practise with the weapons if they were to be any use.
He sighed. They didn't even know if guns would stop the creatures. Baker's words passed fleetingly through his mind:
Lambert prayed to God he was right.
PART THREE
-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.
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.
