Chapter 4, Eden
Tasker, Patricia Jones, Sergeant Trowler, Mark Kirby, Daniel Sutton and me. Patrick Redmayne. This is not like the solemn flights of before. Too much has occurred for us to wade about in it inside of our own heads. We splurge, we weep, we theorise. Each of us checks our version of events against the others, we are checking to make sure we saw the same thing, we are trying to ascertain that we still have our sanity and that what we just witnessed is real.
I tell them about what happened in the basement. About the chase. About Fiona and about what happened to the Puma. I hear a similar tale about the Chinook, shoulder mounted missiles fired from the residential blocks. A perfectly executed ambush. Only expert piloting and advanced countermeasures had allowed the Lynx to evade a similar peril.
Judging by their apparel and weapons the gasmasked marauders had been at the base for some time. We were not the first to have thought about raiding Brampton and we paid for that second place with many lives.
Of the monster we can only theorise. A radiation freak, a result of some warped branch of the deathwalker virus. These were the most sensible options for such a senseless concept. We did not talk of other possibilities, the darker corridors of definition through which such horror might have emerged into the world.
There does not seem to have been any debate about our direction. I ask Tasker who flatly informs me that the mission will continue, we are making for Carlisle. None of us object out loud. About half way there Tasker says that Edenpark will be our final destination. “Why?” asks Patricia fearing some alternative agenda which the lieutenant has conceived. Tasker indicates out of the offside of the chopper, we look out to see fuel pumping steadily from the side of the tank. A stray bullet, a fond farewell from our gasmasked friends. We have been steadily leaking fuel, the only cold comfort is that the man who fired the shot is now probably being digested in the belly of the beast.
We limp into the skies above Carlisle. The engine has been sputtering with increasing frequency, the fuel gage has sunk low enough to no longer be an indication of the fumes left in the tank. My chest tightens as we cross the city. My home. There is so much familiarity, shopping parades, cinemas and traffic lights. We move north, to the other side of town. After a couple of miles of open fields we see our final destination. Edenpark is a grand complex.
The main central building is a large glass pyramid, at each corner there rises up a tower, from the four towers are skybriges which link into the pinnacle of the pyramid. At the apex of the structure is the boardroom from which the Pendragon Systems masters used to stare out over the land. The Pendragon flag still flutters atop the pyramid. A red background with a golden sword held in an armoured hand. Miles of empty car parks surround the structure.
Tasker guides the bird down into an empty space. We sit and listen as the engine winds down. Finally there is silence. Tasker turns to look back at his sorry passengers. “It won't start up again” he says matter of factly.
“There is a helipad atop one of the towers, they may have fuel stored up there” I offer up helpfully.
“Let us hope so” says Tasker. We deploy. Not with the military precision that we did at Kielder Water. Nor with the battle driven haste that we did at Brampton. A weary and depleted group clambers clumsily from the helicopter. Ammunition is lugged, SA-80 assault rifles are dragged along, hand guns are checked and loaded, grenades are fastened to belts.
As we creep across the car park I cannot help but notice the fading light. We reach a service entrance and I bid my fellows stop. “We need to keep moving Redmayne” growls Tasker.
“The light fades, I do not know what we are going to find inside, but one thing I do know is that whatever it is, we do not want to find it in the dark.” The others nod in agreement. I have angered him, not because I am not right, he just doesn't like to be contradicted. “What do you suggest?” I point at a storage container near the roller shutter doors. “It will be dark, but it will be safe.” It is agreed. We search the small dark space inside the container with torches, content that it is clear we climb inside in order to wait for the sun to come again.
Talk of a guard watch comes up. I volunteer to go first. There is surprise, some raised eyebrows. Tasker eyes me suspiciously but acquiesces. I agree to wake him after a couple of hours in order to relieve me. Lights are extinguished. Breathing deepens. The minutes tick by. I give it half an hour. By then I am content that even Tasker will have nodded off. The sound of snores masks the slight creaking of the container door as I ease it open and slip outside. The moon is bright and I move as fast as I am able, back across the car park and fields, away from Edenpark, I am going home.
At the main entrance there is a large security hut. Relief floods in when I see several vehicles still sitting beneath the eaves outside the building. I procured a large military issue knife from the Lynx. I am pleased to have done so. Donny, the head of security greets me as I go inside to find the keys. He lunges towards the torchlight. My new found sense of purpose has filled me with a false bravery, or perhaps the looks of the others when they smelt my piss stained trousers on the flight up here has shamed me to action.
Either way, I resist the urge to turn tail and run as Donnie lumbers in my direction. The knife slides as if through hot butter, it parts his rotting skin and munches through his skull, pulverising the diseased brain that drives him. Donnie falls to the ground, dead again. I have no time to celebrate the small victory. I select some keys from the locker and head out to the parked vehicles. The first couple of button pushes unlock large security vans which I discount due to their size and lack of stealth. The third key chirps and unlocks a sturdy looking dark coloured Jeep.
I get in, hit the lights and start driving. It is not long until I am passing through the outskirts of Carlisle. The fact that I have not driven in over a year is not the only reason I move slowly. As soon as I see the first of them I kill the lights. It rolls harmlessly up and over the bumper. Most definitely not something they teach you about during your driving theory test. The main roads in town were too clogged with cars and military vehicles for me to even attempt driving through. I stick to the back streets, the closes and the avenues. I roll the odd cadaver, I pass through without incident.
My house is on a hill on Tolsbury way, number nineteen to be precise. It sits on top of the hill. Pendragon Systems paid me well. The secrets I stored for it levied a heavy financial toll which the company was keen to pay, with each gold piece they forged the chain which bound me to their machinations. I park up at the bottom of the rise.
My hands are shaking. I have thought of little else but this moment for the last year and a half. Eagle House, which I pretentiously labelled my abode is as dark as all the other large properties in the area. What am I hoping to find? I am certain that I want to know what happened after that phone call, just as I am certain that such knowledge might defeat me. I sit in the car for many minutes. I know you see. This is it, this is the place I want to die. That is why I am here. I have come to learn that which I already know, because realising the world is already dead will allow me to join it.
I get out of the car into the crisp air of the night. Each step is a hesitation. I do not have the key for the electric main gate so I use the side entrance and trudge up the hill. So much familiarity comes running down the slope to greet me. The three story structure has a hint of Gothic to its architecture. Dark wood, black stone, spikes and curves and tiny statues that peer down at me as I approach the house.
The front door is broken off its hinges. There is blood upon the frame, and bite marks. There is detritus here, the filth of the world has blown in through the empty portal into my home. There are many footsteps in the dirt. Some of them look like they belonged to people, some to something else. This is a cold lifeless place, a void. In the dining room there are several animal carcases.
The torchlight moves slowly back and forth across the marble worktops and the oak beams. I see some unopened mail upon the side. Credit
card bills, wedding invites and suchlike. The once royal blue carpets of my home are now stained and soiled. The dining room table has been overturned, every window has been broken. Pictures have been ripped from the walls and flung face down on the floor. Whoever did these things did not want anyone watching them.
The stairs creak unwelcomingly as I make my way up to the first floor. Gideons room is empty. An unmade bed, star charts on the wall and a telescope on the window box. He has not slept here for many nights, but still when I look at that crumpled duvet I half expect him to emerge from beneath it, and complain about the hour of my intrusion. He does not appear, only rats peer at me from beneath the covers.
My study is as it was, a mess. An engraved pen sits uncapped on the desk, the ink as dry as the dust, rotten pieces of paper flap about in the night time breeze. I stand in front of the bookshelf and run my fingers over the dusty volumes that I will never read again, Salingers Catcher in the Rye, Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbord, Lucello's Dance by R. Winthrop, an old Italian book about the giant slaying folk hero. But, the power and beauty of the words was gone, it existed as it turns out only within the imagination, its effects on the real world were minimal. Imagined good was as effective against real evil as anything else we'd manufactured.
The bathroom is a sea of mould and mirror shards. I look around. I draw in the despair, I suck woe from the decayed remnants of all that I loved. My hand shakes as I turn the handle to the master bedroom. It is with great trepidation I walk into the room. It is empty. I know not what I expected to find, I think I am foolish enough to have believed that there may have been a body here, there are no more bodies anywhere. The bodies are walking around just like the rest of us.
The room has the same dank smell as the rest of civilisation. But the bed is still neatly made. I kneel down at the end of it. I weep into the mouldy bedsheets that were once so fresh, I think of all the times I laid here with her in my arms. I think of all the plans we made together and the one dream which came true.
A rage takes hold of me, I crash my fists down on the bed over and over again, not for the first time I look upwards, through the ceiling, through the roof and the sky above, I look directly to heaven and I scream a curse at any gods who are still there.
I weep as I stagger through the house. A part of my mind is looking for a way to end this pain, this grief which I have been building for myself ever since that call. I stagger into the garden. The flowers are dead and gone, the weeds rule now. In the middle of the garden is a dry fountain with a statue of a seraph in the middle. I sit on the stone steps which surround the water feature. I cry tears over the picture of Wendy which I procured from the bedside table.
I continue to feel sorry for myself, I am building the will to do it. I draw the hunting knife from its sheath. Reflected in the blade I see moonlight, dark scudding clouds and sad eyes which have stared too long into the abyss. I lift the knife and envision the act. I bring it closer, daring it, tempting it to tear its own way into the bulging veins on my wrist.
CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK.
I pause my task. I look up and about. I cannot see the source of the sound. I wait a while imagining that I imagined it until...
CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK.
I stand and hold the blade away from me. I search the shadows of the garden, the overgrown bushes and the dying trees. I see nothing, but I wonder, does something see me? I walk down the fountain steps.
CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK. It sounds like the drumming of nails on a hard surface. Impatient nails. The fear rises again as I hear the noise several times in quick succession. There is nothing quite like fear for rolling back the woe, for storing it up until a later date. As my eyes scan the dark they settle on the outhouse, a pair of eyes stares back. My legs tremble in terror, the eyes move forward, to reveal a nose, and ears, covered in deep black fur. The terror turns to fascination for this is a face I recognise.
“Vincent?” I whisper. Vincent, a gorgeous black Labrador, a faithful hound who accompanied me on many sly Sunday afternoon trips to the pub. Vincent, who would keep my feet warm on cold winter mornings, Vincent who would bring me the remnants of the Sunday paper with a wagging tail. How? How could he be here still?
“Vincent” I whisper again, beckoning him to come forward out of the shadows. As I walk towards the outhouse my mind tells me something is wrong. I stop. Why is he so tall? Vincent's head is level with my own. Then I hear it. CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK. Then I hear the growl. Not the growl of a small dog. Not the growl of a Labrador. I take a step back. He takes a step forward. Then I see the huge paw, and the long black claws.
I take another step back and he takes two more forward. By the pale light of the moon I examine our household pet. He opens his mouth to reveal multiple rows of gnashing teeth which stand out in a sea of saliva. His nails click on the ground as he walks forward. The thing that used to be Vincent stands nearly six feet. The four rear legs are attached to a bulky, bulbous, and hairy body which works up into a hardened muscular torso. From either side of the torso protrude long arms that seem to bend both ways and end in cruel looking sting like claws.
“Vincent, no” I utter as I turn and run. Moving to the side gate I glance up as I stumble. I see a figure, a ghost I think standing in the window of the attic stairwell. He holds a candle but I cannot examine him further for Vincent dogs my steps. I run down the side of the house and climb over the gate.
The devil dogs roar is terrifying and will wake the dead neighbourhood. He clears the fence with one jump and barrels into me. I am on my feet in seconds but a swung claw tears across my back releasing a shower of blood and sending me sprawling down the hill. My momentum is slowed to a stop as I thud hard into the side of the Jeep.
My former hound bounds down the hill towards me. It looks as if my reluctant wish will be granted. It is time to die I think. He is close, close enough for me to feel the heat of his breath when the gun sings out over the growl. I open my eyes. The dead Vincent lay there, still enormous, still a grotesque malformation of my old pet.
“Hello Redmayne” I look up to see Taskers angry, sneering face just as the butt of his weapon comes down and sends me into the darkness.