of gore over the last few months, but this had proved too much for her. Howard and Kieran now helped her along between them, one on either arm, or one in front and one behind if the way forward became too restrictive. The air was filled with the fetid stink of the gases produced by the putrefaction of the dead.
“Dead end,” he announced as his outstretched hands made contact with another cold, rock-carved wall.
“Maybe we should just turn back,” Howard suggested for about the hundredth time.
“Bit late for that now,” Michael replied. “Besides, if Jackson got in this way, then we must be able to get out.”
He looked around, his feet slipping in the decay. He felt disorientated. Problem was, everything looked the same down here, particularly with such limited light from so few torches remaining. Kieran, he noticed, had switched his off now, perhaps figuring he’d still have a chance if they hadn’t escaped by the time everyone else’s batteries died. Michael didn’t want to be stuck down here without any light. Actually, he didn’t want to be stuck down here at all. There had to be a way out.
He shuffled back toward the others, scraping his feet along the floor to feel his way, moving inch by slow inch through the slurry. And then it occurred to him that he might be able to use the depth of the mire as a kind of primitive gauge.
“What are you thinking?” Lorna asked, concerned that he’d stopped.
“Just trying to work out how the dead would have moved through here.”
“Me too,” she said. “Those bodies back there…”
“… must have been some of the first to get through. They must have followed Jackson in. Presumably he would have had quite a crowd behind him.”
“If they were in large enough numbers,” Harte said, “then there’s a chance some of them would have been trampled like we saw outside.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Michael agreed.
“So the deeper the shite,” Lorna said, “the better?”
“Exactly.”
Caron was still green. Her stomach rolled at the thought of more dead flesh. “You want to go deeper?”
Michael didn’t say anything. Instead he shone his torch down and began feeling around with his boots. He tried to picture Jackson’s arrival, how his bluster and noise would inevitably have caused a huge swell of the dead to try and follow him into the castle. He worked his way around the edge of the room, torch in one hand, feeling the wall with the other. The rest of the group remained still and watched him as he kept moving, prodding the ground, taking one tentative step at a time. He knew he was onto something, because the depth of the muck was increasing now. He’d barely been splashing in it initially, but it was already up over the toes of his boots. And now it had almost reached his ankles. He moved again, and now it was halfway up his shin.
And then the hard wall Michael was holding onto for support disappeared. He stopped and felt his way around the edges of the entrance to another passageway, initially obscured by shadow. He shuffled closer, feeling the unimaginably foul gloop around his feet rising with virtually every step.
“This is it,” he said. “It has to be.”
“Can you see anything?” Lorna asked from close behind. He shone the torch deeper into the passage.
“Not a damn thing, but we have to be close now.”
“I can’t keep going,” Caron whined from the back.
“Shut her up, would you?” Michael said wearily. “She’s doing my bloody head in.”
“Give it a rest, Caron,” Lorna yelled at her before lowering her voice and adding. “You don’t have any choice.”
“Everybody ready?” Michael asked. Absolute silence.
“Just do it,” Kieran reluctantly said.
“Single file. Hold onto the back of the person in front, okay?”
Michael didn’t wait for anyone to reply. As soon as Harte grabbed his shoulder he began to move along the passageway he’d uncovered, his boots crunching and slipping through the rapidly deepening mess. He frequently lost his footing when he trod on submerged bones and he did his best to sweep them away to either side. He crunched through rib cages and pushed skulls away like footballs.
“Shit,” Howard cursed when he tripped and almost dragged half the group over. His frighted voice was amplified by the narrowness of the corridor they now followed. “This is madness. We should turn back.”
“You can if you like,” Michael said, finding it increasingly hard to concentrate, almost having to wade through the decay now, “but I’m getting out of here.”
Lorna gagged at the ice-cold mire which was now close to reaching her waist. The stench was all-consuming. It felt like it was coating the insides of her nostrils and throat.
“We don’t even know if this is the way Jackson came,” Howard said, continuing to complain. “There might have been another way. We might have missed a turning or something…”
“He’s right,” Harte reluctantly admitted, almost losing his balance again. “Maybe we should think about going back? Those bodies will cause a distraction up there and we can—”
“As long as I can keep moving forward,” Michael said through gritted teeth, “then there’s still a chance we’re going the right way.”
Still feeling his way ahead with outstretched hands, Michael suddenly stopped. The rest of the group bunched up behind him.
“What is it?” Lorna nervously asked. He didn’t answer. His legs felt weak. Was it a dead end?
“Michael? What is it? What’s the problem?”
“Wait a second,” he said. In front of him he could feel another huge mound of decay. He turned around and passed his torch to Harte. “Do me a favor, try and give me some light.”
Harte and the others who still carried torches obliged, but by the time they’d all got their lights aimed toward him, Michael had disappeared. He ducked down, his chin almost scraping the surface of the mire, and stretched out his arms. Moments later he stood up again, dripping with decay.
“Did you slip?” Lorna asked. She held out her hand to him. “Come on, let’s go back…”
Michael was grinning. “I think this is it. I think I can feel a way through. Has anybody got anything I can dig with?”
He realized as soon as he’d said it that that was a stupid question as none of them had anything with them other than torches and Howard’s screwdriver. He sunk both hands into the decay and pulled out a limb. At first he thought it was an arm, but he realized it was a leg and he stripped away what little muscles and nerves remained, then snapped off what was left of a flapping foot. Using the ankle end of the leg as a prod, he tried to feel and push his way through. He tried to dig frantically and, after a few seconds of concerted effort, he discarded the leg and shoved his arm into the gap he’d made in the offensive gloop. Working blind, he grabbed at whatever he could get hold of now and tried to drag it all back toward him. Sucking, squelching noises filled the narrow space as more and more of the mess came away in large congealed chunks. He pushed his weight forward against the blockage, and more of the decay toppled away. And then he felt cold, relatively fresh air on his face.
“I don’t think there’s a door,” he said, “just a hole. Everyone ready?”
No one answered but he didn’t care. He took a deep breath, dropped his shoulder, and charged forward, throwing himself at the clog of remains which was blocking their way out. It gave way with surprisingly little effort and then, suddenly, he was outside. A huge mass of death came spilling out after him, as if he’d burst an enormous spot on the side of the castle. The rest of the group staggered out, glistening with decay in the faint light of the moon. They stood together, soaked and stinking but not giving a damn, just relieved to be outside the castle walls again.
45
How the hell had he missed that?
Will Bayliss looked across the castle courtyard. It was pitch black—still the middle of the night—but he was sure he’d seen something moving over by the prefabricated buildings. Jas, Mel, Paul Field, and Ainsworth were in
