The Dark Master of Dogs

by Chris Ward

  He was able to pick his pace up again out of town when the main road intersected with winding farm lanes. While many were overgrown, the tarmac had not yet been cleared, so Patrick threaded back and forth until he found himself outside Cheddar. The lake was on the other side, but he still had nothing to show for his disappearance.

  Night was finally on its way, the long late summer day giving way to a grey twilight. Patrick pedaled hard through the streets, his desperation growing. Afraid of the DCA, he skirted around the small town centre, keeping to residential streets.

  The houses were giving way to fields when he spotted an old man helping an old woman up a path to a door.

  No.

  Patrick felt a flush of shame as the idea came to him.

  If anyone was likely to have medication, it would be two people of elderly age.

  And it wouldn’t be hard to rob them.

  He hid the bike behind a hedge and skirted around behind their house. Unlike other houses in the area, the gardens here were flat, bordered only by a low fence Patrick could easily step over. Even though he felt no fear from a couple who needed assistance walking, he looked around for some kind of weapon, choosing a wooden garden stake left poking out of a small vegetable garden.

  The backdoor was unlocked. Patrick crept inside, wondering where the old couple had gone. Through a door out of a utility room, he heard voices, quiet conversation, the clink of a cup on a countertop, a little laughter, and he felt again the wave of shame that had previously come over him.

  ‘For Suzanne,’ he whispered. ‘For Kelly. For us. For everything.’

  With a dramatic howl, he kicked open the kitchen door and burst through. The woman, easily in her seventies, cried out in alarm, falling back toward her husband, who was sitting in a chair by a round dining table. A cup shattered on the floor, spraying Patrick’s ankles with hot tea.

  ‘What do you want?’ the woman gasped. ‘Take anything. Please … please don’t hurt us.’

  ‘Just … just shut up and do as I say,’ Patrick said, struggling to force authority into his quivering voice. ‘I won’t hurt you if I get what I want.’

  ‘Please, we didn’t do anything,’ the old woman said.

  ‘My friend’s hurt,’ Patrick said. ‘I need medicine. Antibiotics.’

  ‘In the drawer,’ the old woman said, but as Patrick looked where her shaking finger pointed, he caught the old man’s eyes.

  No sign of fear, only of sadness, disappointment.

  Patrick lifted the stake. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’

  The old man shook his head. ‘Is this what’s become of everything? God, you disgust me, you horrible little boy.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  Patrick swung the stake before he could stop himself. There was no power to the blow, but it struck the old man on the head, just above his left ear. The old man gasped, clutching for his head as the woman howled. Patrick saw blood on the stake and dropped it, stepping back.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Get out of here,’ the old man muttered. ‘You’re a disgrace, boy. An utter disgrace. What would your parents think of you?’

  Patrick backed away. He glanced at the drawer, but he had no idea which one of several the woman had meant, and his nerve was draining out of him like water through a sieve. He looked at them, the old man groaning with blood running through his fingers, the old woman sobbing as she hugged him.

  The old man was right.

  He was a disgrace.

  His cheeks burned as he ran for the door, and by the time he hurdled over the back fence, he was crying harder than even the old woman had been.

  It was night before he made it up to the reservoir, but the moment he set his eyes on the cabin, he knew Suzanne and Kelly were gone.

  The place had been ransacked, the doors and windows smashed in, the furniture overturned, the cupboards open, emptied out. In one corner, it looked like someone had attempted to set a fire before changing their mind and stamping it out.

  Feeling like the most hopeless person in the world, Patrick went outside and sat on the step, head in his hands.

  28

  Urla

  The two photographs were contrasting images of the same man. On one side, Tommy Crown, respectable civil lawyer, a pen picture taken from his website homepage. On the other, a grainy, badly lit picture of Tommy Crown, smuggler, gambler, thug … and some said people’s champion.

  Urla looked up. ‘And you say he’s connected to the new owner at Carmichael Industries?’

  Dave Green nodded. ‘According to my source, Tommy Green is the man behind the disappearance of several DCA agents.’

  Urla nodded, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. Nine men had disappeared in the last few days, some pulled out of their beds, others jumped during routine patrols. The frustration she had felt at the inability of her men to deal with whoever was behind this was something she had taken out on the chiefs at the local training academy, but having seen the remains of the creature which attacked the checkpoint, she had reluctantly admitted to herself that they were dealing with something hitherto unknown.

  ‘You know Tommy Crown,’ Urla said. ‘What kind of man is he? Can he be turned to work for us?’

  Dave Green shook his head. ‘He’s a hard bastard, and he’s not a man you cross. He looks out for himself first, which is why I guess he’s working with this Doctor Crow person. There must be something in it for him.’

  Urla nodded. ‘You’ve done well.’ She reached into a desk drawer and pulled out an envelope, sliding it across the desk. ‘Your fee.’

  Dave Green lifted an eyebrow. ‘All of it?’

  Urla held his gaze. ‘You can come over here and take the rest.’

  As Dave Green got up, came around the desk and began to put his rough hands on her, Urla’s thoughts drifted far away, wondering how she could transform her poorly trained, inept policing force into something capable of bringing down a growing army of half-human monsters … before Maxim Cale showed up.

  It wasn’t going to be easy.

  Later, after Dave Green had gone, leaving behind him a warm glow that would keep her satisfied until she met with Justin again, she returned to her desk and began to make phone calls.

  First, she needed to hunt down Tommy Crown. Once she had him captive, she would formulate a plan to defeat the mysterious Doctor Crow and the army of monstrosities he was building while decimating her own.

  Night had fallen and it was getting late, so she headed out. Justin and her other office staff had long since gone home, Justin having slipped a note into her locker asking her to consider a late-night hookup. Urla smiled, but tonight she had work to do.

  Her car was waiting in the parking area. Even though security cameras covered every inch of the parking area, Urla never let her hand go far from her gun. The lights were forever breaking down, leaving wide patches of tarmac in darkness.

  And in one such patch lay a black shape she almost tripped over.

  Her heart told her who it was before she switched on a small pocket torch attached to her key ring.

  ‘Jesus fucking Christ….’

  Urla took a step back, drawing her gun with her free hand. At first it appeared that Dave Green was grinning, but only because his dead eyes had been prised open, and gore from his savaged neck had been wiped around his face in an upward semi-circle.

  Urla, bile rising in her throat, batted a fly away from her face and glanced around her, gun trained on the surrounding streets, fearing the killer might still be nearby.

  Nothing. The parking area was silent.

  She looked back at Dave Green, running the torchlight over his body. As well as his neck, his trousers had been torn open, and his genitals ripped off. Sharp claws had left fleshy gashes on his navel.

  Urla felt a shiver run down her back, and was certain she could hear the faintest peal of laughter. She spun around again, pointing her gun into every dark shadow, but she knew in her heart what Dave Green’s murder meant.
>
  Someone was mocking her, and they were telling her something.

  That she wasn’t safe.

  That she was marked.

  Losing her nerve, Urla ran for her car.

  29

  Kurou

  Watching through Divan’s eyes, Kurou chortled with excitement as his newly repaired Huntsman cut down Urla Wynne’s associate and arranged an impressive tableaux for the DCA’s chief to find.

  Divan had done a fine job. Green, fresh from shopping their mutual associate for a bag of cash and a decent lay, hadn’t even seen the Huntsman coming. In hindsight, Kurou wished he’d instructed Divan to take a little more time, but Dave Green had lost his throat before he even realised the Huntsman was there. It was an inglorious death for an inglorious man.

  Kurou couldn’t stop thinking about the woman, though. Urla Wynne had bigger balls than any of her employees, and he would love the chance to work his construction magic on a woman. He remembered a girl called Akane Yamaguchi, whom he had effectively brought back to life, much to the delight and eventual revulsion of her poor boyfriend, Jun. What wonderful days those had been, but they felt so long ago now.

  How he would love for them to come again, and how wonderful a test subject a strong woman like Urla Wynne would make.

  But no matter. He had nine good prototypes in various stages of development. His supply line might be compromised now, but in a few days Tommy would no longer be needed. Kurou licked his lips. His Huntsman could bring in fresh material far quicker, and Tommy himself would make a fine addition to Kurou’s new workforce.

  He lifted an eyebrow. A light was flashing on the screen, Divan having detected something during his return journey which he perceived as a threat. Kurou expanded the screen, changing the night vision to infrared and zooming in on the figure Divan had detected moving in his direction.

  A boy pushing a bicycle over the gravel in the direction of the industrial estate.

  He looked familiar.

  ‘Well, well, a crow flown come home,’ Kurou said, stroking a finger against the figure on the screen.

  ‘Kill?’ came Divan’s voice through a speaker, little more than a low growl.

  ‘Oh ho, no, we can’t have that,’ Kurou said. ‘What kind of master would I be if I let you kill your own brother? Watch him, see where he goes.’

  Patrick Devan, head down, continued pushing the bike up to the entrance to the industrial estate. Divan watched from the trees on the other side of the road, never letting Patrick get an idea of his presence. Kurou had seen plenty of his Huntsmen’s ability to kill, but it was nice to know they could employ stealth when necessary too.

  Patrick turned into the estate, and as soon as he found himself on tarmac, he climbed back on the bike and started pedaling toward Carmichael Industries.

  ‘Oh, looks like we have a visitor,’ Kurou said. ‘Keep out of sight, let him come to me.’

  Kurou rubbed his beaklike nose. Patrick Devan, saved from the gallows, his martyrdom incomplete. How he reminded Kurou so much of an old foe, Jun Matsumoto.

  ‘Laurette,’ he called. ‘Prepare tea and biscuits. It appears we have a guest this late night. Welcome him in, make him at home. I would so much like to hear what he has to say before … well, before we talk.’ He grinned to himself, then turned back to the screen.

  Patrick Devan had propped his bicycle against a wall and was approaching the main entrance to the office. Through Divan’s eyes, Kurou watched him thump on the door, and from out in the corridor he heard Patrick shout, ‘Open up! I want to talk to you!’

  Kurou switched off the screen and took up the cloak hanging over a chair back. After assembling the rest of his most delightful attire, he went to meet his new guest.

  30

  Patrick

  There was only so long he could sit on the step feeling sorry for himself before he had to do something. Unsure what else he could do, Patrick went back into the chalet and looked around, trying to establish what might have happened.

  It quickly became apparent that the cabin had not been ransacked in the interest of a search, but rather in anger. And among the calamity of broken foodstuffs, the medical pack was missing, as was Suzanne’s bag, and the clothes they had taken from her mother’s house. Much of the stored food was gone, but it was clear that whatever had befallen them, Suzanne had had some time to prepare.

  And she had at least left the house ahead of her pursuers.

  Patrick took a drink from the water tap in the sink. As he wiped his mouth, a shadow fell over him.

  He turned to find a hulking shape leaning in the doorway.

  ‘Do you know anything about that little whore that was shopped up in here?’

  Patrick’s sense of survival kicked in. He grabbed an overturned can off the surface in front of him and held it behind him.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he said, trying to sound convincing. ‘I just showed up, saw the door was open, you know …. This your place? I’m sorry, mate, I didn’t mean it, I thought no one was here.’

  The man’s stance softened, apparently convinced. ‘Couldn’t believe me luck when that little slut came knocking.’ He gave Patrick a lecherous grin. ‘I knocked her good in turn, then the whore goes and steals me jeep.’

  Patrick’s face burned at the man’s words, but he knew without question that the man was talking about Suzanne. Patrick had failed her, but Suzanne, ever heroic, had found her own way out.

  ‘That’s, uh, too bad.’

  ‘And I want to know what you’re going to do about it.’

  Patrick looked up. ‘Me? What?’

  The man came forward. ‘Don’t lie to me, you little fuck. I know you know exactly who I’m talking about.’ He lifted a hand. ‘About this high, nice tight tits, lips that suck and suck and suck—’

  ‘Fuck you!’

  Patrick launched himself forward, swinging the can into the man’s face. The man had clearly been trying to entice Patrick into a fight, but hadn’t banked on the ferocity as Patrick caught him flush under the eye. The man groaned, but swung a fist, catching Patrick in the stomach. They rolled together, and for a few seconds the man got the upper hand, holding Patrick with one hand while pummeling him in the face with the other fist, then Patrick, still holding the can, caught him on the side of the head, knocking him off.

  He shoved the man away and made a break for the door.

  His bike was hidden in the hedge back where the tarmac access road gave way to the forest trail.

  He ran.

  The man came behind, shouting, but he was limping from some other injury Patrick hoped Suzanne had inflicted. Patrick’s face ached from a second beating in the last three days, but his legs were still good.

  The bike lay where he had hidden it. Patrick pulled it out of the bushes, climbed on, and forced the pedals to move. The man’s shouts faded as he picked up speed along the narrow road.

  He had to find Suzanne. He repeated it like a mantra, over and over again.

  I have to find Suzanne. I have to find her.

  Whether those creatures like the one Race had become could track a moving vehicle, Patrick didn’t know, but he was desperate, and there was only one way to find out. He had pedaled all day, only taking a couple of hours’ rest through sheer necessity, when, exhausted, he had slipped off his bike, landed in the undergrowth by the roadside, and failed to find the strength to get back up.

  Now, with night having long since fallen, he was again at the end of his strength as he rested the bike against a wall outside the looming grey hulk of Carmichael Industries and headed for the door. Through frosted glass he could see a single light flickering somewhere inside, even though the outside of the place was dark, the car park deserted. Behind him, a graveyard of abandoned industrial holdings watched impassively.

  There was no point in being subtle. Patrick hammered on the door, shouting to be let in, even though when he tried the handle he found it unlocked. The door opened into a small reception area, with two d
oors leading out, one in the far wall, the other behind a deserted reception desk. It was through that way that he saw a light, so he went around the desk and tried the door.

  Open. He emerged into a warehouse space. One corridor stretched in front of him, doors leading off. Above him, he sensed a tall ceiling hidden in the dark. To his left, another corridor opened out into production lines and storage areas, visible only in the glow of a couple of red security lights.

  He walked forward, heading for the only yellow light he could see, coming from the window of an office a couple of doors down. Above the door a name plate: “Stanley Carmichael-Jones, C.E.O” hung comically from one nail. In its place, someone had scrawled “Doctor Crow, Esq.” in black marker pen.

  Patrick opened the door. A room adorned with framed pictures of birds seemed appropriate for the monstrosity sitting with its feet up on a desk. Certainly he was human, but his face was grossly disfigured, a huge nose giving him a birdlike appearance accentuated by tufts of feathers growing haphazardly across his face.

  One eye was covered by a patch, the other fitted with a monocle. He wore a black top hat and a shimmery crimson conjuror’s suit.

  ‘Welcome, young Patrick Devan,’ he said, his voice a watery hiss. ‘How delightful to make your acquaintance, dear sire. My name, as you probably know, is Doctor Crow.’

  He turned the word “Crow” into two syllables, adding a “U” after the first “C”.

  Kurou.

  Patrick felt a shiver down his back. At first he thought it was his mounting fear, but then he realised the door had opened, and someone had come into the room behind him.