The Last Judgement Read online

  Harker crouched down between the tightly parked cars, taking great care not to touch the sides of them for fear of setting off any alarms, then moved on until he reached the only doorway he could see. There was graffiti written in yellow that simply read ‘BIG COCK’ in German, which he attributed to some previous and youthful visitor who obviously thought a great deal of himself and not the house’s current visitors, whoever they might be. Harker grasped hold of the worn black metal doorknob, turned it gently and entered.

  The interior of the place was filthy, in line with the rest of the amusement park’s appearance, with the wall plaster broken and desiccated in places, leaving dusty piles beneath the areas of damage. There was no lighting except for a single lit candle perched upon a metre-high candelabra, but he could make out that he was in a hallway. To his left was a bare, spacious room with ripped-up carpet tiles strewn throughout, and to his right was a similar-sized room bearing the same type of damage except for a broken metal-grate fireplace covered in ash. Further on, two open doorways led off on either side of the hallway, and at the end rose a wide wooden staircase leading to the upper floor, with most of its steps either cracked or missing.

  Harker ventured along the hallway tentatively, taking care not to scuff his feet on the debris scattered about the floor, and he had almost reached the first open doorway when he heard a voice. It was muffled, but the tone was deep and resonating, and seemed to come from somewhere beneath him. He peered in through the first doorway to find nothing but a dark empty room, with all the same detritus of dirt and rubble, but the second doorway proved much more interesting. Another lit candle sat on what must have once been a kitchen unit because an AGA cooker, with its door hanging from the hinges, was positioned immediately next to it.

  The voice now sounded louder and, as he approached the centre of the room, the floor began to creak.

  Harker froze and stared down at the wooden trapdoor directly beneath him, but just then the muffled voice suddenly went quiet.

  The next few seconds had a swarm of butterflies doing the tango in his stomach, and as he stared at the entrance below he began to let fear get the better of him.

  Almost every member of humanity can feel fear, even the ones that society labels as fearless. Firefighters, policemen, soldiers, boxers – they all feel fear. The trick is how one manages that fear. If a person can push the sensation of fear from their mind and maintain focus then what they are able to achieve can be remarkable. But give in to the urge and it can produce a roller-coaster effect. Once it starts it isn’t stopping, and mindless panic often ensues.

  Harker now stood motionless, his eyes widening and the growing fear gnawing at his insides / core as his mind began to fill with doubts. What the hell was he doing in this place on his own? He didn’t even have a weapon to defend himself. Up against who, or God knows what, and all within the rotting walls of this creepy building that might have given even Freddy Krueger nightmares.

  The single image of Chloe suddenly popped into his mind and, like a mental Valium, the thought of her began to calm him. It was at that same moment the voice below started up again, and Harker realized that everything was still good.

  With a rising sense of resolve, he carefully stepped off the trapdoor and then reached down, gently grasped the ringlet handle, and slowly pulled it open.

  Much to his relief and probably, if he was honest, for the sake of a change of underwear, he didn’t come face to face with any pairs of eyes staring back at him, but instead he found a short wooden ladder leading down to a basement passageway about a metre below. After checking the immediate area below was clear, he laid the hinged door flat on the floor and then proceeded to lower himself down onto the concrete floor, opting not to use the ladder in case it decided to make a noise by groaning under his weight.

  The passage was lit by the same type of candles as used above, and they ran its full length as far as another room at the end. Harker couldn’t see what lay beyond but the voice was now clearly audible so he quietly made his way towards it and, just before the bend, with his face pressed up against the wall, he peered gingerly around the corner.

  The room beyond had been carved directly into the earth and so it looked more like a cave than a constructed dwelling, with thick brown tree roots protruding from the walls, their tips dangling limply towards the soil-covered floor. Stubby red candles sat in black metal holders attached directly to the uneven dirt walls, and high enough up that their flames illuminated the ceiling more brightly than the rest of the room.

  On the wall opposite there was fixed a wooden frame around double doors, both now closed, while the air was heavy with a mixture of aftershave and various expensive perfumes. This aroma was unquestionably exuded by the group of well-dressed men and women congregated in the centre of the room, whose attention was focused on a man wearing a shiny tuxedo, who stood upon a sturdy-looking wooden platform about two metres wide.

  The stark contrast between their smart clothing and the shabby surroundings made for an unsettling atmosphere, while two of the women were even wearing flowing ballgowns and shiny high heels that dug into the grubby dirt beneath.

  But it was the man in the black tuxedo who particularly caught Harker’s attention. His shiny bald head, gaunt cheeks and dull unemotional eyes gave him a formidably intimidating look, and his deep commanding voice only added to this forbidding aura as he addressed the small crowd in front of him.

  ‘And so here we are again, not just in flesh but in spirit, as our journey continues. In the centuries that have passed I wonder how many of us have occasionally questioned, if not doubted, the destiny that is owed to us?’

  Many of the group began to shake their heads and glance at one another in defiance, which drew a thin smile from the speaker.

  ‘Friends, do not be ashamed. The path has been long and therefore it would only be natural to question such things from time to time,’ he continued amicably, exchanging glances with each of his audience in turn. ‘But that you are all here tonight on this most hallowed of days proves the strength of your convictions, and because of that I commend your resilience and strength of character.’

  Light applause broke out as the speaker’s smile became wider, revealing a perfect set of glistening white teeth.

  ‘It is our colleagues, our friends, our brethren who have all contributed so much in reaching this final step but I say it is now you, the best of us, that must ascend to it alone and embrace the legacy that has been destined for us by he who has guided over us for so many years.’ He then clasped his hands together and waited for the applause to die down. But now his expression hardened, and he swayed slowly from side to side as if gearing up for some confrontation.

  ‘As you all know, it is that same step that I have already taken in a display of my faith to you all, and although you could not be there to share it with me, it is now time that you joined me in experiencing that same truth.’ The speaker raised his arm and pointed towards the double doors at the far end of the room.

  ‘Enter,’ he boomed, as a hush descended on the group.

  The two doors slowly opened wide to reveal a man wearing nothing but a grey loincloth, flanked by two other men wearing white tuxedos. There was no alarm evident in the half-naked man’s eyes, but rather a passive gaze, as he was paraded across the room, up onto the small wooden stage and into the waiting arms of the speaker.

  ‘Welcome, friend,’ the speaker declared, and he received a courteous nod from the newcomer before turning to face the assembled group. The man still said nothing but offered them only an appreciative smile as the speaker, who was standing immediately behind him, slipped his hands around the man’s neck.

  ‘But pay heed to this truth,’ the speaker boomed, looking over the fellow’s shoulder. ‘That which is given may also be taken away.’

  Crouching back by the entrance, Harker watched in astonishment as the speaker then began to tighten his grip, squeezing tighter and tighter until his victim’s complexion bega
n turning a light shade of blue. His eyes began bulging in their sockets as the speaker exerted his full force on the victim’s throat.

  Harker’s natural instinct to do something was now gnawing at him, but he resisted. Firstly the half-naked man seemed more than willing, and secondly what consequences would any interference have on Chloe? Was it reasonable to allow the loss of one life to save another? He was here simply to secure pages of the Codex, which there was no sign of as yet and, despite the depraved act being committed in front of him, shouldn’t that remain his priority?

  As the seconds rolled by Harker decided that had the man been an unwilling participant, then he would have fought against being led in here, but seeing the degree of complicity on display and with Chloe’s life at stake, he decided to stay where he was and merely watch, no matter how difficult it may prove.

  This, as it turned out, took a surprisingly long time.

  In the movies when a bad guy strangles someone, it is all over in seconds, but the reality is far different. After thirty seconds the man’s legs began to buckle and finally he sank to the floor. A further thirty seconds and the victim was turning from blue to deep scarlet, and spit and froth began to ooze from his open mouth and his tongue extruded as the pressure from the grip around his throat pushed it upwards and outwards. It was at this point that Harker chose to look away as a sickly feeling overcame him, and he tried to focus on anything else he could. His childhood dog Mr D…the Rolling Stones song ‘You Can’t Always Get What You Want’…how much of an annoying tool Doggie could be at times…anything but the man being slowly suffocated nearby.

  The whole procedure, at a guess, took about three minutes in all, and it wasn’t until the sounds of scuffling and gasping had ceased that Harker allowed himself to take another look.

  The victim lay sprawled and motionless on the stage as the speaker finally released his grip and stood back up, his chest heaving as he strove to recover his breath. He took another few moments to compose himself and then, with a commanding wave of his hand, he beckoned the group towards him.

  ‘Come,’ he said, still struggling for breath, ‘see for yourselves.’

  The group crowded excitedly around the dead body and began prodding and poking it, one woman even leaning close to the corpse’s mouth and checking for any sign of breathing, as another drove a hairpin deep into its thigh, watching for a reaction.

  There was none.

  Once all seven were satisfied that the man was dead, they began whispering in each other’s ears, and for the first time Harker got a good look at their faces. There was nothing that stood out except maybe their age – all were in their late thirties or forties – and that they were smiling and clearly happy about what they had witnessed. They looked normal…clearly mentally sick, of course, but normal.

  Harker pulled out his iPhone and began snapping off a few pictures with his camera; despite the dim lighting he was able to get a couple of good shots before the speaker reached into his side pocket and pulled out a thick wad of discoloured material. He lovingly unfolded it and, because of its size, Harker was now sure it had to come from the Codex Gigas. Almost a metre in length and half a metre wide, the page was massive, and Harker watched motionless as the speaker began to read aloud from it.

  Words flowed from the man’s lips in little more than an inaudible mutter and his audience dipped their heads in prayer as, with linked hands, they stood in a semicircle around the corpse.

  After no more than a minute the quiet murmurings from the speaker subsided and, while the small group of people continued to stare at the dirt floor, he folded up the page and laid it down on the dead man’s chest.

  ‘And now,’ said the speaker, before inhaling a deep and satisfying breath, ‘let us eat.’

  In the room beyond, lights sparked into life revealing a substantial dining room containing one long table covered in white linen, on which sat an impressive array of food: roast suckling pig, pheasant and other dishes impossible to see from Harker’s crouching position. The room itself was a far cry from the rest of the house, enclosed with beautifully crafted wooden panelling adorned with paintings, and he could feel the heat from two fan heaters as the hot air flowed into the room.

  Harker watched the group make their way inside to take their seats and, as the doors began to close, he saw two of the men in white tuxedos begin lighting the silver candlesticks set upon the long dining table.

  The doors had barely closed before Harker was reaching for his iPhone. He began dialling furiously before pressing it to his ear, and noticed for the first time that his hand was shaking.

  ‘I need to report a murder,’ Harker explained in German. ‘The old Spreepark amusement park… I don’t know the exact address but it’s a red-brick building at the northern edge of the grounds, set into the trees. The windows are boarded up and… The kitchen leads to the basement, which is where the murder took place… Because I witnessed it and the killer is still here… Thank you.’

  Harker hung up the phone, ignoring the policewoman’s request for his name. He couldn’t afford to get dragged into all this, especially not now, and besides, there were other witnesses who could do that job, even if they’d have to be forced into it.

  Harker made his way over to the stage and hovered above the corpse, briefly listening for any signs of life, but this told him what he already knew, that the man was dead. He picked up the folded, weathered document and examined it. The material was actually vellum, finely treated goat’s skin which had been widely used for writing on during the Middle Ages. It crackled under his touch, showing its age.

  Could it be one of the pages Lucas had mentioned?

  He was just about to unfold it when, to his right, one door leading to the banquet room began to open. With nowhere to go, he flung himself around one side of the stage and out of sight, which was easier said than done given its small size. Over the laughter and chatter from the banquet hall beyond, he listened to the sound of footsteps scuffling over the dirt floor, making their way closer to the stage. There was a pause and Harker held his breath as a few moments passed, then the scuffling continued, this time heading in his direction. Closer and closer.

  A dark shadow loomed over him and Harker looked up to see the speaker, wide-eyed and staring at him menacingly.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Without a pause Harker leapt forward, driving his shoulder hard into the bald-headed man’s chest, sending him flying backwards onto the dirt floor with a hefty thump. In the banquet room one of the men wearing a white tuxedo, who was in the process of serving a ladleful of soup, had noticed the commotion and was already shouting a warning to his counterparts.

  Harker flew out of the room, down the candlelit corridor, knocking a couple of them to the floor as he went. He jumped the first two steps of the ladder before heaving himself up through the opening. With no time to stand up, he reached over to the trapdoor, but before he could grasp the edges of it a hand clothed in a white sleeve grabbed his ankle. Using all his strength to not get pulled back down through the opening, Harker watched in terror as the scowling face of a man appeared and then, grasping at Harker’s clothing, he began to pull himself upwards. Harker was landing every blow he could against the man’s head and shoulders, but unable to get a decent swing it had little effect and within moments the man had clambered up his body until they were face-to-face. Finally in range, his pursuer then clasped his hands around Harker’s throat and with all his weight pressed down and began to squeeze, tighter and tighter.

  The smell of body odour masked by Old Spice was nauseating and Harker reacted instinctively to this rather than the increasing pressure around his neck, slamming his knee into the man’s groin, who instantly released his grip and toppled off to one side.

  As his attacker groaned and cupped himself in pain, Harker jumped to his feet just as another hand appeared from the opening in the floor. He immediately reached down and grabbed the trapdoor, swinging it down to slam against the person�
��s fingers.

  The painful sound of breaking bones was accompanied by a high-pitched yelp from below as the man who had been attending to his injured testicles began to stagger to his feet. With nothing nearby to use as a weapon Harker did the only thing he could and, with full force, he once again kicked the man in the groin, sending the poor fellow to the floor in a heap. With the sound of pained sobbing ringing in his ears, Harker winced in empathy and then took off, running like a maniac.

  The short dash to the front entrance took him no time at all and it wasn’t until he reached it that he heard the thud of the trapdoor reopening behind him, echoing throughout the empty house. He wanted to glance back but resisted the impulse and, without pause, wrenched open the front door and sprinted outside into the cool night air. He was running so wildly that he came close to tumbling down the stone steps at the entrance, but he managed to regain his balance quickly and then shimmy past the parked cars, colliding with a wing mirror which dug painfully into his ribs as he passed it.

  Harker continued to race along the dirt path and located the way he had come by using the shadowy outline of the Ferris wheel looming above the trees as his guide. It wasn’t until he got within twenty metres of it that he slowed and skidded to a stop in order to catch his breath. His lungs were burning from the exertion and in the distance he could hear the hum of car engines starting up and it suddenly occurred to him that the occupants were either making a quick exit before any police arrived, or preparing to hunt him down. The latter notion ensured that he immediately took off again, although this time in a fast jog, past the ‘lake of love’ and back towards the undergrowth from which he had first emerged. How he didn’t catch himself on any sharp debris from the remnants of the abandoned rides was nothing short of miraculous, but he just focused on one mantra, mumbling it over and over again: