blast caught him squarely in the face, slamming his head back against the wall. His features were obliterated by the powerful discharge. The concentrated buckshot stove in his forehead and pulped his eyes before pulverizing the bones at the top of his skull. A huge portion of scalp was blown away, sticky gobs of brain splattering the wall behind him.
Joule decided his only chance was to try and ram the Sierra, to push it back into the road. He started the engine and stepped hard on the accelerator but, before he could complete his desperate manoeuvre, two 9mm bullets hit him in the back, one exploding through his chest, punching an exit hole large enough to hold two hands. Blood and portions of lung spattered the windscreen and, as blood jetted from the gaping wound, he slumped over the wheel.
The Astra shot forward, crashing into the back of the kitchen, the front of the car folding up like a concertina. The steering wheel came back at Joule like a thick javelin, crushing his already shredded chest, cracking bone like matchwood.
Pinned in the devastated car he tried to scream but blood filled his throat.
The two men were running back towards the Sierra which was reversing out into the road, the driver ignoring the curses of passing motorists.
The two men leapt in and the driver put his foot down hard on the accelerator but, as the car sped away, another burst of fire from the sub-machine gun hit the Astra, rupturing the petrol tank.
The car disappeared beneath a searing ball of orange and yellow flame.
Part of the roof was torn off and sent spiralling into the air by the force of the blast. Petrol sprayed from the flaming tank like blazing ejaculate, covering the yard with a spreading puddle of fire. Thick smoke rose into the air like noxious man-made smog.
The Sierra sped away, tyres screaming loudly as it rounded a comer and disappeared amongst the other traffic.
Money from the shotgun-blasted case wafted lazily on the warm air, some of it drifting down into the conflagration where it too was devoured by the flames.
Sixteen
Both of them were naked.
Both hung from the filthy wall of the supermarket, suspended by the nails which had been driven through their hands and wrists.
A tramp and a rent boy. The dregs of society.
Unwanted.
Unmissed.
The five figures which stood gazing at the corpses were silent, standing in a kind of mock vigil over the bodies. Bodies which now had not one single trace of skin on their faces and necks. The flesh had been expertly removed with knives, cut away with a care and precision which a surgeon would have been proud of. The muscles of Adam Giles' face glistened in the half-light, congealed blood already filling some of the gaps between tendons and gristle. His eyes were open, still wide with terror as if the last thing he'd seen had been indelibly printed on that blind orb for eternity. The leading figure, a tall man dressed in a dark suit now faded and dirt encrusted, stepped forward and inspected the bodies more closely, prodding first at the skinless mess which had once been Adam's face, then at the flayed visage of Danny Weller.
The young tramp's skin sat well on the features of the tall figure. He had smoothed it over his own putrescent face, covering the holes and the sores, hiding the cratered areas where the maggots had bred. The skin was loose around his ears and eyes but portions taken from other parts of the bodies could be used to foster the illusion of normality. And, like his companions, he could always wrap his face with a scarf.
Until the time was right.
Time.
Time seemed to have no meaning any more.
For what was time to a dead man? To him or his four companions? He smiled thinly, his own lips moving beneath the mask of living flesh that was already beginning to mould itself to the rotting musculature beneath.
They had time. Time to complete their task.
And that time was coming closer.
He looked at the two bodies hanging from the
Joule decided his only chance was to try and ram the Sierra, to push it back into the road. He started the engine and stepped hard on the accelerator but, before he could complete his desperate manoeuvre, two 9mm bullets hit him in the back, one exploding through his chest, punching an exit hole large enough to hold two hands. Blood and portions of lung spattered the windscreen and, as blood jetted from the gaping wound, he slumped over the wheel.
The Astra shot forward, crashing into the back of the kitchen, the front of the car folding up like a concertina. The steering wheel came back at Joule like a thick javelin, crushing his already shredded chest, cracking bone like matchwood.
Pinned in the devastated car he tried to scream but blood filled his throat.
The two men were running back towards the Sierra which was reversing out into the road, the driver ignoring the curses of passing motorists.
The two men leapt in and the driver put his foot down hard on the accelerator but, as the car sped away, another burst of fire from the sub-machine gun hit the Astra, rupturing the petrol tank.
The car disappeared beneath a searing ball of orange and yellow flame.
Part of the roof was torn off and sent spiralling into the air by the force of the blast. Petrol sprayed from the flaming tank like blazing ejaculate, covering the yard with a spreading puddle of fire. Thick smoke rose into the air like noxious man-made smog.
The Sierra sped away, tyres screaming loudly as it rounded a comer and disappeared amongst the other traffic.
Money from the shotgun-blasted case wafted lazily on the warm air, some of it drifting down into the conflagration where it too was devoured by the flames.
Sixteen
Both of them were naked.
Both hung from the filthy wall of the supermarket, suspended by the nails which had been driven through their hands and wrists.
A tramp and a rent boy. The dregs of society.
Unwanted.
Unmissed.
The five figures which stood gazing at the corpses were silent, standing in a kind of mock vigil over the bodies. Bodies which now had not one single trace of skin on their faces and necks. The flesh had been expertly removed with knives, cut away with a care and precision which a surgeon would have been proud of. The muscles of Adam Giles' face glistened in the half-light, congealed blood already filling some of the gaps between tendons and gristle. His eyes were open, still wide with terror as if the last thing he'd seen had been indelibly printed on that blind orb for eternity. The leading figure, a tall man dressed in a dark suit now faded and dirt encrusted, stepped forward and inspected the bodies more closely, prodding first at the skinless mess which had once been Adam's face, then at the flayed visage of Danny Weller.
The young tramp's skin sat well on the features of the tall figure. He had smoothed it over his own putrescent face, covering the holes and the sores, hiding the cratered areas where the maggots had bred. The skin was loose around his ears and eyes but portions taken from other parts of the bodies could be used to foster the illusion of normality. And, like his companions, he could always wrap his face with a scarf.
Until the time was right.
Time.
Time seemed to have no meaning any more.
For what was time to a dead man? To him or his four companions? He smiled thinly, his own lips moving beneath the mask of living flesh that was already beginning to mould itself to the rotting musculature beneath.
They had time. Time to complete their task.
And that time was coming closer.
He looked at the two bodies hanging from the
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