– he didn’t think they could scheme or plan. They could not play dead.
Jonah went into the bathroom and urinated, leaning against the wall, supporting himself with one hand and staring into the mirror above the toilet. An old man stared back, and he felt shocked at the image. Seventy-six was the count of his years, but his mind was as vivid and sharp as it had ever been, his heart and soul immersed in Coldbrook and the wonders he was determined it would one day reveal. Ageing was for people who spent mornings at bridge clubs, afternoons strolling in the park with walking groups, and evenings fussing over dinner and deciding what to watch on TV. The fact of his approaching death crept up on him sometimes, surprising him with how close it had come, but he was so involved with his work that mortality seemed to be for everyone else. But now he looked into the face of someone who had seen terrible things, and who had seen death in unreal forms. He had always felt at ease with the prospect of his own demise, but Coldbrook had become a travesty of its original purpose. And a deadly one at that.
Back in Secondary’s main room he unplugged the laptop, checking that it still had its wi-fi connection, then moved to the door. With his other hand he held the gun down by his side, safety catch off, hand clasping the grip, finger on the trigger.
In the head, he thought, and this close up the faces looked less human than ever. Realising he had both hands full he put the laptop down, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. Got to think clearer than that. He rested his hand on the door lock, took a few deep breaths, then clicked it open.
They seemed to hear the sound of the lock disengaging. The scratching became more frantic, and they called to each other softly, a haunting hum. Jonah watched for a moment, to see if they remembered how to open a door. The handle flicked down, but they did not depress it fully. Gun ready, Jonah pressed the handle down and opened the door.
A hand came through. Fingers opened and closed, grasping. The little finger was shredded and hanging, though no blood dripped from it. He pulled back as another hand came through, this one with painted fingernails and a diamond ring shining obscenely amid dried blood. The door swung open and he stepped back, raising the gun and sighting on the woman’s head. Two afflicted pushed into the room together, squeezing through the door and reaching for him. Their previously expressionless faces now held a tension that pulled their mouths open and widened their dark eyes.
Their hooting calls could have been tuneless singing, and they smelled like mouldy, wet clothing.
‘Wait, wait, hang on,’ Jonah said, retreating until the backs of his legs hit the control desk. Although he had the gun raised he could not pull the trigger. Shooting someone in the head, seeing the damage it could do, was beyond his comprehension. ‘No, wait, stay back and let me—’
A hand swiped across his face and he jerked his head back, wrenching his neck and feeling a fingernail scrape across his nose. He kicked out and shoved the bloody-faced woman back, but Uri was beside her and he pressed forward, slower, his actions much more controlled.
There was flesh between Uri’s teeth, and a clot of blood and blonde hair was stuck to his chin.
‘No, we should talk, you need to sit down and—’ Jonah stammered.