Then, when he seemed beyond horror, something happened which finally galvanized him into action.
Stevie sat up.
Very slowly she turned her head, the bleeding holes which should have been eyes fixing him in a blazing stare.
She was grinning.
Burton screamed and reached down, his fist closing around a hand mirror which lay on the dressing table beside him. He took a step forward and, with all his strength, smashed it into the face of the first living corpse. The impact shattered the mirror and long shards of razor-sharp glass shredded the man's face. So powerful was the swing, it knocked the thing off its feet and it toppled onto the second of the living dead creatures, a woman no more than twenty-five. The third, another man, leapt across the bed at Burton and grabbed him by the throat. Roaring with rage, the newsman pushed the creature away, bringing his foot up. It connected savagely, just below the ribcage and the thing crumpled up. Burton aimed another kick at its head, gratified by the sound of snapping bone as he shattered a cheekbone with the force of his blow.
He staggered for a second, his mind frozen, filled only with one thought. Hatred for the things that had killed Stevie. But now she was upon him, her sharp nails tearing at his face, raking his cheeks. Aiming for his eyes. He punched her hard, the blow splitting her bottom lip, but she staggered a moment then was at him again. They fell back against the wall, her hands reaching for his throat.
The second creature, the woman, clambered over the bed and joined in the attack and Burton felt more sharp nails tearing at his face. Blood spurted from three deep gashes and he lashed out, catching the creature in the throat. It made a gurgling sound, yellow mucous spilling over its lips but it continued with its attack and Burton now noticed that the second woman too, was grinning.
They were all grinning.
Even the first of them, staggering towards him with splinters of glass protruding from his torn face where the mirror had cut him.
Burton screamed once more and, with a last desperate surge of strength, hurled Stevie away. She toppled over the fallen creature and the newsman bolted for the door, slamming it behind him and racing for the stairs. The second woman was after him, catching his arm as he reached the top step. He spun around, the momentum of his swing aided by the turn, and slammed both fists into her face. The nose crumbled beneath the impact and bright blood spurted into the air, some of it onto Burton. He grabbed the woman by the hair and hurled her down, watching with something approaching insane joy as she tumbled down the stairs, finally crashing into the table at the bottom. He almost shouted in anguish as he saw her get up, starting towards him once more.
And now the others were spilling onto the landing, all of them sporting that hideous feral grin. Headed by Stevie they lunged at him but he ducked back into the bathroom, slamming the door and sliding the tiny bolt.
One of the living dead men crashed into the door and Burton knew that it wouldn't hold them back for long. His breath coming in gasps, he looked frantically around the tiny room which had become a prison. There was nothing to defend himself with. He couldn't hope to fight off four of them.
There was one chance…
If he could climb out of the window onto the window sill, he might be able to hoist himself up onto the roof of the house. They'd never be able to reach him up there and, even if they did succeed in climbing up, it could only be one at a time. He'd kick the fuckers off as they reached the top.
The bathroom door rocked once more and the bolt began to bend. Burton crossed the room, opened the window and clambered up onto the sill, using the sink as a foothold.
He could hear them moving about outside the room.
Twenty feet below him was a mass of solid concrete and he was thankful he couldn't see it as he scrambled out onto the sill. The powerful wind tugged at him and, for a second, he tottered but he grabbed at the guttering a foot or so above. his head and steadied himself. He prayed that it would take his weight.
There was an almighty crash as the bathroom door was smashed in. The living corpses crowded into the room, the first of them rushing to the open window, grabbing for Burton's exposed legs. He shrieked and kicked out at the grasping hand, trying, simultaneously, to hoist himself up. The wind roared in his ears, the hands of the creatures tore at his legs. With almost tired resignation, he realized he wasn't going to make it.
He groaned and tried to pull himself up but the guttering buckled under his weight. For precious seconds it held and he actually managed to hook one leg up onto the slates of the roof, but, with a sickening creak, it gave way.
Burton uttered one mournful cry and plummeted to the concrete below.
The impact broke his back and most of his ribs on the left side, one of which tore through his lung. His head slammed down. Blood burst into his mouth and he sensed a feeling of total awareness before he blacked out. The last thing he saw was the living dead things peering out of the bathroom window, as if, somehow, they could see his shattered body. Even though he couldn't see them clearly, he could sense that they would be grinning.
Twelve more people were to die that night.
The night was alive with a kaleidoscope of flashing blue lights as Lambert swung the Capri into Victoria Lane. There were two squad cars and an ambulance, all with their lights spinning, parked in the road outside a house about half way down the street. One of the Pandas was parked on the pavement.
The Inspector rubbed his eyes as he switched off the engine. The clock on the dashboard glowed one-thirty A.M. and Lambert yawned as he stepped out of the Capri and walked hurriedly towards the group of vehicles. There were lights in the windows of houses next door and across the road and he could see people peering out to see just what the hell was going on at this ungodly hour of the morning.
The wind had dropped but there was a biting chill in the air and the Inspector pulled up the collar of his coat, digging his hands deep into the pockets. He recognized Constable Bell, and the policeman smiled grimly as he saw Lambert approach.
'What happened?' asked the Inspector, yawning.
Bell reached for his notebook but Lambert waved it away. 'Just the shortened version,' he said.
'Well, the house belongs to a Mrs Stephanie Lawson, her husband is in the army, he's away at the moment…'
Lambert cut him short. 'I said the short version.'
'Sorry, sir,' said Bell and continued, 'a neighbour rang up about an hour ago to complain about some noises she heard coming from the house. The sarge radioed me and P.C. Jenkins and we came straight over. I knocked on the door but I couldn't get any answer. When I went around the back I found…' he hesitated.
'What?' demanded Lambert.
'A body.'
He was about to walk away when Bell called him back. 'He was still alive when I reached him.'
Lambert nodded.
'Dr Kirby is in the ambulance with him now.'
Lambert turned and hurried across to the parked emergency vehicle, its two back doors still open. The Inspector assumed that Kirby must have been summoned at roughly the same time as himself. Hayes had called him ten minutes earlier and told him that there was trouble in Victoria Lane. Now he peered into the ambulance and saw a worried looking Kirby bending over the covered form of a man. There was a red blanket pulled up to his neck but its colour did little to mask the dark stains which had seeped through the thick material in several places.