the moment, time was the important factor so he swung himself out of the car and headed up the path towards the front door. There were tyre tracks on the front lawn, patches of dark blood spattered over the front of the house. He walked in, through the still open front door, hanging by its single remaining hinge. He cast a furtive glance up the stairs as if expecting to see the things waiting for him once more. There was more blood on the stair carpet and up the white walls. He entered the living room, a cold breeze blowing through the smashed bay window. It stirred the papers scattered across the floor.

More blood and the pervading stench of death. Lambert hunted quickly through the papers strewn across the carpet and desk. Even some of these bore tiny specks of dried crimson. It took him about ten minutes to find what he sought. He gathered up the necessary information and hurried from the house back to the warmth and safety of the car. There, he read through Debbie's notes, found it all just as she had told him earlier. He reread, his eyes straying back to that one phrase:

… in ground not Blessed of the Church is buried the one known as Mathias.

Unconsecrated ground. Christ, that could mean anywhere. He laid the notes on the passenger seat and started the engine, swinging the Capri round and driving back into Medworth.

As he drove, reports came in periodically from the other cars. All of them the same. Nothing to report. Not one of the things had been sighted since the morning. Lambert glanced at his watch. Nearly five o'clock. Less than an hour until nightfall.

He took the route through the already quiet town centre. There were only a few people about, all of them anxious to be home before darkness. The Inspector drove past the huge silent edifice of the deserted cinema, glancing at it as he did so. The letters above the entrance had fallen in places, blown down by the wind. He smiled as he read the sign:

TH EM IR C NEM.

It towered over him as he drove past, a monument to obsolescence.

Lambert slammed on the brakes, the Capri skidding to a halt.

One of the cinema's side doors was slightly ajar.

He sat still, his breath coming in gasps. The place had been closed for over two years now. And yet, the wooden door was propped open, wide enough for a man to squeeze through. Lambert snatched up the shotgun from beside him, made sure the Browning was loaded and got out of the car. There were two sets of doors facing him. He had been in the cinema a number of times before it closed down and he knew that both sets of doors were exits. One from the stallsy one from the balcony. But right now he couldn't remember which was which. He pushed the open door and it moved slightly, the hinges shrieking in protest. Lambert squeezed through, surprised at how light it was inside. He knew immediately, from the wide flight of stone steps which faced him, that this exit led down from the balcony.

Moving slowly, his ears alert for the slightest sound, he began to climb.

Half way up, the staircase turned in a right angle, flattening out into a small landing before rising, in another flight of steps, towards the doors which led into the balcony itself. There was a large frosted glass window set in the wall and that was where the light was coming from. The window itself had been broken in two places and a cold draught blew through, creating an unnerving high pitched moan.

A few feet away from him, its door cracked and peeling, was the toilet. A rusty sign on it proudly proclaimed-Gentlemen. The door was closed. Lambert crossed to the door and, swallowing hard, pulled it open. He stepped in. The place stank of damp and blocked drains. The single window had been bricked up and the Inspector found it hard to see in the gloom. There was a tiled urinal area and a single cubicle. He pushed the door open and found, to his relief, that it was empty. The persistent drip, drip of water from the old cistern added background to the Inspector's laboured breathing. He left the toilet and began climbing the second flight of stone steps which would take him into the balcony itself. The twin doors which led into it were firmly closed. Heart thudding against his ribs, he pulled open one of the doors and stepped inside.

The darkness was total. Almost palpable, like some thick black fog, totally impenetrable and clinging around him like a living thing. Lambert, literally, couldn't see his hand in front of him. He fumbled in his jacket for his flashlight and realized, angrily, that he'd lost it earlier that afternoon in the supermarket. He fumbled for his lighter and found it, the yellow light giving him a few precious feet of visibility.

Using its light as a guide, he climbed the steps which eventually levelled out onto a kind of walk way, separating front from rear balcony. He knew, from memory, that the main entrance was about twenty yards to his right, but in the all enveloping darkness he could see no farther than the glow his lighter allowed him. He walked on, heading for the entrance, becoming more aware of the stench which filled the place with each passing second. Not just the odour of dampness which he expected, but something more powerful. The carrion odour of rotting flesh. Excrement. Death.

There was a movement behind him and Lambert spun round, the dim light from the lighter totally inadequate for the task. He saw nothing but remained in that position, gun at the ready. Waiting and listening. Then finally, slowly, he turned again.

The dull glow of the lighter shone straight into the grinning face of Ray Mackenzie.

Lambert shouted in sudden terror, dropped the lighter and was plunged into total darkness once more. He rolled away, knowing that Mackenzie was coming for him. The Inspector fired one blast into the air.

In the thunderflash explosion of the discharge, the entire vast amphitheatre was momentarily illuminated and Lambert saw an image which he had always suspected. Always feared.

In the swift blinding light he saw them. Fifty. Sixty. Probably more. Living corpses all around him. He cursed himself for not having had the place searched before. It was so simple.

But now, in that brief moment of light, he knew he had found them.

For untold seconds nothing happened, then Lambert fired again, using the gun as a source of light. He fired off the five cartridges in rapid succession, moving towards the area where he knew the stairs to be. He didn't even know whether he hit any of the creatures with his blasts, but as his finger jerked a last time on the trigger, something warm and wet splashed across his face. His hand found the banister which led down the short flight of steps to the balcony entrance. He tried to jump the distance, tripped and tumbled to the bottom of the stairs, losing the shotgun in the process. He pushed open the door and a kind of dull half light flooded the bottom of the staircase. Lying at the bottom, Lambert looked up and saw th6 things crowding above him, Mackenzie at their head. The light stunned them for a second, long enough to enable Lambert to clamber to his feet and burst out of the balcony doors. He heard them thundering after him.

A few feet of carpeted landing and he was at the stairs which led down into the foyer.

Mackenzie burst from the doors in pursuit, others behind him and Lambert could smell their stench as he ran, taking the stairs two and three at a time. He reached the bottom and flung himself the last few feet, skidding across the tiled foyer floor.

The living dead pounded down behind him, one or two of them reaching the ground floor a mere second after him.

Lambert spun round, pulling the Browning from its holster. He fired with one hand, the recoil almost breaking his wrist, but by some miracle the shots hit their target and two of the creatures were felled. But now more were flooding the foyer and Lambert dashed for the twin sets of double doors, smashing the glass in one as he slammed into it, desperate to reach the main doors of the cinema. The things clattered after him, pausing a moment when he shot down two more. But now it was Lambert's turn to pause.

He turned to the great, steel braced glass doors and almost shrieked when he saw the chains and padlocks which held them firmly shut.

The first of the creatures came at him through the double doors and he blew half its head off, then another, recoiling from the light, shielding its eyeless sockets in pain. Lambert realized that the fight was his only hope. He tore down the curtains which masked the twin sets of double doors, flooding ten feet from him. The Inspector felt sick, overpowered by the collective stench which emanated from them. He gave himself a moment's respite and fired at one of the padlocks. The heavy grain bullet shattered it and Lambert tore the chain free, kicking at the heavy door, shouting when it stuck. He threw all his weight against it, aware that the bolder of the creatures were drawing closer to him. He fired. The first of them went down, blood jetting from the wound in its throat.

Mackenzie ran at Lambert, his lips drawn back in that familiar hideous feral grin.

It was the force of his charge which finally catapulted Lambert through the half-open door and onto the pavement outside.

The other creatures cowered back from the light which flooded in through the glass and Mackenzie was left outside. Lambert felt his weight on him and struggled to free himself, aware that his attacker was becoming weaker in the light. Lambert remembered that he still held the length of chain and he lashed out savagely with it, catching Mackenzie across the cheek and laying it open to the bone. Those burning red orbs glowed intensely, defiant to the end. Lambert brought the chain whipping down across the man's skull. The heavy links split the flesh of his scalp, tearing away hunks of hair. Mackenzie dropped to his knees, his blazing red eyes still fixed on Lambert who had retrieved the Browning.

From point blank range, the policeman fired, almost shouting his delight as the bullet slammed into Mackenzie's jaw just below the ear, tearing it off before erupting from the back of his neck. Mackenzie sagged forward in a spreading pool of blood and Lambert put three more into him, finding something akin to pleasure in the damage the bullets wrought. He stared down at the body, frightened it would get up. At last he bolted for his car and snatched up the handset.

'Grogan,' he barked, continuing before the man had even had time to acknowledge, 'get all the cars to the Empire in town. The cinema. They're here. All of them. They're here.' He was shouting now. 'And I want petrol, lots of petrol and tell them to hurry, for fuck's sake tell them to hurry.' He threw the handset back inside the Capri and dashed back to the front of the building, peering in at the remaining living corpses. Jesus, there must be upwards of eighty, he thought. He looked at his watch.

5:30.

Night was drawing in fast. Lambert prayed they would make it in time.

The three police cars arrived within minutes of one another. Lambert told all of them to switch on their headlights and keep them trained on the front of the cinema.

'What about the petrol?' asked the Inspector, looking at Hayes.

As if in answer to his question, a Shell delivery tanker rumbled up the street and Lambert caught sight of Grogan behind the wheel. The policeman drove up onto the pavement in front of the cinema and leapt down from the cab. Together, he and Lambert pulled the hose free and Lambert placed the nozzle just inside the main door of the building.

'Turn it on,' he shouted.

Clambering back into the cab, Grogan flicked a switch and gallon after gallon of petrol pumped into the foyer of the cinema. The policemen in the cars could see the living dead cowering back from the blazing headlamps, stepping in the flooding petrol, falling over one another in their attempts to reach the darkness. Many stumbled into the stalls for shelter but Lambert had men posted at each exit with orders to shoot anything that came out. Nothing would come out of that place tonight.

A red light winked on the dashboard of the tanker and Grogan yelled that the tank was empty.

Lambert ran to the safety of the nearest car then, taking a shotgun from Walford, fired four times into the petrol flooded cinema foyer.

There was an ear splitting roar and a blinding flash as the flammable liquid went up with a high-pitched shriek.

The creatures not immediately incinerated in the conflagration were either burned as the fire took hold throughout the entire building or shot down as they bolted from the exits.

Almost in awe, the men of the Medworth force watched as huge tongues of flame licked up the outsides of the building, the entire place transformed into a huge oven. For four hours it burned, the smoke rising thickly into the night sky until at last, gutted and destroyed, the roof collapsed, sending out a blistering shower of sparks.

By first light the next morning all that remained was a gigantic blackened ruin, like some huge pile of charcoal, choking black smoke still drifting from the remains.

The men had stood silently for a while, not daring to believe that it was all over but then Lambert had given the order for them to leave and, led by him, they had driven off.

Lambert felt no elation, merely a crushing weight of weariness, of total emotional and physical exhaustion. His desire to rest overwhelmed all but one feeling.

He thought of Debbie.

No one had seen the thing which had once been Gary Briggs crawl from the boot of Puma Three that night. All had been too intent on watching the incineration of the living dead.

When they left, the Briggs thing crept into the ruins of the cinema, searching. It knew that it would have to be quick for the sun would be at its zenith soon and the pain would be too great. But it found what it sought and it left the blackened hell where the other living dead had sought refuge.

Now it hid in the church up at Two Meadows, sheltering from the light. At home in the bell tower where no sun could reach it.

It knew what it had to do and knew how to do it. It rested, clutching the medallion to its chest.

It waited for the coming of night.

'You'll do,' said Kirby, tucking away his stethoscope. Lambert pulled his shirt back on and began fastening it.

'What about the rest?' asked the Inspector, tucking the shirt into his trousers.

'They were fine too,' Kirby told him. The two men looked at each other for a moment then the doctor said, 'Back to normal eh, Tom?'

Lambert shrugged, 'I don't think anything will ever be bloody normal after what's happened here these past couple of months.' He ran a hand through his hair, 'I'm just pleased it's all over.'

'Amen to that,' said Debbie, who was sitting in a chair across the room from the couch on which Lambert perched. They were in Kirby's surgery.

'I hear Jenkins' wife had a little girl,' said the doctor, smiling.

Lambert nodded, 'I sent him on leave to be with her. Walford and Hayes are off too. They deserve the rest after what they've been through. The others will get their chance in a couple of weeks.'

'And what about you?' asked Kirby.

'What about me?'

'When do you take your leave?'

Lambert slid down from the couch, 'I don't. There's still work to be done, John. I'm in charge of the force here; it's my job to see that it gets done.'

'Tom, be sensible. After what you've been through, you more than anyone need a couple of days off.'

'We all went through the same. What about Bell, what about Briggs? At least I'm still alive.'

Kirby turned to Debbie. 'Can't you talk some sense into this hard-headed bastard?'

Debbie smiled humourlessly and shook her head, 'I gave up trying to do that a long time ago.'

Lambert extended a hand which Kirby shook warmly. 'Thanks for everything, John,' said the Inspector.

'You can stop here as long as you like, you know,' Kirby told him.

Lambert shook his head.

'You're not going back home, then?'

'Not after what happened there,' Lambert told him. 'I don't think either of us could face it again. There's a little place in Bramton, about twenty miles from here. I don't mind the journey every day. We couldn't stay here after what's happened.'

Kirby nodded. Debbie got to her feet and joined her husband and they walked out to the car with Kirby at their side. He kissed Debbie lightly on the cheek and watched as both of them climbed into the Capri. Lambert rolled the window down and looked up at the doctor.

'I'll be in touch,' he said, and started the engine. The Capri moved off and Kirby watched it disappear out of sight over the hill. He stood for long moments alone on the hillside, until at last the cool breeze drove him back inside. Into the warmth.

'Are you really going back straight away?' said Debbie, studying Lambert's profile as he drove.

'What choice do I have?' he asked.

'Can't you put someone else in charge for a couple of days? Christ, Tom, two days won't hurt will it?' There was a note of exasperation in her voice. He reached across and placed his hand on her thigh.

'We'll see,' he said, smiling.

They drove for a long way in silence, the policeman taking back roads, dirt tracks, anything he could to avoid the hustle and bustle of main roads. When they had reached a particularly secluded spot he stopped the car and got out. Debbie followed him. He walked away from the vehicle, catching her hand and pulling her close to him. They stood on the hilltop, the whole of Medworth and its surrounding countryside spread out before them. The air was fresh, filled with the scent of damp grass and wild flowers which added an occasional clutch of colour in the all encompassing greenery of the fields. Lambert bent and picked a single bloom, sniffing it before he handed it to Debbie. She kissed him, pulling him down on top of her in that damp field. Their hands sought each other's bodies, their tongues eager for the taste of the other's mouth.

There, in that open field, high on the hill side, they made love with a passion they had never before experienced.

High above the sun shone down, its warming rays covering them.

Lambert woke with a start and looked at his watch. He sat up, startled, shivering. Beside him, Debbie stirred and nestled closer to him for warmth. Lambert began to laugh. He laughed until the tears ran down his face. Debbie looked up at him, his own merriment contagious. She too began to laugh.

She realized what he was laughing at. They were naked. Both of them, there on the hillside. They'd fallen asleep after their lovemaking, beneath the comforting warmth of the sun. She checked her own watch.

Four-fifty.

Still giggling, they dressed quickly and retreated to the safety of the car just as spots of rain began to fall from the rapidly darkening sky. They sat there for a moment, both now free of the tension which they had felt for so long.

'Maybe just two days,' said Lambert, smiling.

Debbie leaned across and kissed him.

He started the car and drove off. It wasn't until they reached the centre of Medworth itself that she realized what he was doing. Even after all he had gone through, the memory was still with him. She realized he was heading for the cemetery. To take one last look at his brother's grave. Lambert still bore the sting of guilt, but now, somehow, he had managed to come to terms with it. He had to see Mike's grave once more.

By the time they reached the cemetery, the sun had retreated from the sky, driven away by a combination of gathering storm clouds and the onset of night. Twilight hovered like a hawk in the darkening heavens.

Lambert shut off the engine and looked across at Debbie.

'Stay here.' He smiled, warmly.

But she was already out' of the car, reaching for his hand, their feet crunching on the gravel of the driveway. An icy wind had sprung up and the first large spots of rain were beginning to fall as they left the driveway and walked the pathway which led to Mike's grave.

A silent fork of lightning split the clouds and Debbie jumped. Lambert smiled and hugged her tighter as they walked. They finally reached the grave and stood beneath the big oak tree which hung over it, listening to the rain pelting down. Lambert read his brother's name and felt no pain, just a deep sense of loss. The wound was healing and he knew it. He had at last found the strength to come to terms with his brother's death. It was as if the destruction of the past two months had somehow put it into perspective. What was the phrase…?

Just a drop in the ocean…

They stood for long moments, close to one another, ignoring the rain which dripped onto them. Then finally, Lambert said,

'Come on.'

It was as they turned that they saw the figure emerge from the church.

At first neither moved and it was obvious that the person hurrying across the cemetery had not seen them. The oak hid them from its view. Lambert squinted through the pouring rain to get a glimpse of the figure, which seemed to be dressed in a uniform of some sort. And it was carrying something…

There was a blinding explosion of lightning and Lambert saw who the person was.

'Oh my God,' he breathed, 'it's Briggs.'

Debbie didn't understand but she felt a sudden, ungovernable terror rise in her.

'He's got the medallion,' gasped Lambert, watching, riveted, as the Living dead thing shambled quickly towards the patch of waste ground a hundred yards away. Waste ground. Outside the boundaries of church land.

The realization hit them both like a steam hammer, but it was Debbie who spoke first.

'Tom, the Unconsecrated Ground. Mathias's grave must be there.' She was pointing to the line of trees which marked the outskirts of the scrubland. Lambert was running, screaming at her over his shoulder to get back to the car, bellowing to make himself heard above the driving rain and persistent roaring of thunder. Debbie watched him for a second then she too ran, the breath rasping in her lungs, heading for the cemetery gates and the safety of the car.

Lambert reached the crest of the ridge in time to see Briggs tearing clods of earth up with his hands, furiously digging deeper.

The Inspector paused and pulled the Browning from his holster. He steadied himself, aimed and squeezed off a shot. It threw up a small geyser of earth a foot from the rapidly digging Briggs who paid it no attention. Lambert fired again.

This time the shot sped past its target and disappeared into the distance.

The rain seemed to have intensified and even the loud retort of the Browning was drowned by the persistent rumbling and crashing of thunder.

The Briggs-thing felt its fingers connect with wood and it redoubled its efforts, tearing the coffin lid free and exposing the moultly skeleton of Mathias. Grinning madly, the living dead corpse picked up the medallion, holding it aloft for a second, then placed it carefully on the chest of the skeleton.

Lambert fired a last time and ran towards the thing crouching in the centre of the waste ground.

His final shot was on target. It powered into Briggs' side just below the right armpit, tearing through the rib cage and exploding from the other side to send a confetti of shattered bone and gobbets of lung tissue flying into the air. The impact toppled the creature but didn't kill it. Blood pumping from its wound, it staggered to its feet to meet Lambert's onslaught. The Inspector used the butt end of the pistol like a club, smashing it down on Briggs' head with a force that buckled the metal. The head split open and the creature keeled over.

Lambert, gasping for breath and almost blinded by the rain turned and looked down into the coffin where Mathias lay. He saw a bony hand grab for his ankle, but as he backed off he realized that he was too late.

Debbie had never worked a handset before and now, in the moment when she most needed it, she couldn't find the knowledge what to do next. She suddenly had an idea. The Capri roared into life as she twisted the ignition key. She stepped hard on the accelerator and it shot forward, spraying gravel out behind it.

Mathias stood erect in the centre of the waste ground, the medallion gleaming around his neck.

Lambert was shaking, his eyes riveted to the spectre of pure evil which confronted him.

It must have towered a good six inches above him, and he guessed its height to be somewhere around six feet six. The tattered shroud which was the only thing that covered its body hung in gossamer wisps, scarcely hiding the yellowed flesh which was stretched over thick bones like parchment. And yet there was a power there which Lambert could almost feel, not least in those gaping black eyeless sockets which fixed him in their stare, tiny pinpricks of red light at their centres gradually expanding until they filled the whole gaping maw. Two blazing red orbs which glowed like the fires of hell and made the Inspector stagger. He was gripped by a cold so intense it penetrated every fibre of his body until even the slightest movement seemed a monumental effort.

He realized he still had the Browning and he fumbled in his pocket for a fresh clip, slammed it in and raised the weapon. The trigger wouldn't move. The impact on Briggs' skull must have damaged the firing pin in some way.

With a shriek of terror, he flung the pistol at Mathias and finally found the strength to run.

He knew without looking round that the thing was after him.

Gasping for breath, Lambert climbed the short incline and went sprawling on the gravel drive, cutting his palms. Then, all at once, he saw the twin beams of the car headlights speeding towards him.

'Oh God,' he gasped.

Debbie saw him and slammed on the brakes. Then she saw Mathias behind him, no more than a yard behind him, and she screamed. The Capri skidded on the gravel, spinning round once. Lambert grabbed for the handle of the passenger door and flung himself in. Debbie immediately drove her foot down on the accelerator and the car burned rubber for precious seconds.

There was a fearful explosion of glass which showered them both as Mathias broke the back window with a single blow of his fist.

The car jerked forward and the Black Magician pulled his hand free just in time to prevent it being torn off at the wrist. Lambert looked over his shoulder and saw the vision of the creature receding, but just as it was leaving his field of view he saw it raise both arms skyward.

He heard Debbie scream and turned round in time to see that the cemetery gates had slammed shut. She twisted the wheel, stabbing at the brake simultaneously. The car slowed down a little but not enough. It left the driveway, the wheels skidding on the wet grass, sped a few yards and slammed into the high wall surrounding the cemetery. Lambert felt his head snap forward, crashing hard against the dashboard and blood ran down his face. Debbie slumped back in her seat and he had to shake her out of unconsciousness, gratefully realizing that she had only fainted. She shook herself and looked at him, the blood pouring down his face.

'We've got to get out,' he panted, throwing open the door and taking her hand.

As she clambered after him she saw the image of Mathias filling the rear view mirror and she could swear that he was grinning.

'The church,' shouted Lambert as another bolt of lightning tore open the clouds.

They ran with a speed born of terror and reached the hallowed building, praying that the door wasn't locked.

Lambert pulled on the metal handle and the door gave. They tumbled in, immediately enveloped by a stench of dampness. The sound of their footsteps reverberated throughout the ancient building as they ran towards the altar. Within seconds, Mathias was driving the first of a series of powerful blows against the massive oak door of the church.

Lambert looked around, searching desperately for something with which to defend them. He glanced at the door.

'That won't hold him for long,' he said.

Debbie was close to tears and Lambert found his own breath coming in gasps. He scanned the building frantically. There was another powerful blow on the church door and the wood bent inward a fraction.

'The medallion is giving him his power,' said the policeman. 'I've got to get it away from him somehow.'

Debbie grabbed his arm, 'Tom, he'll kill you.'

The tears were streaming down her face. 'That's no man out there.'

Another thunderous bang and a large portion of the church door showed a split from top to bottom. A minute more and Mathias would be in. Lambert's head was throbbing, both from the pain of the gash and also from the effort of trying to find some way of saving them from the horror awaiting them. He held Debbie tight and looked into her face.

'You must get out, understand? When I distract him, you run for the door. Get help, just get out of here.'

She shook her head despairingly, the tears coming with renewed ferocity.

'Do it,' he said, his voice low but full of power.

He pushed her behind him as the first panel of the door splintered inwards.

'Behind the altar,' he told her, his gaze now fixed to the sight before him.

With four powerful blows, Mathias demolished the door, huge lumps of metal and oak flying into the church under the impact of his onslaught. He passed through what remained of the door and stood in the entrance, peering into the church. In the cold light cast by the frequent flashes of lightning, the golden medallion winked evilly at Lambert who reached behind him and grasped a metal candelabra for protection. He also found a heavy golden cross which he picked up.

Mathias advanced slowly down the central aisle, heading straight for the waiting Inspector.

Lambert gripped the puny weapons until his knuckles went white, then, with a scream of angry fear, he ran at the Black Magician and swung the candlestick. The creature raised one hand to shield its face and the metal cracked savagely against its forearm. There was a snapping sound as the bone broke and Lambert pressed his advantage, using his own body as a battering ram, actually managing to knock Mathias to the ground. The two of them crashed into a row of pews and Lambert felt a powerful hand hurl him effortlessly to one side. He rolled once then was on his feet, brandishing the cross and candlestick before him. Mathias lunged and managed to grab the candlestick and Lambert felt the power in that ancient hand as it forced him back. And all the time, those blank red orbs fixed him in an unholy stare. The thin, almost transparent lips drawn back to revntl rotted teeth, the mouth opening occasionally lo reveal the gaping maw within. The stink was unbelievable.

The Inspector felt himself being forced to the ground and struck out with the golden cross, driving the end towards the empty socket which had once housed an eye. The top of the cross disappeared into the hole, swallowed up in the red light which filled the eyeless pit. Mathias only grinned and struck the weapon away, seizing Lambert in a vice like grip, and lifting him by his throat in one huge powerful hand.

'Run,' shrieked the Inspector, and he caught sight of Debbie dashing past them towards the remains of the door. Wind and rain blew in and she could feel them on her face.

Mathias turned, still holding Lambert and pointed his other hand towards the escaping

Debbie. The Inspector felt a force like an electric shock run through his entire body as, through pain-clouded eyes, he saw one of the huge wooden pews at the back of the church lift a good six feet into the air and hurtle across the entrance of the church.

Debbie screamed and fell back. Mathias now seemed to have tired of the Inspector and, with a contemptuous heave,-flung him to one side. Lambert struck the cold stone floor of the church and looked up, stunned, to see the figure of Mathias raise both arms skyward.

There was an earsplitting roar and a large rent appeared in the church roof. Masonry tumbled down. A particularly large lump hit a pew and splintered it to matchwood. Rain poured in through the hole but the Black Magician was oblivious to it and remained where he stood.

Lambert looked on in horror as a large crack appeared in one of the thick stone columns supporting the roof. Dust and ancient stone fell to the floor, mingling with the rain that was now pouring in through the roof.

And the cold. Lambert felt it once more, seeping into his bones, a cold the like of which he had never known, and with it, came the overpowering stench of rotted flesh.

Mathias was grinning, those blazing pools of blood glowing with even more vehemence.

There was an explosion as the stained glass windows shattered inward as if pushed by some giant hand from the outside. Huge jagged shards of coloured glass rained into the church, some remaining intact, others splintering again as they hit the ground. The wind rushed in through the holes, drowning out all other sounds. Lambert tried to stand and found the effort impossible. Debbie too, found herself pinned to the ground by the enveloping force which was invading the church with each second. She could only gasp as she saw her husband dragging himself across the church towards one of the broken windows.

Lambert felt as if he had lead weights secured to every limb and the act of crawling seemed an impossibility. His teeth were chattering, the combination of the driving rain and unbearable cold making his task all the more difficult. Glass cut his hands and knees as he crawled but he ignored the pain and reached out to grasp a long shard of glass which bore the face of Christ. The policeman gripped it, disregarding the blood which ran from his cut palms. He wanted to scream. He felt the cold growing more intense. The sound of the rain and the intensifying storm outside deafened him but he crawled on. Finally, by a monumental effort of will he dragged himself to his feet.

'Our Father, who art in Heaven,' he began, under his breath. Each agonized step brought him closer to Mathias who still stood with his arms outstretched. His back to the advancing policeman.

'Hallowed be thy name.'

The cold wrapped itself around Lambert like a blanket, slowing his already faltering steps. 'Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done.'

He drove himself on, tears of fear and frustration now coursing down his cheeks. The blood from his head wound still dribbling down his face. His hands, slashed open to the bone, gripped the dagger-like shard of glass. The face of Christ suddenly ran red with Lambert's blood as it cascaded over the coloured crystal.

'Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those…'

Mathias was no more than a yard away, his back still to the Inspector.

There was another resounding explosion as a further crack appeared in the central roof support pillar. More masonry sped down, shattering on the stone floor and spraying out like shrapnel.

'… Who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.'

Deliver us from evil.

Mathias turned, bringing the full fury of those burning red pools to bear on Lambert.

The Inspector gave a last despairing scream and lunged forward.

Mathias couldn't avoid the thrust and, as Lambert drove forward, the Black Magician opened his mouth in silent agony as the razor sharp shard of glass pierced his heart. Lambert twisted it, indifferent to his own pain. Blood from Mathias' torn heart sprayed him, a thick, almost black ooze which stank of corruption. Lambert staggered back, watching the pus-like fluid spouting from the creature's chest.

Mathias made a desperate attempt to tear the glass free but his hands could gain no firm grip on the slippery weapon and he staggered drunkenly for a second before toppling back.

The blazing red of his eyes dulled momentarily before glowing even stronger and then, as Lambert watched, twin fountains of blood, brighter than that gushing from the creature's heart, spurted from the empty eye sockets. Mathias opened and closed his mouth, speaking silent curses, then, that too filled with dark blood.

Lambert swayed, thought he was going to faint, but Debbie's screams brought him back to his senses and he looked up in time to see that the central roof column was crumbling.

Finding new strength, he ran, vaulting the transfixed body of Mathias and reaching the door of the church just as the roof folded inward.

Debbie and he ran outside, the rain and wind buffeting them about like leaves in a gale, but they fought against it, not even turning to watch as the last remnants of the church roof crumbled inwards. Tons of old stone and rubble crashed down, shattering pews, altar, everything. Burying the body of Mathias for the last time.

Lambert collapsed on the wet grass, finally aware of pain in his hands and head. Every muscle in his body ached and, even with Debbie supporting him, he could hardly make it to the car. She helped him in and then went and hauled back one of the heavy gates at the cemetery entrance.

The engine spluttered as she started the car, and for a second, she wondered if it would move. Its wheels spun only for a second before catching and she guided it out of the cemetery.

Beside her, Lambert was barely conscious. He was covered in blood, his own and that of Mathias. The stench in the car was unbearable and Debbie wound the window down, ignoring the rain which spattered her. She looked across at him every few seconds, the tears filling her eyes.

He smiled weakly and reached for her knee with a blood-stained hand.

'Now it is over,' he croaked, the smile still on his lips.

When she looked back again, he'd passed out.

Time passed slowly in Medworth and it was nearly two years before the town finally returned to something like normality. It grew in size, its small industries expanding and attracting new inhabitants, becoming a part of the progress which it had always resisted.

Those who moved there never knew anything about what had happened. Nothing had been printed in any papers about it. The deaths were never explained. Indeed, how could they be?

Lambert was promoted. He and Debbie moved further North where he took over command of a force three times the size of the one in Medworth. Once a month they returned to the town to visit the cemetery, to plant fresh flowers on Mike's grave. Lambert had finally found the peace within himself which he had always sought.

The church was never rebuilt. It remained a roofless shell, home only to those animals who would enter it. Moss and lichens invaded it, and, some said that there were rats as big as cats in there. Visitors to the cemetery gave it cursory glances as they passed by.

As time passed, it was forgotten.