Extinction Event

by Dan Abnett

  The Entelodon was a massive, foraging waste disposal system from the mud pools of the Asian Cenozoic, 35 million years ago. Everything about it was made to endure. Its bones and body mass were huge and heavy, built to soak up trauma and physical punishment. Indeed, its great gargoyle face was ridged and split with old, half-healed scars where it had engaged with others of its kind in brawls over food or mating rights, evidence Cutter had seen in the fossil records many times. Its thick, enameled teeth were worn and broken in places from grinding down bone and bark, and its deep neck muscles gave it a hell of a bite. No part of a kill would be wasted. Everything would get pulped and passed down into an iron-clad stomach that could digest anything.

  The Entelodon was created to survive by any basic means.

  Part of its arsenal for survival was its astonishing aggression. It came from a world where it had very little to fear apart from a bigger, meaner Entelodon. That upbringing meant that it wasn’t going to back down.

  Cutter had the rifle aimed right at it. He wanted to hit it in the flank or the hunched back, where there was some meat and the dose would have maximum effect. The thing’s head, which formed most of the target, was thickly boned, and there was a danger of the dart simply bouncing off.

  He heard Hemple saying his name. He heard Murdoch and Garney swearing as they started backwards. He smelled the landfill stench of the Entelodon’s breath.

  He twisted and shot a dart into the black bristled flesh at the top of its neck.

  Still it came on.

  He pumped the rifle furiously, and put a second dart in its left shoulder.

  His plan had been for the creature to fall at his feet in a drug-induced coma before it could plough him down like a runaway freight car. Suddenly he realised that no one had explained this to the Entelodon.

  Its jaws opened wide to display brown teeth sticking out like a hippo’s tusks. Its long, repellant tongue was the colour of blancmange, and it quivered as a pressurised snort burst from its gullet.

  It wasn’t even slowing down.

  Hemple barged Cutter sideways, tackling him like a rugby player. Locked together, they slammed over the bonnet of a late model Lexus that stood beside them, and rolled off the other side, barely vacating their location as the Entelodon hit.

  The demon pig crunched into the side of the Lexus and did about six grand’s worth of damage to the door panels. The side windows burst in sprays of glass chips, and the car shifted several feet to one side.

  Hemple and Cutter had landed on the road. The right-hand side of the car bumped into them as it was shunted around.

  The Entelodon struck again, head down, butting into the obstacle, refusing to give in. Tyres dry-squealed as the Lexus was rammed side-ways. Hemple began to rise.

  “Drop!” Cutter yelled at him.

  They both rolled flat. A third shunt slid the battered Lexus over their heads and shoulders. They found themselves looking up into the oil-sweet blackness of the car’s underside.

  The demon pig knocked the car again, and then Murdoch and Garney began yelling at it to draw it away from Cutter and their chief. It swung aside and began to stomp in their direction, indifferently spattering dung in its wake.

  Cutter and Hemple clambered out from under the wrecked car. The pig had its back to them. Cutter loaded another dart.

  “Let me take the shot,” Hemple said, brandishing his MP53.

  Cutter shook his head.

  “Fat lot of good that’s done so far,” Hemple responded, and he nodded at the pump rifle.

  “That thing’s got a hell of a constitution,” Cutter said. “It’s used to shrugging off just about anything that goes into its system. It’s metabolising the drug faster than most creatures its size. We just need a wee bit more.”

  The pig had gone for Murdoch. He ran clear as it crashed into the works van he’d been using as cover. Its canines ripped the skin of the van’s cargo space like tinfoil.

  Cutter fired the rifle, and put the third dart into the pig’s rump. It rotated, stamping, as if it was executing a clumsy three-point turn, and gazed balefully at Cutter and Hemple. It barked and snorted, and began to canter towards them again, head-butting a Mini out of its way.

  “Oh good,” Hemple said, “I see you’ve got its attention again.”

  Connor didn’t need to be told to run. The glimpse he’d got of what was coming out of the cinema’s darkness was pretty persuasive. They all bolted for the lobby.

  Abby fired her dart rifle in the confusion, but there was no way of telling if she’d hit anything. In fact, Connor wasn’t sure of anything any more, including where she was.

  He made it into the foyer, and glanced over his shoulder. No Abby, no Mason, no Redfern, but there was a hell of a lot of snorting and bellowing coming his way.

  The swing-doors exploded open with such force that one of the arrestor springs broke. Something that looked to Connor like a cross between a water buffalo, a mastiff, and an alligator thundered into the lobby area, spit drooling from its preposterously unpleasant mouth. The thing had the build of a hyena, with hunched shoulders, long forelimbs and shorter hindquarters, but it seemed to have hooves, and it squealed like a stag boar with anger management issues.

  Connor said something colourful and sprinted towards the nearest door. The street exit was out of the question. He knew he’d never make it. The pig from hell was as big as a truck, but it could move like nobody’s business. Connor headed for a closer option.

  He made it into the gents’ in a time that wouldn’t have discredited Usain Bolt. The pig was right behind him. Connor slammed the toilet door in its face, but it splintered clean through it with an almighty crash, and pursued him inside.

  The pig’s hooves slithered on the tiled floor, fighting for purchase, and it skidded sideways into the toilet stalls, comprehensively demolishing the first three in a row. Doors and partitions shredded under its bulk as it thrashed. Water gushed from ruptured cisterns and broken toilet bowls. Connor raced across the room and started pulling himself through a small, frosted glass window — the only other exit.

  The pig lunged at him.

  Connor pushed off from some pipework with his feet and posted himself through the window. The massive jaws snapped shut on nothing, just inches from his ankles.

  Outside, in the alley behind the cinema, Connor fell head-first and landed on his back under the men’s room window on a deep pile of refuse sacks. He looked up in time to shield his face with his arms as the pig’s head smashed through the toilet window, spraying broken glass and splinters of frame into the alley.

  His mobile started to ring. Under the circumstances, he decided to let voicemail take the call.

  He rolled off the sacks onto his feet, and got his breath back, realising that he was safe enough. The pig’s head was fearsome, and it was making a lot of noise, but there was no way it was going to get the rest of its body through the window. The angle made it impossible for the creature to attain any momentum.

  Abruptly, it withdrew.

  Connor hesitated, and then got back up on the rubbish bags to peer in. The toilet was a mess, but there was no sign of his pursuer. He hoisted himself back in through the window, being careful to avoid the rim of broken glass, and dropped down onto the rapidly flooding tiles.

  “Abby?” he called softly. “Fellas?”

  He splished gingerly across the tiles to the caved-in door and glanced out into the lobby.

  “Abby?”

  “Shhh!” Abby replied, rising slowly into view from behind the ticket desk. Mason and Redfern were near the street door, moving slowly and warily.

  “It’s gone out into the street,” Abby mouthed.

  Connor nodded. He could see it now, through what was left of the tinted, back-printed plate glass of the cinema’s entrance, a huge black shape snuffling on the pavement outside. Abby edged forwards, fitting a fresh dart into her rifle.

  Connor’s mobile rang again.

  Cutter gazed down at the mighty En
telodon. It lay on its side beside the wreck of the Lexus, its ribs juddering up and down, and what approximated a snore ripping in and out of its throat.

  “I told you, we just had to give it time,” Cutter said to Hemple. “I knew the tranks would knock it down eventually.”

  Hemple shrugged, but didn’t seem convinced. His look said, God made MP53s for a reason, and surely this is one of them.

  “We’re going to need chains and tackle, and something like a forklift,” Cutter said. He had his phone to his ear. “I want to get it back through the anomaly before it wakes up.”

  Hemple nodded and called out instructions to Garney and Murdoch. They moved to comply.

  “I’m hoping Connor’s found the anomaly,” Cutter remarked, still listening to his phone. “He’s not picking up.” He dialed again.

  Connor answered almost immediately.

  “Little busy!” he yelped.

  “What?” Cutter asked. “Have you found the anomaly yet?”

  The noises on the other end of the line became garbled. Cutter heard shouting, crashing and what sounded like a gun discharging.

  “Connor? Connor, what’s going on?”

  Connor came back on.

  “We’ve found it, Professor!” he yelled.

  “The anomaly?”

  “No! Well, yes, that too! But we’ve found the creature! It’s here!”

  “No, it’s here,” Cutter replied. “We just brought it down.”

  “No, it’s here!” Connor gabbled. “It’s right here! Outside the cinema.”

  Cutter looked at Hemple.

  “There are two of them,” he said.

  FOUR

  Jenny picked her way along Oxford Street, edging between the abandoned cars. It was alarmingly quiet, and she was beginning to regret leaving the comparative safety of Lester’s SUV.

  She had tried Cutter’s phone several more times. She hoped the reason he wasn’t answering was bad reception, although it was Central London and the chances of there being any gaps in signal coverage were zero.

  She didn’t really want to consider the alternatives, though.

  Perhaps the anomaly is interfering with mobile reception, she told herself. However random this theory, it was reassuring. She kept reiterating it to herself.

  The emptiness of Oxford Street was eerie. It reminded her of a film she’d gone to see, a horror film where everyone turned into zombies and the streets of London were deserted. The scenes had been haunting.

  This was somehow worse, not just because it was real, but because it was so normally abnormal. The scene hadn’t been artfully decorated by some acclaimed set dresser, nor had the emptiness and abandonment been contrived by Hollywood designers. It was simply empty, clumsily empty, unromantically empty. It was desolate and frightening in a terrible, prosaic way.

  She found Cutter’s pick-up and the alpha team Land Rovers. The sensation of relief surprised her. She never thought she’d be so grateful to see a motor vehicle.

  Then she realised there was no sign of Cutter or the team.

  She hesitated. There was something, though. She’d heard something that wasn’t the breeze stirring the litter, or the beep of the pedestrian crossings running through their automatic cycles. Something was moving.

  Jenny thought she heard what sounded like a sniff or a snort, the sort of nasty grunt a pig would make. Involuntarily she shuddered. She’d had a great uncle who’d owned a farm and raised Wessex Saddlebacks. They had been completely horrid, vicious brutes, and when she’d been a little girl they’d absolutely terrified her.

  She looked around now. The light breeze was wafting a smell to her — a really foul smell, like bad drains. She hooked her lip in distaste.

  She thought she heard the snort again.

  Her phone purred softly in her hand. She answered it before the vibration could become a ring tone.

  “Jenny?” It was Cutter.

  “Cutter? Where are you?” she began, more stridently than she meant to.

  “Lower your voice,” he said gently. “Please. Where are you?”

  “Where are you, more like? I’ve been calling and calling and —”

  “Jenny, where are you?”

  His tone was disarmingly quiet.

  “I’m on Oxford Street,” she said, her voice lowered as instructed.

  “Where on Oxford Street?”

  “I just passed your truck.”

  “Can you go back towards it?”

  “I suppose. What’s going on?”

  “Jenny, just head back towards my truck, please,” Cutter said. “Do it quietly. Don’t run.”

  Jenny turned. Her heart was pounding.

  She began to walk back towards the silver pick-up, glancing from side to side as she went. Her eyes were wide. Her imagination was suddenly seeing all sorts of things in the lengthening shadows of the afternoon.

  “What’s going on?” she whispered as she walked. “Cutter, what’s going on? What is it?”

  “I think it’s an Entelodon,” Cutter said. His voice was so soft and calm, it sounded like he was making idle, after-dinner conversation.

  “And what’s that?”

  “It’s bad news. You at the truck yet?”

  “Nearly,” she replied. She paused. “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  Jenny looked around, the mobile pressed to her ear.

  “A snort,” she said. “A grunt. A grunt like the biggest, meanest pig you ever met. What does an... an...”

  “Entelodon?”

  “Yes. What does one of those sound like?”

  “Like the biggest, meanest pig you ever met,” Cutter said.

  “I had to ask.”

  “You at the truck now?”

  “Yes,” she replied.

  “Get in. Quick as you can. Do it nice and quiet. Don’t slam the door.”

  Keeping the phone to her ear, Jenny opened the driver’s door of the pickup. She slid inside and pulled the door shut. As an afterthought, she pushed the button down on the central locking and it engaged with a loud clunk.

  “What was that?” Cutter asked.

  “I just locked the doors,” she told him.

  “Okay,” he replied.

  “What?”

  “Well, nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

  “What?”

  “An Entelodon won’t open a car door using the handle. What I mean is, locking the door’s pretty academic.”

  “Because if it wants to get in, it will?” Jenny asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Once again, I had to ask,” she said. She sat bolt upright in the driver’s seat and stared out of the window. “Where are you, Nick?”

  “I’m coming,” he said. “I’m close. Just stay put. We’ll be right there.”

  “Okay.” The word dried in her throat. Out of the corner of her eye, she’d glimpsed movement in the rear view mirror. She looked up. There was nothing visible there. She checked the wing mirrors, but the angle was bad. She didn’t dare turn her head.

  Something came up alongside the pick-up, moving from behind. It drew level with the driver’s door. Jenny froze.

  “Jenny?” Cutter’s voice said from the phone.

  She let out a tiny, paralysed meep.

  “Jenny? Are you still there?”

  Its head, a metre long, was level with the window. It was right beside her. She sat, frozen and stiff-backed, facing straight ahead, not daring to move a muscle; her eyes swiveled hard to the right. Even with the door firmly closed, she could smell the reek of it, like the aroma of her great uncle’s farm, magnified a thousand times by nightmare.

  The skin of its face was scarred and mottled. Bristles, thick and black like beetle legs, sprouted in clumps around the ragged, tufted ears. The flesh around the eyes and brow was a florid pink that darkened to a puce colour around the ears and the heavy jowls. The teeth were as large and as yellow-black as overripe bananas. Some of the wounds on its cheeks and lips were fresh enough to
still be scabbed or weeping.

  Its eye, the one eye she could see, was a malevolent, glassy black ball half-hidden by folds of pink skin.

  It snorted. Aspirated saliva and condensation filmed the outside of the driver’s window.

  “Jenny? Are you there?”

  “I’m not exactly on my own,” she said into the phone in a tiny, fragile voice.

  “Is it there? Jenny, is it there?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Hold on. Just be still. Sit still.”

  The Entelodon swung its head and nosed the wheel arch of the pickup. Jenny whimpered slightly as the vehicle rocked. It began to sniff at the door and the window. Its rank breath came in quick, panting snorts. Gobbets of cloudy saliva spattered the window with each huff and began to ooze down the glass. There was a thin, high-pitched squeal as the edge of one of its canines dragged slowly across the window.

  It rumbled, deep in its belly, and then shook its head.

  Jenny swallowed hard.

  The Entelodon curled back its lips and closed its jaws around the driver’s door mirror. The jaws squeezed shut.

  The pick-up juddered a little as the Entelodon chewed the mirror off. Jenny heard it crack and splinter. Chunks of toughened glass fell out of the giant pig’s mouth. As its head pulled away, just out of sight, it plucked a length of electrical cable out of the mangled mirror stump. The cable trailed from its teeth.

  “Please hurry,” she whispered. Turning ever so slightly, she risked a look out of the window.

  The Entelodon was looking right back in at her. Its eyes looked like tiny dots of polished anthracite coal, as if they were the product of millions of years of geological transmutation. Jenny tried to stifle a yelp, but it came out anyway.

  The Entelodon snorted. More saliva aspirated up the window. The nostrils flared. It thrust its snout against the door, and then banged again, harder.

  The pick-up jolted.

  The Entelodon head-butted.

  Jenny heard the door panel dent. The next blow cracked the window. She cried out in terror and began to scramble across to the passenger side.

  “Stay still! Stay still!” Cutter called.

  “I’m not just going to sit here!” she yelled back.