The Devil's Whelp. Vin Hammond Jackson
before. Christ, it was a long way!
He had made it to the far corner and was just starting along the second side, when he heard footsteps coming down the ladder at the other end. He sunk to a crouch in the deepest shadows and waited.
He couldn't see who it was at first, then he recognised the man as one of the cops, the young one with the camera. The photographer had put down his bag and was fiddling with something in his hand. He turned, brought a camera up to his face, hesitated a moment, then there was a flash which lit up the end wall. Darryl sunk back further.
That was when he first became aware of the softness at his back, like material, maybe a pile of sacks, or dive suits, or something. Whatever it was, it stunk. Jesus, when he came to think about it, the smell was putrid - worse even than rotting fish guts! He slid a hand behind and felt around. Yuck! What was this crap?
After a quick glance in the photographer's direction to make sure that he was otherwise occupied, Darryl brought his hand up and sniffed. Once was enough. Jesus, what was that stuff? Holding the hand at arm's length he tried to find some light to examine it under. To begin with there was none, at least not enough, then, as he squinted, the hand gradually became more easily visible, quite clear as if someone was shining a torch on it, one with a violet light.
His next experience was really weird. First there was the sound, like someone breathing through water. This came just a fraction before the waft of cold air across his cheek. It was no ordinary breeze, but one laced with that same odour he had become aware of, only this time it was far more concentrated, almost asphyxiating.
While he was attempting to rationalise these strange occurrences, another joined them, adding to his confusion. It was the worst of the lot, because he could actually feel it. The pile of stuff he was leaning against had begun to move.
That was it! Darryl pushed forward with the intention of standing up. Bugger human rights, or any fucking rights, he thought. He'd had enough. He'd succeeded in scaring himself shitless and he didn't give a stuff who knew, just so long as he got the hell out of there!
Eddie's arms snaked out and around, encircling the head and shoulders of the man, smothering him with the slime of decomposition, drawing him close. Darryl kicked out in silent terror.
Peter was in the process of fitting a sand-spot filter when he heard a clang. He looked along the catwalk, but could see nothing. Or was it nothing? There seemed to be movement in the far corner illuminated by a soft glow. Probably it was just a piece of machinery and the glow was from a work light. He shrugged: it could wait - he'd be along there in a minute.
Picking up his bag, he wandered along the steel walkway to the ladder. This was where it had happened, where the body had been discovered. The hand-line had gone and the revolting mess had been cleared up. Even so, he could still smell it. He put down the bag once more, took a shot from where he was standing, moved a few steps to the right and took another. He had walked past and was facing back the way he had come when he remembered the filter. He unscrewed it and knelt down to place it in his bag.
The man in Eddie's arms was still struggling. They were irrational, these humans, it decided. They must know how weak they were, yet they persisted in their futile attempts to survive. Eddie had been the same, and Mike. Fuckwit was a little different. He had seemed to take longer to decide what to do, but in the end he had struggled like the rest. They were so predictable. Eddie's body pushed forward and stood up.
Peter was on one knee rummaging in his bag when heard the sound. He turned and saw the dark shape moving out of the shadows towards the edge of the pool. At first he thought it was just a man carrying something, but when it moved into the light he had no option but to amend this observation - it was something carrying a man.
There was no shame in what Peter did next. It was a natural reaction in such circumstances, a human one. He froze and stared with his mouth open. By the time his brain had registered that here was something out of the ordinary and worthy of photographing, the man and whatever was transporting him was at the rail. Peter brought the camera up. The bulb flashed.
As he sighted through the view-finder, a pair of eyes stared back. They looked like Halloween eyes carved into a dark-skinned pumpkin and illuminated from inside by a black light. He took another shot. Pumpkin-head advanced towards him with its human burden.
He sighted once more. This time he didn't activate the shutter, probably because he was shocked: he had photographed more than one man who had died of a broken neck; he had never actually witnessed the breaking, or the dying. It was amazing how easy it looked - a quick twist of the head and it was over. Peter was almost sure he heard the spinal column snap. Then he was watching as an object came hurtling towards him.
There was time only to lower the camera to his chest and gasp, then it fell on him. He fell on him - the man that the pumpkin-head had killed. Now that the dark shape was standing alone, Peter could see that it had arms and legs like a man, but it wasn't any human being he'd ever known, and he didn't fancy making its acquaintance now!
The dead oil man was slumped across his legs, pinning him to the catwalk. Peter struggled. The closer the featureless biped came, the harder he struggled, sobbing and whimpering as he tried to free himself. It was seven or eight metres from him, advancing slowly, not cautiously or in a menacing way, just with casual indifference.
Peter didn't mind that. It could take all the time it wanted, all year if it liked, just as long as he wasn't still stuck under this damned corpse when it got there!
Then he was free. He felt his leg slide clear and he was suddenly able to crawl and scramble along the steel grating. He tried to stand, slipped, his knees hitting the catwalk noisily and painfully. He cried out and tried again. The same thing happened.
It was quite pitiful to watch. Eddie's body stooped, an arm reached down and a hand clamped around the ankle of the pathetic individual.
Peter screamed in terror. He felt himself being drawn up and screamed again.
Truly pathetic, thought the occupant of the dripping carcass. Noisy, too. What dreadful, raucous sounds these humans made. "Will ye stop yer blaytherin', ye stupid, wee man?" It gurgled as well as it was able from the depths of Eddie's rotting throat.
It started to turn, swinging the photographer by one leg. Once, twice, it went round in a circle.
Peter spun faster and faster, his screams filling the moon pool area.
On the third turn it judged that sufficient speed had been attained, so It took one pace forward. The man's head hit the steel support column and split open like a cracked egg. The screaming stopped.
It tossed the lifeless remains to one side on the catwalk and stood for a moment, surveying its handiwork. A chuckle started to bubble from Eddie's mouth. The sound choked off abruptly as something became lodged in his throat. A hand came up. Fingers reached deep into the mouth, withdrew the sizeable obstruction and tossed it beside the bodies.
Eddie looked along the catwalk to the stairs at the end. There were sounds of approaching footsteps and shouting. The oil men were coming. It glanced down one last time at the ghastly destruction and wanted to say: "A wee present fer Uncle Jack," but what came out of Eddie's mouth was nothing like that, so it turned, went to the head of the ladder and jumped into the pool.
5
They were there again, staring, gawping. Two of them turned away to throw up on the catwalk, but when they had finished, they turned back for a second look. There was plenty to see and the audience was almost big enough to call it a sell-out.
Del Presswood had been asleep when the Inspector came for him. He'd fully intended to see out the shift, but the events of the past three days had finally caught up with him, so he'd conned the tower pusher into taking over. Greg had understood. "You look like death warmed up," he'd said when Del had come along with his request. "Go and get your head down. I'll handle it."
"Thanks." Instead of leaving, Presswood had hung around, fidgeting awkwardly. "I need another favour," he'd said