Fangtooth (19 page)

Chapter 37

Bruce helped the men clamber off the
boat. When Zander climbed down, he said, “Where’s Powell?”

Zander shook his head. “Those monsters,
they got him.”

Local residents ran across the road to
help. Bruce waved his arms at them. “Get back inside,” he shouted. The people
stared at him as though he were mad.

“What’s going on?” an old man asked.

“There’s been an accident,” Bruce
replied. “Chemical leak. Everyone get inside.” He didn’t think they would
believe him if he told them the truth.

“I can’t see any chemicals,” the man
said, screwing his face up like a wizened old owl.

“They were on board the boat. Highly
toxic. Now fucking get inside.” The old man sucked his lips in, then turned and
ran back across the road.

“We’d better get out of here, too,”
Zander said.

“Yes, what’s the quickest way out of the
village?” Bruce asked.

“I think it’s too late for that.” Zander
pointed along the street.

Bruce turned and stared, horrified to
see the creatures scrambling towards them.

“Shit!” He didn’t like the idea of
staying in the village, but there seemed to be little option. “Let’s go back to
the bar,” he said. “It’s closest.”

Without any argument, everyone started
to run across the road. The teenagers piled through the doorway, followed by
Erin and then Zander, and a couple of men Bruce assumed to be members of Zander’s
crew, one with ginger hair, the other with a beard and a blood covered face.
Bruce entered next. He turned at the door, saw Duncan waiting outside. The
shopkeeper looked sheepish, anxious.

“You can’t leave me out here,” he said

“And why not? You wanted to sacrifice
us, you bastard.”

Across the road, a drain cover clattered
aside and Bruce looked over to see a Fangtooth emerging from the ground.

Duncan’s expression hardened. “But I
didn’t. It was all Lillian’s idea. I got caught up in her madness. I’m sorry.
Jesus, they’re coming. You can’t do this.”

Bruce didn’t doubt Duncan was sorry now
that his ass was on the line, but the bastard had tried to kill them. He didn’t
deserve to live, but if he left him outside to die, that would make him just as
bad, so he grudgingly stepped aside. “You make one wrong move, and you’ll be
back out that door before you can blink,” he snarled.

Duncan nodded and scurried inside. Bruce
slammed the door shut and threw the bolts across top and bottom. Seconds later,
he heard wicked claws tearing at the timber. The door was old and made of
sturdy, thick wood, but he didn’t think it would prove an obstacle for too
long.

“Zander, help me shove that table in
front of the door.” He indicated a sturdy, wooden table. Zander took one side,
Bruce the other, then they turned it on its end and rammed it against the door.

“Can someone tell me what the fuck’s
going on?”

Bruce turned and looked at the landlord,
Graham. He stood behind the bar nursing his head.

“And if I find out who hit me over the
head, I’ll fuckin’ kill him,” he groaned.

Bruce looked at Jen, and she turned away
and stared down at the ground. He was tempted to say someone had beaten him to
it, but he kept his mouth closed. Whatever the repercussions, he would always
be grateful to her for pushing her grandmother into the water, giving Erin a
chance to escape.

“Call the police,” Bruce said. “Tell
them anything, but get them to come out and investigate. Anyone else with a
phone, do the same thing. They might not believe one person, but they can’t
ignore two or three or more.”

Jack nodded, took his phone out and
dialled. Sara did too.

The sound of the Fangtooth scraping at
the door grated on Bruce’s nerves. He looked around the room. The occupants
were dishevelled, postures slumped as though in defeat. The two men who
accompanied Zander sat at the bar.

“Of course it’s an emergency,” Jack
said. He paced the floor, talking animatedly. “Yes, there’s been a murder.” He
glanced quickly at Jen, bit his tongue then turned and walked the other way.
“Send as many police as you can.” He gave them the name of the village, then
disconnected the call.

“Graham, whisky,” said the bearded man
at the bar. “Make it large.”

“Make that two,” said the grease covered
man who sat next to him.

The landlord rubbed his head. “Whisky!
Someone clocked me on the head, and you want whisky. Can someone tell me what
the fuck is going on?”

“It’s like we told you,” Erin said.
“There are mutated creatures outside.”

Graham looked unconvinced. “Why have you
barricaded the door? If you’ve scratched that table, you’ll have to pay for
it.”

“Graham, pour me a fuckin’ drink before
I come round there and pour my own,” the bearded man said.

Graham continued as though he hadn’t
heard or wasn’t listening: “And who the hell’s scratching on my door? Where’s
that police officer gone when I need him?”

“He’s dead,” Bruce snapped. “They’re all
dead. Now shut the fuck up and pour the men their drinks.”

The landlord opened his mouth to
respond, but Bruce glared at him, and Graham seemed to decide against it.

Bruce felt everyone staring at him, but
he didn’t care. The wolves were literally at the door, so what people thought
of him was the least of his worries.

Erin stood in the middle of the room. He
looked at her and offered a weak smile.

Erin’s eyes went wide; her mouth opened,
but no words came out. Bruce followed her line of sight. The window cast a
reflection of the room’s occupants, but outside, its features bathed in light,
a Fangtooth peered through the glass.

Bruce felt sick; felt like an animal in
a cage. The glass misted over as it breathed, making its features appear
ethereal.

“Graham, switch the lights off,” he
ordered.

“I’ve only just got them back on again,”
he grumbled. “Someone had put a piece of paper between the fuse and the
connector so it wouldn’t work.”

“Graham, look at the fuckin’ window.”

The landlord begrudgingly turned and
stared at the window. Although Graham only had one eye, Bruce watched it
enlarge to cyclopean dimensions. His jaw went slack, his features growing pale
as the blood drained away.

“Fuck,” Graham said. “There’s a goddamn
monster out there.” He lurched across the room and smacked the light switch,
plunging the room into darkness.

Bruce waited for his eyes to adjust,
then he said, “Everyone, help me stack tables against the windows.” He turned
to Graham. “We need something heavy. Something to brace the tables with.”

Graham stroked his jaw. “The cellar’s
full of barrels. Will that do?”

Bruce nodded.

“I’ll need a hand,” Graham said.

Bruce ran forwards. “I’ll come with
you.”

Zander waved an arm. “Brad, Jim, help me
with these tables.” The grease covered man seated at the bar jumped to his feet
and ran across the room.

“Brad,” Zander said as the man reached
his side, “grab that end.”

The man with the beard stood up. “The
sooner we get back to fishing and make some money instead of messing about, the
better,” he mumbled.

Bruce motioned towards Jack. “You and
the others see if there’s anything we can use as weapons. We’ve got to hold out
until someone comes to help us.”

“Try in the kitchen back there,” Graham
said. “You’ll find some carving knives and the like.” He pointed towards a door
to the left of the bar.

As Erin walked by, Bruce took hold of
her gently by the arm. “Look after him for me. He’s all I’ve got left.”

She nodded. “He’s
not the only one you’ve got, though.” She smiled, then she followed Jack and
the other teenagers through the door.

Chapter 38

Bruce peered down the steps into the
cellar. Something niggled at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t recall what.

He watched Graham descend, his body
almost filling the narrow staircase. A single lamp glowed at the top of the
stairs, and further light filtered up from below, throwing a corona around the
proprietor. Bruce inhaled. The air smelled of a combination of mould and stale
beer.

“You’ve barricaded my bar, lost me
customers, the least you can do is help,” Graham called up the stairs when he
realised Bruce hadn’t accompanied him.

“Don’t blow a gasket, I’m coming,” Bruce
said.

Cracks ran through the walls of the
white painted stairway, gashes large enough for Bruce to insert his hand
inside.

The concrete steps seemed well
maintained, and he jogged down to find himself in a large room full of alcoves
stacked with crates, barrels and boxes. Pipes connected to the beer pumps
upstairs snaked through the ceiling. The smell of stale beer seemed a lot
stronger in the basement. He judged the room to be as wide as the bar upstairs,
at least twenty feet, but it seemed a lot longer, although he couldn’t tell how
long because the further reaches of the room basked in darkness.

The cold permeated Bruce’s bones. He
shivered.

“Didn’t you think to put bulbs all the
way through?” he asked.

Graham glanced at him. “No point.
Everything we need is here at this end. Back there only gets used on the days
when I have the barrels delivered, and then it’s daylight. Do you know how much
it costs to run a bar? Every little bit helps.”

That’s when Bruce remembered seeing the
barrels delivered a few days ago; remembered the hole in the pavement, an
access to the bar.

He peered into the dark reaches, trying
to decipher the strange shadows that lurked just out of the light.

“Graham,” he whispered.

Having squatted down to lift a barrel,
the landlord looked up. “What?”

Bruce wished he wouldn’t speak so loud.
“How many other entrances are there to the bar?”

“There’s the front door, the back door,
a side door in the kitchen and the trapdoor over there in the corner.”

Bruce could see the cogs turning in
Graham’s mind, his eye narrowed, mouth pursed as another revelation threatened
to blow his mind.

“You think maybe—”

Something clattered in the shadows,
cutting Graham off mid
-
sentence. He stood up
with a start. “Shit,” he said, “You don’t think …”

Bruce didn’t know what to think. His chest
constricted, felt as though someone had dropped a lump of lead between his
ribs. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach, his intestines tied in a tight
loop. Goose bumps raced down his arms and his fingers tingled.

He took a step back, eyes trained on the
darkness.

Another clatter. This time closer. His
cheeks prickled in response. He caught sight of movement. A cry caught in his
throat. Something ran out of the shadows. Ran towards him. Something black,
travelling close to the ground.

“Oscar,” Graham said. The black cat ran
to Graham’s side and rubbed itself against his leg. Graham crouched down and
stroked the cat behind the ear. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.” He looked
up at Bruce. “Best damn mouser I ever had. Found him as a stray.”

Bruce exhaled slowly. His pulse still
raced.

A sudden scream echoed down the stairs.
Bruce jumped. The cat arched its back, hackles raised. It hissed loudly, sharp
teeth bared, reminding Bruce of a miniature Fangtooth. He turned towards the
door, couldn’t work out whether the scream was male or female.

Temples throbbing, he ran through the
door and bounded up the steps, taking them two at a time in his haste.

The bar’s kitchen wasn’t large, but it
looked clean and tidy. Erin gazed around the room, looking for anything to use
as a weapon, something long and very sharp if they wanted to stand any chance
of defending themselves.

A range ran along the back wall, above
which a stainless steel extractor threw a warped reflection of the room. A
worktable ran down the middle of the kitchen, laden with pots, pans, spices and
utensils, none of which were suitable as a weapon. A rack to the left of the
range held a row of knurled metal handled knives. She walked across and
withdrew them, putting aside the paring knife, vegetable knife and bread knife
to take a meat cleaver, a 20cm long bladed cook’s knife, a carving fork, a
filleting knife and a large knife with a fluted blade.

“Jack, take this,” she said, handing him
the meat cleaver. “Rocky, you have this.” She handed him the filleting knife,
then passed Sara the carving fork and Jen the 20cm long bladed cook’s knife.
She kept the blade with the fluted edge for herself. “Right, let’s see what
else we can find.”

Duncan stood in the doorway. He still
had the hook with the wooden handle; he stared at Erin, his face pinched, lips
sucked in to create a thin gash where his mouth should be.

“You know this is pointless,” he said.

“If you’ve got nothing constructive to
say, button it,” she replied, jabbing the air with the knife to punctuate her
words.

“Yeah,” Rocky barked. “Or I’ll button it
for ya.” He clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowed into slits.

Erin heard something moving outside,
something that clicked across the ground at a fast pace. Next minute, the side
door burst open and a Fangtooth scurried inside. It twisted its head left and
right as though selecting its prey. Then it opened its mouth.

Sara screamed, almost deafening Erin at
her side.

Erin held the knife out, the fluted
blade wavering within her grasp. She thought of Kevin, remembered his body
bitten in half. The memory made her nauseous. It also made her angry.

Another Fangtooth appeared in the
doorway. She saw that to enable them to move quickly, the creatures ran on all
fours, but when they moved in to attack, they raised themselves on two legs,
which is what the lead Fangtooth did now.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed
Jack usher the other teenagers towards the corner of the room where they had
more protection. Erin meanwhile stood before the range, while the Fangtooth
approached along either side of the worktable. She saw Duncan standing behind
the door, a look of awe on his face.

Her mouth felt dry, tongue glued to her
palate. Compared to the many teeth and claws at the Fangtooth’s disposal, her
knife seemed ineffectual. She needed something better, and although she
wouldn’t know how to use them, she wished for a shotgun, a machine gun
,
or a bazooka. Soldiers charging headlong through the
door would also be a heartening sight. But she didn’t have any of those, only a
knife and her wits.

Her gaze fell upon a can of spray polish
on the worktable. She grabbed it, placed the knife on the edge of the table,
then realised she didn’t have a light.

“Here.”

Erin looked across at the sound of
Jack’s voice. As if he had read her mind, he threw her his lighter, which she
caught in midair. Using her thumb, she flipped the lid off the can, sparked the
lighter and pressed down on the plunger. The spray ignited with a satisfying
whump. A wave of heat wafted over her and she aimed the yellow flame at the
nearest Fangtooth. As she’d hoped, the universal fear of fire stilled the
beast’s approach. It reared back, raking the air with its claws, teeth bared. A
grumbling sound emanated from its throat, which sounded like anger and hunger combined.
She tried not to think what might happen if the flame entered the pressurized
can in her hand.

She let go of the plunger and the flame
went out. She moved aside, placing herself between the teenagers and the
creatures. She didn’t know how much gas remained in the can, but she hoped and
prayed there was enough to allow them to escape.

“Follow me–slowly,” she said.

Although she felt like running, she knew
she couldn’t. She let loose another blast of flame, warding the creatures away.
She only hoped more monsters didn’t rush into the room.

The flame flickered and stuttered.
Erin’s heart rose into her throat. She took her finger off the plunger and
shook the can. It sounded nearly empty.

Zander appeared in the doorway leading
to the bar. He surveyed the scene, jaw clenched. He had a large tumbler of
whisky in his hand, which he threw over the nearest Fangtooth.

The Fangtooth turned and bared its teeth
at him. “Torch that fucker,” Zander said.

Erin moved towards the creature, pressed
the plunger and struck the lighter. A jet of flame shot out, igniting the
whisky. A throaty roar echoed from the Fangtooth’s throat. Cloaked in a blanket
of flame, it raked its claws in the air and crashed against the worktable,
sending pots and pans flying. The second Fangtooth dropped to all fours and
backed away. The pungent aroma of roasting fish filled the air. Burning scales
flaked off the Fangtooth’s body and fell to the ground.

“Quick,” Erin said, “around the other
side and through the door.”

Jack and the others moved where she
indicated. She noticed Bruce appear in the doorway, his hand out to help pull
them through.

“Come on,” he shouted.

Jack shook his head and ushered the
others back. “We can’t get past.” He pointed at the Fangtooth barring the way.

The flames from the burning Fangtooth
licked the ceiling, setting off the ear-piercing wail of the fire alarm. Erin
could hardly hear herself think. She winced.

Seeing the predicament the teenagers
were in, she slid around the table, wary of the burning Fangtooth. The second
Fangtooth regarded her from its lower position. Its jaw hung open, the spines
on its back bristling in anticipation. Erin raised the can, struck the lighter
and pressed the plunger, only to find the can empty.

“Shit,” she said. She threw the can at
the creature and stepped back. Her fingers brushed the tabletop, felt the cold
handle of the fluted knife. She grabbed hold of it with both hands and, without
thinking, she leaped at the Fangtooth and plunged the blade through its eye.

The blade met resistance as it sank
through the eye socket. A clear liquid spurted out, struck her cheek, making
her cringe. The creature bucked like a bronco, slashing with its claws. Erin
kept it at arm’s length, the vicious spines along its back dangerously close to
her eyes. She pushed with all her strength, her triceps aching with the strain.
Blood seeped around her fingers, weakening her grip on the handle. She bit her
lip, held on for dear life. The Fangtooth felt cold and dry; its sharp, rough
scales sliced through her wrists with the same pain as a paper cut. Erin
winced, tears blurred her vision.

The blade met further resistance. She
pushed. Hard. Seconds later the tip of the blade punctured the Fangtooth’s
palate, resembling another wicked tooth as it protruded through its mouth. She
twisted the blade, gouging a hole, causing maximum damage. She felt the fluted
edge grind against the creature’s eye socket, splintering tough bone. Next
minute the Fangtooth shuddered and collapsed to the ground. Its jaw struck the
tiles, forcing the knife back out.

Erin jumped to her feet. She turned
towards the side door to confront Duncan, only he was no longer there.

Enraged, she ran across, slammed the
door shut and leaned against it, breathing heavy. If he wanted to be fish food,
so be it.