Debbie saw him launch himself at the bay window, almost rooted to the spot in awe and terror as his large frame smashed through wood and glass and landed on the carpet a foot or so from her. She screamed once more and grabbed the medallion, vaulting over the stunned man and grabbing at the handle of the hall door. Still lying on the floor, Mackenzie grabbed at her ankle and she felt his clammy hand touch her bare foot as she slipped by.
She didn't even see the kitchen door burst open and two more of the things rush into the living room.
Mackenzie, on his feet now, was racing up the stairs behind her, and Debbie was whimpering as she reached the landing. She could sense his closeness, and smell the fetid stench which came from his body.
A hand closed on her shoulder. Screaming, she fell against Mackenzie, the medallion falling from her grasp. She grabbed the wooden bannister rail to prevent herself from sliding down the stairs.
Mackenzie was not so lucky. The force of Debbie striking him was enough to make him lose balance and with a startled grunt, he fell back, rolling head over heels down the stairs.
Debbie scrambled to her feet, peering over her shoulder.
Mackenzie was on his feet again, corning up at her once more but now there were others behind him. She didn't stop to count, guessing that there were perhaps six. All ages, all sizes. All with one intent.
She grabbed the medallion, bolted for the bathroom and hurled herself inside, slamming the door shut. She slid the flimsy bolt. There were footsteps on the landing and she heard the sound of doors being flung open, then an almighty crash as one of them threw his weight against the bathroom door. She looked around frantically for a weapon. Anything to fight back with but, all she could see was Lambert's safety razor. She grabbed it, screaming as a fist punched through the thin wooden door. Debbie lashed out, slicing open the back of the hand, ripping away a large chunk of skin which stuck to the hooded razor blade. Blood jetted onto her and the hand was hastily withdrawn but the blows kept raining on the door and she knew that they would be in at any second. Big salt tears welled in her eyes and she said Lambert's name over and over again, watching as more of the door was torn away. She could see them all on the landing peering in at her. One of them, a man in his fifties, stuck his face into the gap and, screaming madly, she raked the razor across his lips. Blood burst forth but there was no expression of pain registered in his eyes because he had no eyes. Just those empty, red-rimmed holes. And yet they saw her. Saw the medallion. And they were grinning.
Lambert saw two of the things on his front lawn as Briggs swung the car into the street.
'Oh God,' he shrieked, with pained horror.
Already he was grabbing for the shotgun. Briggs stepped on the accelerator and the car sped forward. It mounted the pavement about thirty yards from the house, smashed through the hedge of the house next door and skidded to a halt on the grass in front of Lambert's house. Obvious to the danger, with only thoughts of Debbie in his mind, Lambert leapt from the car, swinging the shotgun up as the two things cowered away from the blazing light of the car headlamps. The Inspector fired three times. The first blast hit the leading creature squarely in the chest, blew half its torso away and flung it a good twelve feet across the lawn.
'You fuckers,' screamed Lambert, now joined by Jenkins who also fired.
The second thing was caught in the crossfire and both men were almost joyful as they watched its head disintegrate, a dark shower of blood, brain and shattered bone spraying out into the night.
Lambert saw the broken front window, the front door hanging uselessly from one torn hinge. He dashed into the hall followed by Jenkins. Briggs, shaking with sheer terror, reversed and brought the headlamps of the car to bear on the front of the house, their powerful beams piercing the blackness and pinpointing two more of the creatures in the living room. He reached for his own gun and scrambled out of the car, aiming at the first of them, a man in his twenties.
There was a roar as he fired, the shot missing and blasting a hole in the wall beneath the window. Gasping, Briggs worked the pump action and fired again, screaming in terror as he saw the things scrambling over the window sill. Coming for him. He fired again and the discharge was on target. It hit the man in the lower abdomen, blasting away his genitals, almost severing his right leg. The second creature, a woman not yet in her forties, flung herself at him and the young constable went down under her weight. He felt sharp nails tearing at his face and his screams filled the night.
From his position on the stairs, Lambert could see from the concentration of the creatures clustered around the shattered bathroom door that Debbie was trapped inside.
One of them came at him and he fired from point blank range, ignoring the blood which splashed onto him. He dashed up the stairs, stepping on the body as he did so. Jenkins followed and the two men reached the landing together.
For a second, everything froze. A still frame in a broken down film. Suddenly, the film was running again. Jenkins raised his shotgun and fired twice, bringing down one of the living dead.
Lambert heard Debbie scream. A scream which was immediately replaced by the sound of snapping wood.
Mackenzie was no more than a foot from Debbie, his fetid breath filling her nostrils. Yellow, bubbling mucous trickling down his chin. He grabbed for the medallion and tore it from her grasp; she expected the grip of his bloodied hands on her throat at any second. But he turned and blundered out, clutching the gold circlet to his chest.
Lambert saw him and lifted the shotgun, jerking wildly on the trigger. The recoil slammed the stock back against his shoulder and the blast blew a huge hole in the wall beside the grinning Mackenzie who bolted for the tiny window at the far end of the landing. Lambert worked the pump action and fired again but he was too late.
Mackenzie launched himself at the window and hurtled through it. The Inspector's shot exploded beside him as he met the cool night air. The living corpse of Mackenzie hit the roof of the garage and rolled once. Lambert dashed to the window and looked out just in time to see him leap from the flat roof and lope off into the darkness.
He turned, cursing, and dashed into the bathroom, throwing the shotgun to one side and grabbing Debbie in both arms. She was sobbing uncontrollably. He closed his eyes and pressed her close to him, his own body shaking. She breathed his name over and over again, sobbing.
He eased the blood-spattered razor from her hand and dropped it into the bath.
Jenkins appeared in the doorway.
'Check outside,' said Lambert softly and the constable nodded, stepping over two bodies as he made his way down the stairs. The house stank of blood and cordite and, Jenkins noted, something else. A carrion odour of corruption. He worked the pump action of his shotgun, ejecting the spent cartridge and walked out into the night. It was then that he saw the woman coming towards him.
She had him fixed in those gaping, empty sockets, and, in the glaring brilliance of the Panda's headlamps, Jenkins could see that her hands were soaked in blood. She raised them towards him and ran, arms outstretched like some kind of obscene sleepwalker.
He took a step back, swinging the shotgun up just in time to get off one shot.
The blast tore through her shoulder, ripping away most of the left breast and splintering both scapula and clavical. She staggered, the wound gaping wide, one arm dangling by thin tendrils of flesh and sinew. Then, to his horror, she started forward once more. He already knew that his gun was empty, realized that he would have no time to reload.
With all the power he could muster, he swung the shotgun like a cricket bat. The butt smacked savagely into her face.
Her jaw bones crumbled beneath the impact. She fell to one side, empty sockets stared up at him. Revolted, Jenkins brought the wooden stock down repeatedly upon her head until it split open like a bag full of cherry syrup. Then he dropped the gun and retched until there was nothing left in his stomach.
He staggered away from the body, avoided the two other bodies laying on the lawn, and gulped down huge lungfuls of air. He leant against the side of the Panda for a moment, his breath coming in gasps, and the bitter taste of his own vomit strong in his mouth. His head was spinning.
'Oh God,' he groaned, rubbing his stomach with a bruised hand. For a second he thought he was going to throw up again, but the feeling passed and he shook himself. He pulled open the passenger side door and climbed in.
The car was empty. No sign of Briggs.
