They're trapped.'
'Luke,' Jenny cut in. Where's Vie? Is he still in the house?'
Fender paused before answering. He looked at Jenny. 'He's in there.
But he's dead. He didn't have a chance.'
'How many vermin are still alive?' asked Mather.
'I don't know a couple of hundred maybe.' His voice became low. The mutant's in there what's left of it. The creature we searched the sewers for.'
Mather's mouth dropped open. 'So that was their hiding place,' he said.
Fender nodded. 'It was their lair just the main force hid in the sewers. You've got to move fast, Mather finish them off now!'
The officer turned away without another word and within seconds the whole convoy was moving forward towards the house.
Jenny engaged first gear. 'I've got to get you to a hospital, Luke.
You've been hurt badly.'
He stretched out a hand, this time managing to close it over hers on the gear stick He gently eased it back into neutral.
'Not yet. I want to see them destroy the house first. I want to see it completely demolished. Then it will be over for me, Jenny. No more rats, no more hate. Just us, from now on.'
She smiled, a sad, tearful smile, and reached for his face, careful to touch it lightly. She brushed some of the dust away from his eyes.
Then she nodded slowly.
They watched the Scorpions pound the walls of the old mansion until the shell collapsed inwards, falling with a tired but almost triumphant roar. Then mortars blasted the debris until the house was nothing but piled dust and rubble, while soldiers armed with flame-throwers and machine-guns stood by at a safe distance, ready to destroy any living thing that tried to escape the destruction. But nothing tried to escape. Nothing could.
When the guns fell silent, the smoke drifting away, the dust sinking, a calmness seemed to settle over the woodlands. The green van's engine started up again and the vehicle moved slowly along the rough track through the pine forest, heading for the estate's main gate.
A breeze sprang up and it seemed to Fender, who was gazing back through an open window at the vermin's funeral pyre, that the very trees were breathing a gentle sigh of relief.
Epjjogue
The rain poured from the night sky giving the forest below a heavy, glistening coat. A man crouched in the undergrowth, shivering in his blue tracksuit, his eyes on the concrete path that fringed that part of the woodland. He hadn't visited the forest for a long time, not since discovering the remains of two bodies when he had fallen into a dip.
They said the woodland really was clear now, that there was no danger at all; but not many people believed them, not many wanted to take the chance. This part was hardly forest at all and certainly had nothing to do with Epping Forest, even though it was adjoining. The suburbs of the city stretched for miles in front of him, the concrete pavement the woodland's boundary. Yet still he was nervous and every so often he would glance over his shoulder and peer into the darkness.
His need had been too great to resist any longer. His mother God, how he wished he could have fed that cow to the rats -had nagged, nagged, nagged for the past week, not stopping once to draw breath, driving him mad, driving him out. Just because he had refused to go in to school.
She didn't understand: he couldn't when he felt this way it might lead to his committing a misdemeanour there. He would be all right after tonight. For a while, anyway. The rain ran off his forehead and down to the end of his nose where it formed an overhanging droplet. He tensed when he heard clattering footsteps.
From the dark of the undergrowth behind, four pairs of small, slanted eyes watched the man. Their bristle- haired fur was sleeked black with wetness, their bodies thin and wasted as though they had not eaten well for a long time. Pointed noses twitched in the damp air, sensing prey.
One began to creep towards the hidden man, its incisors bared and haunches raised, quivering.
Another of the creatures moved swiftly in front and forced the creeping rat to run. The sound of approaching footsteps grew louder.
The rats melted into the night, stealing away but not venturing far into the forest they now feared and hated. The ground sloped upwards and the vermin kept their bodies low in the grass, using every inch of cover, crawling and skulking, the only way they could survive. One led the way, the other three keeping close, subservient and dependent upon it. The group reached the crest of the hill and were dazzled by the millions of silver and orange lights spread out for miles before them.
The lead rat gazed at the city, the pinpoints of light reflecting in its eyes, the raindrops finding a crude channel in the scar that ran the length of its head. The Black rat's mouth opened and a hissing noise came from its throat.
It moved forward, down the hill, heading for the lights, back to the city. The others followed.
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JAMES HERBERT is not just Britain's number one best selling writer of thriller horror fiction, a position he has held ever since publication of his first novel, but is one of our greatest popular novelists, whose books are sold in thirty-three other languages, including Russian and Chinese. Widely imitated and hugely influential, his nineteen novels have sold more than forty-two million copies worldwide.
