Dark Ages. John Pritchard

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СКАЧАТЬ the police for their parked transit, the Watchers for their cars. Fran wavered for a moment – watching the tail-lights fading in the darkness; almost shaking with the force of her reaction. Then she was off and pelting down the hill.

      Reaching the car, she scrambled in. The others were all aboard, the engine running. She was still fastening her seatbelt as Paul took off – back through the underpass and onto the convoy’s route. Less than five minutes after its passing, the roads were clear again, the junction silent.

      It didn’t take long to catch the convoy up again. They breasted a rise, and the snake of crimson lights was there ahead of them, sharp pulses of blue along its winding length. Soon they were up with the leading Cruisewatch cars. Fran could make out the control trucks at the front of the column, their high sides marked by orange running-lights.

      She sat back in her seat, and braced one boot against the dash. Kate and Marie were motionless behind her; Paul’s grim stare was focused on the road.

      ‘… convoy approaching first Andover bridge …’ someone said on the CB.

      Getting on for I a.m., and all the world seemed dead. The chase filled her with nightmarish excitement. As they sped on through the night, she thought of all the unseen eyes that watched them: owls and foxes staring from the copses and fields. But what else might be peering through the hedgerows; what faces in the long pale grass the headlights played across? She couldn’t help but think of ghostly figures, creeping up, to watch this roaring cavalcade go past.

      Past Andover, and Thruxton Hill, they reached the long steep incline into Amesbury. Salisbury Plain was spreading to the north: a sea of pitch.

      ‘I’m going to try and get ahead of it,’ Paul said.

      They broke off the pursuit at Amesbury Roundabout – the convoy grinding on towards Stonehenge. Paul put his foot down, speeding up the empty lamp-lit road. At Durrington he spun the wheel: they turned onto the Packway and raced west. Parallel to the convoy’s route; Fran looked and glimpsed its winking lights, a mile to the south.

      Behind her, Kate was studying the map. ‘They’ll road-block us at Shrewton, sure as hell.’

      ‘Any way round?’ Paul called over his shoulder.

      ‘The road from the Bustard to Westdown Camp. They won’t have covered that.’

      ‘Right. They might have closed it, though.’

      ‘It’s worth a try.’

      ‘Fran?’

      ‘Go for it,’ Fran said.

      They came to Rollestone Crossroads and went tearing north again. The road rose up, and let them see for miles; then dipped again. Darkness stretched away in all directions, but strange red lights were glowing here and there. The fringes of the firing range were coming up ahead.

      Fran hung on, and braced herself. The Bustard vedette showed up in the headlamps as Paul swerved onto the narrow westbound road. No one was there to see them pass. The lonely sentry hut was locked and dark.

      The unlit military road led up towards West Down. It might have been a country lane; Paul took it at exhilarating speed. The murk out here was dense and overwhelming: trapped beneath the starlight like a layer of London smog. Fran straightened up, and peered through her window, still searching for the string of phantom lights.

      Then Paul yelled: ‘Jesus, SHIT!’

      She swung around, and saw it in the headlights: a figure in the middle of the road. A featureless, inhuman face, with gaping holes for eyes.

      Paul wrenched the wheel, and lost control.

      The car went slewing off the road and plunged into a ditch. The bonnet crumpled up, the windscreen shattered. Fran was thrown against her belt: the impact mashed the breath from her lungs. Her head struck something hard and bounded off. Stunned, she felt herself flop back.

      The world had just stopped dead.

      She lolled there for a moment, sick and winded. Her whole head had gone numb – as if a piece of it was missing. Cold night air blew softly on her face.

      Something started fizzing by her knees. Sparks, she thought, oh Jesus, we’ll catch fire. Galvanized, she struggled with her belt – and glanced at Paul. He was slumped against the wheel, head down. ‘Paul … ?’ she quavered, reaching out to take hold of his shoulder. She shook him, hard. He made no sound.

      The muffled sizzling came again. She cringed away – then realized it was just the CB set: skew-whiff on its rack, but still lit up. She peered at it stupidly. Someone whimpered softly from behind her.

      ‘… convoy coming into Tilshead now …’

      Help, she thought, and groped round for the handset. She found it dangling; scooped it up.

      The radio hissed at her.

      Fran recoiled again, as if she’d just picked up a snake. The hiss broke into eerie gibberish: almost like another voice, but mangled and tormented. Fear lanced through her. She dropped the handset, fought against her door and felt it give. She slithered out, and rolled onto the grass.

      The headlamps were still on: staring and blind, like a dead thing’s eyes. The tail-lights left a bloody trail that almost reached the road.

      They tinged the silhouette that waited there.

      Someone in the car was weeping quietly. Ignoring them, she peered towards the road. Her mind flashed up the face she’d glimpsed. She thought its horrid gauntness had been muffled by a hood.

      A soldier. In a gas mask?

      But then the figure started coming forward. Something about its shambling gait made her struggle to her feet. Then the scarlet glow lit up the face beneath the cowl.

       Oh Jesus Christ.

      A metal mask stared back at her: brow and cheekbones setting off the tar-pits of the eyes. The lower face remained scarfed up in shadow. The sight was almost toad-like – and revolting. She stumbled back – then swung around and fled. Clear of the car, and out into the darkness of the range.

      The shadow thing came striding in pursuit.

I

       WATCHERS

       (1993)

      Beautiful city! … Whispering from its towers the last enchantments of the Middle Age … Home of lost causes and forsaken beliefs.

      MATTHEW ARNOLD, ON OXFORD

CHAPTER I

       Spire Dreams

      1

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