Island of Fog and Death: A sci-fi horror adventure Read online

  The interior of the structure was gloomy, the only light coming in through translucent panels in the ceiling. Maxwell pulled a battery powered lantern from his rucksack and handed it to Owain, then a second which he kept himself. With the lanterns lit, they could see more clearly what was in the little building. The two long walls, to left and right of the doorway, were fronted by metal shelving units, loaded up with organic pig and chicken food in big paper sacks. Facing the door was a large stack of brown cardboard boxes that appeared to contain dietary supplements for dairy goats.

  "Well," said Tori. "That's not terribly interesting, is it?"

  Maxwell grinned at her. "The interesting stuff will be under it and behind it all. We need to clear enough space to get a good look at the brickwork and the floor." He clapped his hands. "Hup! Jump to it, Owain and Gilda! Put your backs into it! Let's clear the boxes out the way first! I've a hankering for a closer look at that end."

  Gilda looked at him suspiciously. "And while we're doing the manual labour...?"

  "I'll be trying to find the jolly farmer to let him know we're here, and Tori will be bringing the vans down the road and parking them round the side. Then we'll be joining you in the manual labour, hey Tori? I mean, come on, Gilda, I'll only ask you to do things that I'm willing and eager to do myself. Right, see you shortly."

  Maxwell and Tori left. Gilda waited for them to get out of earshot, then nudged Owain. "Does that mean he'll be asking us to shag Tori, then?" she asked.

  "You'd be on your own with that task, mate," he replied.

  ***

  Tori returned first, having parked first one camper then the other alongside the little building. She fiddled around in the vans, not doing anything in particular, with one eye on the road for Maxwell's return. It wasn't that she was incapable of manual work - her unique physiology meant that she was stronger than humans - it was just that she was unwilling to do it unless there was no option. Until Maxwell got back, there was an option to avoid it, and avoid it she did.

  She caught sight of Maxwell striding along the road, so it was time to look willing. She entered the chapel just as a sweating Owain carried the last box outside.

  "Oh, well done, Owain," said Tori. "You've cleared them all?"

  "With some help," said Gilda, from behind her. "But none from you, I see."

  "Well I've just finished sorting out the vans," said Tori. "Oh, Maxwell, there you are! Look, Owain and Gilda have done all that by themselves!"

  "Very good, you two," said Maxwell. "And I see the vans are moved, thank you Tori. Now let's get some better lighting in here. Let's crank up the generator and break out the work lights. Owain, we can get some film of the exterior and then the interior."

  "So you got hold of the farmer, did you?" asked Owain. "He's OK with us doing this?"

  Maxwell sighed somewhat theatrically. "Alas no, dear boy. I knocked on the door, and looked round the farm, but to no avail. We'll try again later."

  "And so, just to be clear, we don't have permission to be doing this," confirmed Owain.

  "Oh, do lighten up, Owain," said Maxwell. "We're doing no damage, and trespass on farm land isn't a crime. What's the worst that can happen? The farmer can ask us to leave. But he won't, I mean, who doesn't want to be on TV? And who wouldn't want to be paid for being on TV? So let's just get on with this."

  "Um..." Gilda wanted to say something.

  "Come on, Gilda, if you have something to add, then spit it out," said Maxwell.

  "I heard rumours about something that went wrong," she began, hesitantly.

  "In Colchester?" suggested Maxwell.

  "Well, yes," she said. "Please just assure me that the circumstances are different here?"

  "Very well, dear girl, the circumstances are completely different, I assure you."

  Gilda and Owain swapped looks that hinted at scepticism, but Maxwell made no further comment. Owain finally shrugged. "You're the boss, boss," he said. "Gilda? Can you help me unload the generator?"

  Ten minutes later, the interior of the chapel was brilliantly illuminated by a pair of tripod-mounted floodlights powered by a small diesel generator that was grumbling away outside the door.

  "Am I looking at an altar?" asked Tori, her eyes wide.

  The removal of the boxes had exposed a rectangular structure, about three metres by two, rising to knee height. It was built from bricks, and topped by a single thick slab of slate.

  "I think it might be," said Maxwell, with a note of awe in his voice. "It's a bit low, mind you. But those are Roman bricks, and slate was quarried just to the west of here in the first century, so this just might be original. If so, it's an astonishing find."

  Gilda was peering at the brickwork. "This looks like a legion mark." She glanced up at Tori. "Roman legions had brick-making kilns, and they stamped some of the bricks. This looks like 'L E G I I', which would be the second legion, 'Adiutrix'. The second were based in Chester until about 87 AD."

  Maxwell ran a hand across the scratched surface of the slate table-top. "There's a lot of graffiti here," he said with a note of wonder in his voice. "This bit here, the only bit I can make out right now, it says, 'Gaio Valerio Crispo veterano ex Legione II Adiutrice Pia Fideli'. This guy had retired from the second legion, so I guess he opted to stay in this area. This is amazing! I wonder how it survived?"

  Owain was studying marks on the table top and the top tier of bricks. "It looks as if something was attached to the surface," he pointed out. "If you asked me to convert a pagan temple into a Christian one, I'd be tempted to build on what was there already. Maybe the Christians just boxed in the original Roman altar?"

  "That's plausible, Owain, very plausible," replied Maxwell. "Good thinking. So, to sum up, we have more evidence that suggests a Roman temple built by the Roman army, prior to 87 AD using bricks supplied by the second legion. It all fits together, and it's all very exciting! If this is the burial place of the metaphorical dragon, then it's underneath us - somewhere. We should be looking for hatch or a trapdoor, or something like that, in the floor. Start looking, folks!"

  Maxwell, Owain and Gilda fanned out and crawled around the floor, looking for evidence of something that would move. After twenty minutes of prying at cracks between flagstones, Maxwell sat up, his back against the wall. "Nothing!" he said in a tone of disgust.

  "Nope," agreed Owain.

  "We'll need to shift those sacks of goat food and get the shelves out of here," said Gilda, moving to grasp one.

  "I'd expect the entrance to be more central," said Owain. "I wouldn't expect it to be buried off to the side."

  "Er, Maxwell" Tori put in somewhat unexpectedly. "Didn't old churches have those what-do-you-call-'ems in their altars?" She was eyeing the slate table top. "How would you get a relic into this one?"

  In truth, Tori was getting bored, and felt it was obvious where they should be looking. However, she did not want to appear too bright, so she came at it obliquely,

  "I bet the slate is a lid, and it will just lift off," said Maxwell. He broke off abruptly and stared at Tori. "You, dear girl, are a bloody genius!" He jumped up and kissed her. "Come on, let's take a corner each!"

  The slate slab was heavy but between them, they lifted it and shuffled to one side to lay it down. Beneath the altar top, under a sheet of cobwebs, a flight of stone stairs descended into darkness. "Would you look at that," said Maxwell, "I think we've found it! Let's get some light down there."

  Owain leaned in with an electric lamp. The stairs appeared intact as far as they could see, with a little rubble from crumbling bricks scattered here and there. "Shall we take a look?" he asked.

  "Only if somebody clears away the spiders," said Tori, distastefully. She had no problem with spiders, quite enjoyed their taste to be honest. But she felt that a fear of creepy-crawlies would be in character.

  "Let me go first," said Maxwell, excitement obvious in his voice. "Professorial privilege and all that. If you bring up the rear, Tori, the spiders will be go
ne, I promise." He grabbed a light and led the way, sweeping cobwebs aside. Owain picked up one of the big work lights and followed.

  ***

  The stairs went deep into the earth. Looking at the walls around her, Tori concluded that it was a natural sloping tunnel that had been tidied and in places enlarged. The steps were uneven, and she could hear Gilda cursing as she lost her footing more than once in the gloom. Tori was a nocturnal predator with excellent night-vision, so she had no trouble; however, for the sake of appearances, she faked a couple of yelps of alarm, and complained about the dark.

  The stairs came to an end in an open space. As Maxwell flashed his light around, Tori could see rock walls and an uneven ceiling. When Owain fired up the work light he had carried down, the entire cave became visible. Maxwell and his students gasped and ooh'ed and abashed.

  "Well, would you just look at that!" Maxwell sounded excited.

  "Look at the way the walls have been lined," said Owain, sounding awed. "Sheets of iron."

  "These statues... Is that a Roman god of some kind?" asked Gilda.

  Tori glanced around. Aside from the unusual iron cladding on the walls, it was nothing she hadn't seen before. It was obviously a Mithraeum, and she wondered how long it would take the students work it out. She was more interested in the big double door set into one of the long walls. It was closed, and barred by a big iron girder laid across iron hooks. She could sense the restless energy of the beast beyond it.

  "Look," said Gilda, pointing out a broken statue. "You can make out a bull's head here, and that looks like a man holding it by the nose."

  "Ah!" exclaimed Maxwell in delight. "You know what this is, don't you! It's the tauroctony! And over there - the lion-headed man!" He looked expectantly at Owain. "So what is this place, young Owain?"

  "It's a Temple of Mithras," he replied with a grin. "What a shame the icons are busted up. Mithras killing the bull looks pretty impressive."

  Tori lifted the iron bar of the door, but then reconsidered - it should be too heavy for one person to lift - and laid it back down. There was a lot of debris on the floor, which would prevent her from getting the door open until it had been cleared, so it was best to leave the bar alone for now.

  Meanwhile, Gilda was speaking. "I didn't think Mithraism had spread to Britannia this early."

  "A subject of some debate," said Maxwell. "Some people hold that it was brought by the military in Claudius' invasion, and some say it came later when legions were swapped in and out. But most authorities agree that it was a cult purely of the military until well into the occupation. So, the big question for me would be, was this always a Mithraeum, or was it a temple dedicated to another deity first? If it was a Mithraeum from the start, then it could be the oldest one ever in Britain, and what's more, it would show that the cult was prevalent among Auxiliaries and not just the Legions. This could be quite the find!""

  Tori was bored. "Let's get this door open," she called out.

  "Oh dear me, no!" said Maxwell firmly. "Not yet, Tori, we have a lot of work to do out here first. Owain, we'll be needing the camera to get some footage while this place is undisturbed, then we can start working in from the stairs toward that votive altar. I'm keen to get some of the iron off the walls, too, so we can see what's under it."

  "Maxwell," said Tori plaintively. "I want to see the dragon! That's why we came, isn't it?"

  "I'm sorry, my pet," he replied. "We need to work methodically across this room, cataloguing all the finds, before we tackle the door. Look, you can see there's a lot of stuff on the floor, it needs to be moved, and moved carefully."

  "Well, why don't we start there?" she asked with a pout. "Clear the doors, then we can get them open, and then we get to see the dragon. Please?"

  He laughed. "Tori, sweetie, of course we'll see whatever's behind the doors. But we can't rush it."

  Tori shrugged, turned away, and went to sit on one of the benches that lined the long walls of the chamber. She would have to work on Maxwell, one-on-one, to render him more pliant. She hid her secret little smile. Bending Maxwell to her will would be fun.

  It also occurred to her that Owain and Gilda were now surplus to requirements. She was going to have extra special fun tonight.

  Chapter 15

  Anifail Island, North Wales, May 27 last year.

  The light was fading and old Innes was closing the curtains all round his house when he spotted a movement up the hill. He switched off the bedroom light and waited for his eyes to adjust, scratching at the scarred skin that ran up his neck and over the top of his head. Someone was coming down from Clifftop. It looked like it was Willems, he mused, but then again it didn't.

  Innes had run away from home in 1938, in search of adventure, and served in the British Army for fifteen years, in the Royal Tank Regiment. He liked to think that he had survived the battles - in France, North Africa, Italy, France again, Germany and Korea - by having a mysterious sixth sense attuned to danger. He'd had a lot of tanks shot out from under him, and seen a lot of mates die, but he'd always made it out alive because he knew when to bail. Well, he corrected himself, scratching his scars again, almost always. His sixth sense was telling him he ought to bail now.

  The figure coming down the hill was certainly the right height, the right shape, to be Willems. But it was walking oddly, as if it was having trouble managing the limbs. Innes had seen - and been - staggering drunk, and this was not a drunk. He frowned. It was as if Willems was unfamiliar with the body, and with how to walk. Yes, time to bail.

  But then he forced himself to be realistic. He reminded himself that he was over ninety, and that walking any distance at any speed was quite a challenge now. He smiled bitterly. Whoever that was - and he was now sure that it wasn't John Willems in there - they could overtake him in no time.

  He carefully made his way down to the sitting room, and looked at the collection of old photographs framed on the wall. There was his younger self, alone and with groups, in uniform. He was posing in front of a variety of vehicles with a variety of long-dead comrades - the faithful, reliable old Matilda II he'd had to abandon near Arras in 1940, the fast but fragile Crusader from Egypt, and a variety of those god-awful Shermans that caught fire if you looked at them the wrong way. Tommy-cookers, the Germans called them. Ronsons, to their crews, after the cigarette lighter. One flick and it lights up reliably every time. Innes had been burned more than once by Shermans, but had come through it all. He had lived far longer than he had ever expected, and he was not afraid now.

  Innes unlocked his gun case, and thoughtfully loaded both of his 12 bore shotguns. He couldn't bail this time, but he could defend himself.

  He looked out the window beside the front door, and was mildly amused to see the figure outside paused, apparently puzzling out how to get through the gate. He opened the door.

  "John Willems?" he called out. "That you?"

  There was no reply, but the figure half-turned to focus on the door. Innes shivered.

  "Willems?" he asked again.

  The figure seemed to have worked out how the gate worked, and pushed through it, awkwardly. It lifted its head once more to focus on Innes. It took a shambling step forward.

  "Whatever's in there, it ain't you, John, is it," said Innes. "Now just stay there,"

  It took a couple more shambling steps, closing the distance to a few yards.

  "Sorry, John, if you can hear me, I am sorry. But I'll have to shoot." Innes levelled the shotgun. In the light streaming from his front door, he realised that Willems was covered in blood. And were there chunks missing from his chest and arms?

  Willems' body shuffled forward. Innes levelled the shotgun and fired the first barrel. The bloody figure staggered as the pellets tore into its chest. It paused, and started forward again. Bang! The other barrel blasted its load of pellets. Innes had shifted his aim up to the figure's head, and the shot blew it apart. The figure staggered again, but did not fall.

  "Well that's novel," muttered
Innes.

  He reached across and picked up his second shotgun, set it firmly into his shoulder, and blasted off two shots at the chest in quick succession. This time, the body toppled and fell backwards onto the path. Innes quickly broke the shotgun, pushed in two more cartridges, closed it up and pulled back the hammer. Only then did he step forward, shotgun at his shoulder, to inspect the body.

  The body that was John Willems was a mess. The skull had been blasted open by the shotgun and some of his brain was splattered across the ground. What was in the head had been seriously messed up by hardened lead pellets ricocheting around inside the skull. That should have killed him - yet he hadn't dropped. His chest had been destroyed by shotgun blasts. Fragments of bone and pieces of heart and lung were chaotically mingled.

  Innes stiffened abruptly and took a slow step backward. Something was moving in Willems' chest cavity. His eyes went wide as that something struggled and heaved itself up from low in the torso and wriggled in the gaping chest to get out. It was black, and eel-like, and was using protruding spines to gain traction on the bloody mess of Willems' body.

  "Oh, no you don't," breathed Innes. "You don't get to bail out."

  He aimed at what appeared to be the head end, and fired twice. The body was now blasted apart across the chest, but the creature had been obliterated.

  Innes moved back into his doorway and sagged against the frame. His heart was racing, his legs trembled and he felt on the edge of panic. It took a few minutes for him to calm down sufficiently to be able to move. He took a deep breath, and then closed the door. He worked round the house, checking and locking windows and doors, and settled down to wait. Someone would find the mess, and the police would be here, sooner or later.

  Out in the garden, something was wriggling out from under the hedge by his gate. With a sinuous snake-like motion, it moved closer to the corpse, and began feeding.