The Devils Harvest: The End Of All Flesh Part 16

Sound was now m.u.f.fled, with a hollow ringing inside my head, caused by blunt trauma to my ears.

I forced myself to stand, while holding my breath, and ran out the shattered door. I kept running, getting a least thirty meters between me and the building. The air outside was cool, with a light drizzle falling. It was a beautiful spectacle. The cold rain was a blessing against my face.

The flames now churned into the lobby, looking for more objects to consume. In one sudden surge the fire engulfed the reception area. The explosion behind the desk was small compared to what happened next. A fireball expanded out the front entrance. What was left of the large ornate gla.s.s and wooden doors exploded outwards. Thick plumes of greasy black smoke was now pouring out the remains of the large scorched, smouldering doorway.

My back was to the building when the large explosion erupted. Something flew past my leg, the wind whipping at my clothing. A briefcase imbedded in the door of an Audi TT in front of me, the whole car rocked to one side, before righting itself its alarm now adding to the cacophony of noise. My hearing was still ringing and m.u.f.fled, the alarm sounded distant and tinny.

I turned and stood looking back at the hotel. Flames licked out all the windows, down one side, where I had been. Black billowing smoke poured out the burning window frames. Bright red embers floated on the heated winds caused by the flames. Only a few windows were still intact, the fire doors having held the flames back for now. People stood behind the gla.s.s, their screams lost in the noise of the roaring flames and alarm bells.

One person on the top floor threw a chair through the window, in hope of getting out to safety. But with the window now broken the flames raced into his room. He disappeared behind a fireball of angry red flames and pungent black smoke, which was now pouring out his shattered window like a large fiery fist, announcing to the spectators that it had captured its victim.

The inevitable groups of morbid people had gathered from out of the service station, to watch the free show. People gathered together into huddled groups. Some pointing at the engulfed figure screaming from the window, as he tipped over the edge and fell the three floors to the concrete beneath, with a sickening thud and the cracking of bones.

I had to get away from the commotion. I was shaking worse now than from the train crash. The train crash was fast, over in moments. I had been flung about like a ragdoll. I had been disorientated and confused, finding myself lying on my back in the wet gra.s.s. It was nothing compared to having to crawl away from a engulfing infernal, that seemed to hunt victims, and seeing burning bodies and others dying in painful convulsions.

The rain was getting heavier. At first it was cool and refres.h.i.+ng, but now it was chilling me to the bone.

People ignored the biting cold winds and thras.h.i.+ng rain as they continued to gather. Now pouring out of the main service station like termites from a nest.

The wind was whipping the flames into curling thongs that reached all the way to the roof, reaching and spreading the destruction. Burning embers swirling and dancing in the dark sky creating a ballet all of there own.

More windows could be heard shattering. Loud popping sounds echoed out of the building. Screaming, hissing smoke issued from countless windows and cracked walls.

I could hear sirens ringing through the wind, and through the sound of the burning building. The emergency services had been stretched to there limit over the last few days.

I knew the blue Vauxhall would still be where I had left it, but decided to leave it; they would already be looking for it.

I remembered seeing a small signpost as I drove along the long twisting lane leading to the entrance of the service station; it stated a small settlement was at the end of the road. The small village stood no more than quarter of a mile down the back lanes. So that's where I headed. Head down against the onslaught of wind and driving rain. I walked along the narrow hedge covered lanes.

After getting away from the main car park and entrance, with all the police cars, ambulances and fire engines flying past, no other cars seemed to be around. No other living souls apart from behind at the service station, where even now the battle to control the fire was underway.

I had no idea what the time was? I regretted dropping my watch down the drain. It was a present from my second wife. A Ulysse Nardin, two thousand pound watch kind of stands out. Why didn't I just put it in my pocket? I was under a lot of stress at the time and still am. It was a diver's watch anyway stainless steel, so it would be okay until I went to retrieve it, if I ever got the chance.

I missed using my iPhone. It could've told me the time, including my exact location down to a couple of feet anywhere on the planet. But I couldn't risk turning it on, they would be able to track my SIM card.

I had pondered going into a 02 phone shop and picking up a Pay & Go SIM card and swapping it with mine. Just putting a tenner on would give me a certain amount of text, but more importantly 500MB's of web browsing. With that I could use anyone of the numerous Apps my phone held. A Map App that would not only pinpoint me, but tell me how to get to certain locations. An App called AroundMe, which tells you the location of anything from banks and ATM machines, to gas stations, pharmacies, hospital and hotels. When I'm in an unfamiliar city I always find what I need with this App. I could've also used the Sky News App, which would keep me up-to-date with everything that was happening at my home.

But I hadn't seen a 02 shop yet, and I doubted very much that the small village I was headed towards would have one.

The small isolated village I now stumbled into was dark and deserted. Cats and dogs were the only wandering inhabitants of the narrow shadowy streets. Their fur was plastered to their backs, making them look thin and unnatural, the granny light reflecting off their large round eyes, like many wandering water-demons. Very few lights glowed from the drawn curtains. A handful of street lights spilled weak light onto the rain soaked streets. With the ever-present sound of the rain drumming against the concrete pavement and slate roofs.

I wandered up the main street, a mere collection of old narrow dull houses and a scattering of small shops. Large ugly light green wheelie-bins sat perched all the way along the streets, with big black bin bags stacked up around them. Some had been torn into from hungry cats or foxes. An occasional head with glowing green or orange eyes wound peer from beside ripped bags. Tomorrow was possibly garbage day.

Every now and then a shattering sound would cause me to turn quickly, sounding like someone throwing pottery from a window down onto the street.

The rain was now heavy and pouring steadily. I loved the rain. Even more so if I was inside watching the rain spatter against the windows, or echoing off the conservatory roof. It wasn't much fun walking along in it. I needed to get out of my wet clothes and into somewhere warm. I couldn't get wetter even if I jumped in a river.

I continued along the old main street. Few windows splashed light out onto the pavement, illuminating the large bins and rounded black bags, looking like hunched figures crouching in the rain, all lining the street waiting for me to pa.s.s.

Then for some reason that I can't explain, I turned down a small back street. No street lights illuminate the dark and ominous side lanes. The small lane was so narrow it wouldn't even fit a car down it. Front doors were directly facing each other. The houses themselves seemed like they were huddled together to protect themselves from the bitter wind and battering rain. Several roof tiles lay shattered on the cobblestone street, having been torn from their resting place and smashed like fragile gla.s.s. So that was the cras.h.i.+ng sounds I had been hearing.

Then as I turned another corner, down an impossibly narrow lane, I saw a door wide open, with wind and rain las.h.i.+ng through. I headed towards it, head down against the pounding relentless English weather.

I stood on an old warn doormat, looking into the dwelling. No lights issued from the small cramped house. Maybe the door had blown open from the battering wind? I knew differently when an eerie, wailing voice rose out of the very wind and darkness itself.

"E... n... t... e... r..." it said, in a long drawn out voice, sounding like a person trying to talk while suffering from a bad asthma attack.

I stepped into the cold house and was engulfed in darkness. The door slammed shut behind me.

22.

Little Remains The inside of the house was even darker and colder than outside, if that was possible. The cold seemed to creep into the very marrow of my bones, making me s.h.i.+ver violently, seemingly making the rain freeze on my skin.

I couldn't hear any other whispering voices. Just emptiness and abandonment, that wrapped around me like a chilling blanket.

I was surprised the onset of hypothermia wasn't kicking in. I was soaked and freezing the perfect recipe to get extremely ill. Added to the body damage from the train crash and hotel fire, I should have been a complete mess. But apart from being cold and feeling slightly woozy, and having a little chest pain and ringing ears, I was much better than I had any right to be.

I hope my luck in the health department lasted.

Amen.

I jumped as the fire roared to life in the hearth, engulfing the logs stacked inside. The orange and red flames licked around inside the old fireplace, consuming most of the wood in one violent burst. It then quietened down, the flames becoming more subdued, gently crackling away, turning to a yellowy-orange. Images of the hotel fire flashed in my mind, burned bodies and screaming children. I quickly banished them.

I then knew it was his voice that called me into the house. His power lighting the fire, as he had done in my home, keeping the fire burning for days.

The room was small and cramped. Only one old chunky easy chair near the fire, made from brown striped cloth, with a small footstall in the same material. On another wall was an old bookcase, filled with books picked up from charity shops and flea markets. And a vast stack of old magazines on the big bottom shelf; all tatty and well read. Next to the chair was a non-tilt overbed table, the same as you see in hospitals. Next to the table were more magazines and papers. There was a television opposite the chair, an old one, which was built into a wooden cabinet and standing on wobbly looking legs. The main feature of the room though was the large ornate green patterned tiled fireplace, with a John Constable, The Hay Wain print hanging over it. I knew the painting well, my grandma use to have the same over her London fireplace. I spent hours dreaming I lived in that cottage by the water.

To one side another doorway led into what could be a kitchen. A spiral staircase twisted away from sight in one corner, leading to the first floor. The house was old and had been well used.

I decided the house was obviously empty, after no one came down to see why the front door had banged loudly, or at the noise I was now making, as I started to undress and lay my clothes over a metalwork fire grill. Steam instantly started to rise from my soaked tracksuit and colourful underwear that looked comical spread out to dry, with Marvin the Martian's angry face staring at the ceiling. My clothes stunk of smoke.

One of the light bulbs in the three-bulb centerpiece above me popped and went out. I continued to undress, pulling off my wet socks. I then pulled an old blanket from the back of the chair. I shook it, sending a storm of dust motes everywhere. After my coughing fit I snuggled up into the seat and wrapped the blanket tightly around myself. Even though it was dusty I welcomed its dryness and warmth.

The blanket smelt like Marks & Spenser, an expensive clothes and food store. When you walked in the store it stunk; a smell you a.s.sociate with old people, a musty, sweaty smell. Every M&S I had ever been in smelt the same, as if they sprayed it around the store at night, like some sort of pheromone to attract old people.

I sat curled up, staring into the hypnotic flames of the fire. The images of the hotel fire started to fill my mind again. My head nodded forward from lack of rest. Before I knew what hit me I was fast asleep.

The dull light from the pulled curtains woke me. Looking at the old mahogany clock on the mantelpiece, I realized it was past eight o'clock in the morning, if the clock was working?

I looked again at the window, with dull light spilling in. What with the heavy rain clouds above and how narrow the lane was, I realized this small dwelling probably never got direct sunlight into its front room.

I went to uncurl. My muscles screamed at me, having been tucked up in an unnatural position all throughout the night. I felt like I had run the London Marathon.

The fire burned steadily in the grate and I knew I wouldn't need to put anything on it; it would burn for as long as I decided to stay here. And knowing this place was obviously safe, because he had guided me here; I decided to stay the day and another night. Recover and put my mind in order.

Also, I would see if the old television, which was resting on the wobbly legs, actually worked. I would catch up with the latest news.

I found that after being sat in front of the open fire all night my clothes were like dry cardboard. I climbed into them. Hot and comforting, but slightly musty smelling. Or was that the house? Old and unused it seemed to have a familiar smell that I couldn't quite place. Not the M&S smell, but something ominous.

I wandered into the small kitchen, which only filled one wall. A small two burner stove with a cooker beneath, a box-fridge and a collection of mismatched cupboards. The whole kitchen was covered with a film of greasy yellow dust. The small dirty window was full of dead flies and dried larvae cases, and a patchwork of dusty cobwebs.

I started opening a few cupboards. I found a handful of Tes...o...b..ked beans tins, the value twenty-nine pence variety, with the blue and white stripes down the side. A couple tins of value spaghetti and other cheap cupboard fillers. Whoever had lived here was on a budget. I realized I wasn't really hungry, just going through the motions. I ignored the tins and looked for something to drink instead.

The fridge was still running, but everything inside it had taken on a life of its own. Some sort of cheese in its former life now filled almost the entire top shelf in a green-grey type of spider's web, reaching out from the dried mummified remains of the original lump. Milk cartons were bloated from chemical decomposition; they looked like they could explode under the pressure at any moment. Apart from the lower gla.s.s draw being full of an organic looking brown soup that was possibly once a collection of vegetables nothing else was inside.

I ran the tap for a few minutes, waiting for the brown water to run clear. Water pipes banged loudly from somewhere in the house. First I washed the smudged lipstick off the cup, and then filled it. I returned to the small front room.

I slowly to make sure it didn't collapse moved the cabinet with the old television on, closer, so I could sit in the seat and see what the news had to say. It was a Murphy TV, which had a 19 inch rounded screen. After getting use to a 50 inch flat plasma screen, I needed it closer just to see it.

After fiddling with the aerial for a couple of minutes I eventually achieved a picture that was a fuzzy haze. The old colour television had a large round k.n.o.b on the front for changing channels. I hadn't seen a television this old since I was a child, and was surprised it wasn't black and white.

I now sat curled up in the chair, with the chipped cup resting in my hands, watching a tacky breakfast time TV show, waiting for the news to start.

The rain had picked up intensity again; I could hear it splattering against the dirty window, the howling wind rattling the old wooden frame around like a dry skeleton. I had to turn the sound up just so I could hear it.

I had to get up from the chair to do so, realizing just how much I had taken remote controls for granted.

The breakfast show was bright and tacky, with the presenters giving false laughs and over exaggerating their hand movements. Countless people wandered around in the background, also laughing and going about whatever it was they were suppose to be doing. A couple of times the camera strayed away from the two young presenters, to gauge the reaction from the hyperactive audience.

The presenters were a man with blue-dyed hair and bright clothes, who tried to smile and talk at the same time, making half of what he said just incoherent babble. The woman had unnaturally blonde hair and fake b.r.e.a.s.t.s, which she kept trying to squeeze back into her skimpy top, while letting her hands run all over the young man next to her, as if flirting. What was it with silicone implants, why were so many woman unhappy with their looks? Each held a clipboard holding the schedule; each board was decorated in tacky stickers or fluffy material. In all it looked like an amateur children show, with wannerbe p.o.r.n stars.

I groaned a sigh of relief when it went to a commercial.

I needed the bano.

I wandered back to the kitchen to see if there was another door leading to a toilet. Nothing. Upstairs it was then. I climbed the uneven carpeted stairs to the first floor, trying not to touch the banister rail that was once painted white, and was now a grimy brown colour from dirty hands clinging to it. The stairs felt like my weight would make them collapse. It was a death trap.

Upstairs was a small landing that held just two doors. With my luck the first I tried was the only bedroom. Cobwebs stretched and snapped as I pushed open the door. The door seemed stiff and ungiving. Staring in I noticed the bed was unmade; all crumpled, looking like it had never been made before. The sheets were almost black from being unwashed. Small mouldy blobs covered the sheets, looking similar to the festering cheese sat in the fridge.

On one side numerous books perched one on top of the other a vast collection taking up precious s.p.a.ce. The books looked all yellowed and brittle. A small wardrobe nestled in one corner with a chest of draws next to it. The draws all slightly open with dusty items pushed into them, spilling out over the edges.

Then the smell hit me, the smell I couldn't quite place, but now I could decay and death.

Then I noticed something on the floor beside my foot, a hand and part of an arm decayed, old tatty moth eating clothes stretching across the gaps the skin no longer covered. Silver rings hung on white bones, now too large and all hanging unevenly. The hand all mummified, having curled into a fist when the muscles had dried.

I didn't want to look at the rest of the body behind the door, so I shut the door back tight.

I sat on the toilet, which I had to wipe clean with toilet paper. Strangely the toilet paper seemed unaffected by time and decay. The rest of the toilet faired no better than the rest of the house. The bath was still full of something, which I didn't want to examine too closely. It seemed like someone covered in mud had had a bath and not cleaned it out after. Now it was a kind of primeval soup. I expected a new species to crawl out of it at any moment. I thought houses like this only existed inside writer's heads when describing a derelict dwelling.

I know it sounds strange, staying in the same house with a dead body only a couple of foot away, but I had become accustomed to death. After everything I had witnessed over the last almost two weeks, nothing could now repulse me. I needed somewhere to stay, to hold up, and check the news. This seemed like a safe place. And I was thankful the body next door wasn't sat on the edge of the bath, trying to strike up a conversation.

The person, an old woman on account of her rings and clothing, had died for some reason or other in the next room. She had been like it for some time, considering the mummification of her hand and the dust covered state of the rest of the house. If no one had come to check on her in all that time, then the likelihood of someone coming now was doubtful.

You hear stories in the news about people dieing in their homes and not being discovered for months.

One story I recall was an old man; he had fallen and broken his hip, then died. He lived in an apartment block. The only reason he was discovered was not because of some concerned relative or neighbour, but because the neighbour in the apartment beneath him had complained to the landlord about a stain that was coming through the plaster on her apartment ceiling. The neighbour thought the old man was spilling something or had a leaky pipe. Once the landlord tried several times to get in contact with the old man, and failed, he used his master key to enter the property. The old man had been dead, lying on the floor for so long he had almost completely decomposed. The stain was his body's juices and decomposing matter slowly dissolving through the floorboards and down through the woman's ceiling. It was so bad the whole ceiling had to be removed and rebuilt.

I thought about the lady in the adjoining room, and how come she had no one checking up on her. I also knew that things happened quicker than you would believe. Her body could become like that after only a couple of weeks in the right conditions. The rest of the house must have already been like it, because the lady was either too old, or disabled from illness, to cope with the cleaning. Being too proud, or worried about being forced into an old people's home, to mention it to anybody.

I finished up and wandered back down to the front room, blocking the images from upstairs out of my mind.

I was glad to see the childish program was just finis.h.i.+ng, the credits riding up the screen way too fast for anyone to possibly attempt reading them.

I settled back down in the chair just as the news was starting.

The leading story was still about the serial killing writer me. It went into more detail about the bodies that had been found so far. The ident.i.ties of the missing persons having been identified as those taking from my garden.

The reporter also talked a little about the way in which they had been killed, which didn't really interest me, considering they were all dead before they even got to my house.

I was waiting for them to give more details about the other bodies they had uncovered, but apart from announcing that they had found those they were expecting to, no other names were forthcoming.

One thing that did shock me was the information that almost all the bodies having been excavated had been mutilated, bitten, and gnawed repeatedly, with some of their body parts and organs missing. Most having been located in a freezer in the farmhouse kitchen.

I recoiled in horror. My dreams seem to have spilled out into reality.

Could I have done this? Could I have in someway mutilated the bodies? My stomach fluttered, I swallowed bile that was rising in my throat. My vision started to blur, the picture from the television started to swim, everything lost its edges, was.h.i.+ng together. I sat bolt upright, blinking my eyes and then closing them tight to stop the room from spinning. My head was thumping. White noise filling my ears likes thunder. My mind replayed the last meal I could remember eating in my house. That big chunk of juicy meat.

I shook myself all over. I had fainted. But not for long. Another story was now being shown on the screen. The fire at the hotel.

I ignored the doubts screaming in my head. Had I not become hardened to everything? I pushed all my feelings and confusion to the little place I locked everything away in, and concentrated on the reporter, who was standing under a huge green fis.h.i.+ng umbrella, trying to hold off the worse of the heavy rain.

"...The scene is devastating. So far nineteen bodies have been pulled from the cooling building, which was only brought under control a matter of hours ago, the fire fighters having fought the fire right throughout the long hours of the night and early morning.

"So far sixty-four people are still unaccounted for."

The cameraman panned around. The car park was a flood with brackish water, with debris scattered everywhere; flotsam bobbing on the stagnant oily pools. Behind the reporter, looking through the pouring rain was the burnt-out sh.e.l.l of the remains of the hotel. Blackened walls leant dangerously. Charcoaled remains of ceiling rafters and floorboards hung from the twisted walls. Everything still steaming, even with the rain was.h.i.+ng relentlessly over it.

Even with the condition of the building, firemen were searching through the destruction. Their yellow uniforms making a stark contrast to all the blackness around them.

"...The fire alarm was raised around two A.M. this morning, while most lay fast asleep.

"Some of the survivors have to live with the knowledge that they have lost loved ones.

"A hotline has been set up for relatives who think family members or friends might have been staying at this hotel." He continued by giving the hotels address and hotline number.

It was now a Birdseye view looking down from a helicopter. The writing below stating the time in one corner and BBC in the other. I even wondered if it was the same helicopter that had looked down on the train crash from the day before.

The hotel had been much larger than I realized. From above you could see that very little of the structure had survived the fire. Black burnt-out remains of walls had toppled onto cars, which in turn had either burnt-out or exploded under the heat. Shrapnel and twisted black wreckage of empty sh.e.l.led cars lay scattered around. Some looking like the powerful explosions had tossed them high into the air, finally coming to rest upon others. The heavy rain gave a kind of surreal feeling to the scene.

The helicopter was circling around the towering grey column of smoke that rose from some sections of the burnt-out building. It looked like a war zone, the helicopter a Black-Hawk, circling during a military campaign. You half expected the long barrel of an M-60 Delta machinegun to be jutting from the edge of the picture frame.

"...The cause of the fire has yet to be determined. The spokesman from the fire department said, and I quote." He looked down and read from a sc.r.a.p of paper, that had became sodden the moment he removed it from his coat pocket, even under the cover of the umbrella. He read: "'We believe the fire originated in a store cupboard at the end of the first floor.'" That was it? He couldn't even remember a sentence without reading it from a sheet of paper.