No scream, just a dull thud, the other's arms going up instinctively to pull at the axe then falling away limply. Dead, tottering, falling, almost pulling Phil with him. Winder took the strain, used a foot on the stair-rail as a lever and then the corpse pulled free, staggered, slumped backwards taking the man directly behind him down with him on to those below.
Christ, if only somebody would scream! But nobody did; somebody grunted with surprise and it sounded like water was trickling somewhere except that it was too thick and sluggish for water, dripping steadily off the stair-head down into the well of the hall below.
Phil swung his axe, saw them coming again, warier this time, a long pitchfork being thrust up ahead of them. He struck, snapped it in two, sent the twin-pronged head spinning. A second blow just in time to catch the next man who rushed him, a devastating shoulder wound. The man dropped with a groan, blocked the stairs, but they were clambering over him, an army who seemed not to know the meaning of death! A gathering tide which would surely sweep him down.
One of them lost half his face to a downwards sweep of the axe, the blade scraping the forehead, biting deep and gouging out an eye, taking out the cheekbone on its downward journey, slicing the mouth through and coming out at the jaw, showering teeth and bone splinters as it came free. A hand grabbed the handle, jerked on it, two or three more hands securing a grip. And in those few seconds Phil Winder was rendered defenceless, his axe wrested from his grip. ,
Mentally he surrendered. Perhaps he could have lifted the narrow mirror off the picture-rail above his head, wielded it until the glass was all smashed and gone. Or run back into the bedroom, forced the ancient lock to turn, given himself and Jackie a minute or two more of life. But in the end it would not have made much difference and he knew it,
He retreated until his back touched the wall, his head brushed a low beam on the slanted roof. His guts were twisted up and he tasted blood in his mouth. He half-raised his arms, dropped them again, gave an hysterical laugh. This bloody Jot didn't know the meaning of surrender—you fought until you dropped. No quarter asked nor given, he had killed and maimed two or three of them. Now it was their turn!
He remembered the pit; he'd sooner be dead, so long as they killed him quickly. Their hands reached out for him, scraped his face and chest like claws, gripped his arms. The man with the mutilated face miraculously still lived; it was impossible! Streaming blood, head thrust forward, blazing malevolence at Phil with his remaining eye. You did this to me and now I want my revenge!
Phil screamed, struggled with those who held him as the pain-maddened throwback clawed at his face, scraped, dug deep and raked. An eye for an eye . . . Blinded, blood streaming everywhere, pinioned whilst that pain-crazed bastard shredded him to bloody ribbons! Writhing. Strong fingers forced his mouth open, gripped his cheek flesh, tore in opposite directions.
Kill me, you fuckers. Kill me!
He was dying but not fast enough; not even the strength to writhe now. He thought about Jackie, this was all his fault. If she hadn't helped him escape in the first place she would still be the chiefs woman back at the settlement. Now they would take their vengeance, had waited weeks to catch up with the fugitives.
They released their hold and Phil Winder slumped to the floor. Feet kicked him but it didn't matter any more. They were slashing at the lower half of his body with a knife, machete-style. But it doesn't fucking matter, I'm beyond the pain barrier, I just want to die!
Frenzied, the peak of their fury, jostling one another to get in a blow or a stab at the body on the floor. Standing on him, trampolining him, ballooning his belly until the stretched skin split and showered out yards of slimy, bloody intestines.
It was some time before the killers realised that their victim was dead. The cessation of their vicious attack was gradual. They stood there looking at one another and only then did they remember the woman, the reason they had come. Kuz's woman, the unfaithful bitch who had freed this man, deprived them of a slave, run off with him and even now might be carrying his young.
Kuz was dead, they had no leader. But every one of them wanted the woman, a shambling bloodied and wounded throng milling about on the landing until they found the open bedroom door, crowding in through it.
They sniffed the stuffy air, knew instantly that the room was empty, but she was not long gone for her smell still hung heavy in the air, a stench of fear mingling with that of a female on heat.
The bed was empty. One of them approached it, leaned over and smelled at the blankets, grunted. An odour of mating, this had been the rutting stand!
Snarling, looking about them, seeing the window wide open. A chorus of frustrated cries as they rushed towards it, looked out, saw where she had escaped; down the thick ivy which grew on the stonework.
They followed, one at a time, their dead forgotten, descending with the ease of jungle monkeys, hitting the ground below at a run, giving voice to their cries of lust, a hunting pack that would run down its prey. Ten of them, howling their anger and lust. They would follow the trail until they dropped from exhaustion.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
THE SECURITY patrol was systematically scouring a section of suburbia, a convoy of armoured trucks infiltrating a pedestrianised shopping precinct, weaving its way between piles of debris, powdering broken glass beneath its wheels. Alert to any movement amongst the heaped wreckage.
Most of the enemy had gone, fled to the open spaces. Just a few remained, stubborn guerrilla fighters without a cause, the old and the young. The wounded. And the dead. The air was thick with the stench of decomposing corpses but the commandos were unaware of this behind their sterilised air-filters. Raiders from another planet in the aftermath of a terrible war, the victors of Armageddon come to loot. And to take prisoners!
Private Kenny King did not like it at all, neither did he tike Sergeant Walters. The young rookie had been regretting his decision to join the Regulars from the very first posting to Whittington Barracks in the Midlands. At eighteen he was 'gawky' (the sergeant's description of him), his features a mass of acne, possibly because he had been late going into puberty. He was a bloody fool, he repeatedly told himself, signing on for this when he could have enjoyed a more leisurely life on the dole. And like an even bigger bloody fool he had signed on for a further two years following his return from Northern Ireland. On the other hand, he consoled himself, if he had not opted for army life he wouid have been 'one of them out there' undoubtedly. Or dead.
Walters was a fucking bastard, enjoyed being that way, and with administration handing out responsibility way above the status of jumped up bleedin' sergeants because officers were almost an extinct species, a parade-ground bawler found himself elevated to the role of captain. It was the Year of the Bully but most of all Kenny found himself feeling sorry for these wretches trying to hide out in the remnants of suburbia. They were scared to hell, they didn't want to fight; the army was pushing them into corners.
Their instructions were to take prisoners, transport them back to that place in Hertfordshire. Fill the big prison van up until you couldn't get any more in, like Nazis taking Jews to the gas chamber. There wasn't a lot of difference. The buggers were human after all, well. . . sort of.
The armoured cars were parked at strategic points, a cordon that took in the multi-storey car park, an ugly high-rise edifice that suddenly resembled a medieval castle. If you looked up you saw faces peering over the ramparts; the occupants were ready to defend their castle with their lives. They were under siege.