Conroy John Sinclair - Episode 8

The Taste of Human Flesh
1. Auflage 2016
ISBN: 978-3-7325-2246-0
Verlag: Bastei Lübbe
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: 6 - ePub Watermark

E-Book, Englisch, Band 8, 100 Seiten

Reihe: John Sinclair: A Horror Series

They are as old as mankind. They feed in the shadows we've created. And they're about to step into the light...

When young Cordelia Barnes dies of a drug overdose, her body is brought to Abbott & Sons, one of the oldest funeral parlors in South London. But Mr. Abbott is no ordinary man. He is a ghoul - a foul and ancient creature. He and his gruesome family live in darkness and feed on human flesh. Soon, DCI Sinclair is called to the scene, determined to wipe out the nest of ghouls. But Sinclair doesn't realize that his best friend is trapped under their lair, and that the ghouls are preparing a feast. The slaughter is about to begin...
Detective Chief Inspector John Sinclair works for Scotland Yard's Special Division, an elite unit that deals with extraordinary cases. DCI Sinclair is a battle-hardened veteran of Afghanistan, a man who's been to hell and back. This time, he's not just fighting to save our world. He's fighting for his soul...

'John Sinclair' is the reboot of Europe's longest running horror series. Originally conceived in 1973 and still running strong, the 'John Sinclair' novellas are firmly rooted in the finest pulp tradition, true page turners with hair-rising tension, exquisite gore, and a dash of adventure. 'John Sinclair' combines the dark visions of Stephen King, Clive Barker, and the 'X-Files' with the fast-paced action and globe-trotting excitement of James Bond.

'A hero so suave and dashing, he makes James Bond look like a grubby detective sergeant, a plot that reads like it came straight from the great vaults of Hammer, and enough action and derring do to keep even the most ardent pulp fan smiling with glee... Highly recommended.' Ginger Nuts of Horror.

Gabriel Conroy was born in Los Angeles, California, in 1967. After high school, he joined the armed forces and was stationed in Germany for several years. He discovered his love for writing while traveling through Europe. When he returned to the States, he studied Journalism at Los Angeles City College and UCLA, and currently works as a freelance journalist, writer, and translator. Mr. Conroy is married and has a dog and a cat.

Autoren/Hrsg.

Conroy, Gabriel

Leseproben

First I heard the screams.

Somewhere in the distance.

I didn’t know where they came from. But they were clear and vivid: sounds of pure anguish. The kind of cry you hear from an animal—or a person—when the pain simply won’t stop.

And more than one.

Dozens.

A chorus of voices, all pleading, all screaming … all needing the pain to stop.

I looked around.

I was standing in an underground structure of some sort. Concrete walls all around, and a dark liquid running down the sides of the corridor. I was walking through a narrow hallway, barefoot, stumbling, feeling my way forward. There was hardly any light. I heard water dripping, and a sound like a hammer striking something solid and metal.

And a saw. The insistent hum of a buzz saw.

And then, very clearly, I heard a voice in my head. Talking to me.

I stopped dead in my tracks. I could feel my heart racing. I could feel sweat on my forehead.

My father’s voice.

“You know this place, don’t you?” he whispered.

I looked around, searching for him. It’d been over ten years since he died.

“Where are you?” I whispered.

Ahead of me was a metal door.

“You know where I am,” said my father. His raspy whisper of a voice brought back memories of his leathery skin, his gnarled fingers, his dull eyes. The way he smelled, of old cigarettes and aftershave.

“It’s waiting for you,” said my father. “You just have to look.”

I slowly approached the door. The banging noises in the background seemed to merge with the beating of my heart.

“This is what you deserve,” my father said. “You know that, don’t you?”

I placed my hand against the door and pushed.

It made a shrill creaking sound that stabbed my ears like a dagger.

The screams around me were getting louder.

I felt a thumping inside my head, a steady sound that kept rising and rising, until it hurt, until it felt as if there was blood coming out of my ears.

The door was almost open. Almost …

And then I woke up.

***

Sunlight. Birds outside. I was lying in a bed. Breathing heavily, and covered in sweat. The sheets were damp.

Must have been a nightmare, I thought. But I couldn’t be sure. Not after everything that’s happened. It certainly hadn’t felt like a nightmare. It felt as if I’d actually been someplace, not just in my thoughts, but with my whole being.

I felt a dull, throbbing pain in my left leg.

I looked around.

I noted with surprise that the room was rather pleasant. Cream-colored walls. Off-white, I believe they call this in home decorating magazines. Or eggshell white. There were curtains swinging gently in the breeze by the open window. Bright rays of sunshine were streaming in. My skin itched where they touched me. Ever so slightly, but I could feel it.

And I could feel something underneath my skin.

Something inside me.

I tried to move, I wanted to take a look at my leg, to find out what was wrong and scratch that itch.

And that’s when I realized I couldn’t move.

I looked around, and my eyes widened as fear washed over me.

I was strapped to the bed with heavy leather belts. I opened my mouth to say something, but no words came out.

I struggled against the straps, arching my back, trying to kick my legs. I was breathing heavily. My heart started to pound, like that of a trapped animal.

At that moment, the door opened.

A young and rather pleasant-looking blonde nurse entered the room. She had an attractive face and an unremarkable haircut, shoulder length. Rather practical, I supposed.

She looked at me and gave me a professional smile.

“You’re awake!” she said and managed to convey some genuine-sounding excitement. “Would you like some gruel?”

“Why am I tied up?” I said, an edge of panic in my voice.

“It’s oatmeal today,” she said, tantalizingly.

I started rattling my straps, louder this time.

“Let me go!” I said.

“Calm down.” Her smile never left her face. “All in good time. It’s just a safety precaution, you see.”

She wheeled in a food cart, and took her sweet time, too.

“We’ve had patients trying to gouge out their eyes …” she said.

She brought the cart right up to my bed, then she bent over me. I could smell the scent of her skin. Soap and a light touch of perfume.

“And now for your straps,” she said, and began untying me, her fingers working quickly.

I breathed a sigh of relief. I massaged my wrists. The straps had been cutting off my circulation. My hands felt numb.

Where the hell was I?

“Better?” said the nurse.

“Why am I here?”

Using a ladle, she poured some oatmeal into a bowl and put it down on a nightstand next to my bed. She carefully laid a plastic spoon next to it. How very thoughtful.

“Your breakfast,” she said. “Nice and hot. And some tea.”

She reached for a tea kettle and poured me a cup. She put it down next to the plate.

“Isn’t that nice, now?” she said.

“Where am I?”

“In the clinic, of course.”

“What clinic?”

She gave a quiet laugh. The way a teacher laughs at a slightly stupid child.

“Aren’t you funny?” she said. “Now you finish your breakfast, and when you’re done, just press the little button by your bedside.”

She was just about to leave, but then, some terribly important thought seemed to occur to her. She stopped in her tracks for the briefest of moments, and the sunlight caught in her eyes. She turned toward me. She reached into the pocket of her white coat and pulled out a small plastic pill bottle.

“Your pill!” she said. “Don’t forget.”

“What pill? What is this place?”

She reached out and stroked my hair, and there was something in her eyes that made me uncomfortable. She was still smiling sweetly, but there was something odd, a steely flicker in her gaze.

“You’re a silly little boy, do you know that?” she said with a sigh.

She rattled the bottle.

“Doctor’s orders,” she went on. “Twice daily with food. You’re not going to be naughty, are you?”

Her voice betrayed just the slightest hint of menace.

I grinned at her.

“If I am, will you spank me?”

“Go on now,” she said, with an unmistakable firmness. “Take your medicine.”

Take your medicine.

My father used to say those words to me, before he brought out the belt. He would arrive home from work sometime after five, and around that time, a deep-seated fear would rise up inside me, like a wave of nausea. My father would come home, and he would drink and, sometimes, he would take off the belt, slowly and fastidiously. And then it was time for me to take my medicine. It didn’t take much to set him off: a careless word, bad grades at school, or even if I just made too much noise. My mother couldn’t—or wouldn’t—protect me. The thing inside her had already begun to eat her up. Slowly but surely.

Take your medicine.

Something inside me went cold. I could feel my muscles clench up.

“Not until you tell me what it is,” I said.

“It’s just an antibiotic.”

“And I’m supposed to trust you?”

She looked at me and sighed.

“It’s really quite simple,” she explained. “If you don’t take your pill, you won’t get any gruel.”

“Forget it,” I said with a tight grin.

I don’t think she appreciated my resistance. She turned toward the door and said, quite loudly: “Mr. Higgins! Mr. Hewitt!”

It took only a few moments, and then the door opened. Two orderlies in white lab coats entered the room. I wondered if they had been waiting outside for just such an occasion.

“Ma’am,” said one of them with a nod. He was a big, beefy fellow, perhaps more fitting to a boxing ring than a clinic.

“Mr. Sinclair needs some help with his medicine,” said the nurse.

Higgins and Hewitt nodded and purposefully strode toward my bed. I smiled at them.

“Easy, fellows …” I said, but there was no point. They hadn’t been called in here for the easy stuff.

The beefy fellow grabbed my arms and pressed them down. I tried to resist, but he was too strong.

The other man, a tall, skinny black man, reached for my head and pried my mouth open. He was wearing green latex gloves. I gasped for air. Spittle came out of my open mouth. My eyes were darting around in panic.

The nurse opened the pill bottle and with a swift, expert motion, put a pill in my mouth.

I tried to spit it out, but the gag reflex set in, and the pill went down. The orderlies let go of me, and I doubled over, coughing. My face was red.

“That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”

Actually, it was. When I looked up, I saw her holding a glass of water for me. I swiped it away. She cried out, and the glass flew across the room. I heard it shatter against the eggshell wall. I couldn’t help but grin. It was, perhaps, a ridiculous victory, but it was...