Randall pushed himself back up onto his knees and then slowly onto his one good leg. He looked down at the animals and spat. The globule of spit was lost in the billowing smoke and he did not know if it hit a target. Randall laughed.
“You will not have me! A leader chooses his own death.” Randall placed a hand over his heart as if he were addressing the nation from some great palatial balcony. “And as any great leader would do, I choose to go down with my ship.”
Randall stretched his arms out wide on either side of him and looked up and the grey sky. At that exact moment the gentle drizzle burst into a full-grown downpour. Randall took it as a sign. “Deliver me, Lord, from my enemies. They shall not have me.” He looked down at the baying animals below. “You hear that, you fuckers? You shall not have me.”
Randall leapt, expecting to feel the wind through his hair as he plummeted towards salvation, towards the next life.
All he felt was the floor as his entire body splintered upon impact. Not a single bone in his body would move as he lay there – but he wasn’t dead. He knew that much. As he lay there, he saw an ant scuttle towards him and into his ear. The feeling was intense and vivid. Somehow the fall had not dulled his senses. As the animals surround his body and came closer, he knew that it was going to be the worst and final agony of his life as they began to eat him alive.
The pain was a hundred times worse than anything he imagined.
It went on forever.
––––––––––––––
SPECIAL BONUS CONTENT
Six short stories by Iain Rob Wright set in the Animal Kingdom universe:
CLOCKING OFF
HOWARD’S WOOD
THE HUNT
HOME
BEHOLD, THE BEASTS OF WAR
SANCTUARY
Plus an original short story by Eric S. Brown
NIGHT OF THE SQUIRRELS
CLOCKING OFF
“So when will you be able to go back to work?” Jeff’s wife asked, sitting herself down on the sofa opposite him. Jeff shrugged and took a bite of his sandwich—cheese and ham. “God knows. Things were pretty bad when I left. The whole plant was billowing smoke a mile into the air.”
His wife raised her eyebrows. “Do you need to get yourself checked out? What if you’ve breathed in something nasty?”
Jeff had been concerned with the very same thing earlier. Stote Investments, part of the US conglomerate, Black Remedy Foundation, held patents for thousands of different chemicals and compounds, most of which were manufactured right at the processing plant where Jeff worked. Today, when a flash fire took out half the building in a few short minutes, the first thought on his mind was whether or not he was being exposed to something that could kill him—some nasty disease that would start with a tickling cough, but end with his face melting off. Despite being shaken when he had returned home, so far Jeff physically felt fine (aside from his eyes being a little red and sore, irritated from the airborne soot of the fire).
Jeff shrugged. “The foreman told everyone to go home and call a Doctor if we develop any symptoms, but he told us all that the only chemical that was released into the air was a compound called SIRT1. It’s a substance found in red wine apparently—possibly a cure for diabetes, they say. Completely harmless from what the guys on the mixing-floor told me.”
His wife sighed. “Let’s hope so. I really wish you could work maintenance somewhere else—somewhere safer.”
Jeff leant forward in his armchair and patted his wife on the knee. “This whole thing is likely just a bunch of animal protesters kicking off at Black Remedy as usual. Far as I know, they don’t even use test subjects anymore, but that doesn’t stop the hippies targeting them. Whole thing gets on my tits, if I’m honest, I don’t mind telling you.”
Jeff’s wife squeezed his hand on her knee. “I know it does, honey. People should just concentrate on their own lives instead of causing trouble. How’s your boss handling things—Mr. Rankin?”
“Randle. It’s Mr. Randle. Lucky for him, he was off doing meetings all morning. I think he was at the zoo signing off on some investment deal. Fat git probably would’ve had a heart attack if he’d been there when the fire started—if his asthma didn’t kill him first, that is.”
Jeff’s wife stood up from the sofa, her middle-aged knees popping audibly. “Well, there’s nothing to be done about it now, sweetheart. I’ll go put the kettle on while you put your feet up. Lord knows you deserve it.”
“Okay, luv, thanks,” said Jeff. Resting back into the worn padding of his favourite chair felt good, relaxing. Maybe a couple days off wouldn’t be so bad. He could catch up on some reading—he’d been meaning to tackle Under the Dome for months now—or he could watch the Rugby; maybe do both. The plant would probably be operational again in a day or two, but until then there was no need for getting worked up.
King sauntered into the living room without sound, bushy black tail swishing circles in the air behind him. The cat was almost ten years old now and getting plump in its old age.
Jeff smiled and wriggled his fingers on the carpet to attract his pet. “Hey, boy, come to Daddy. You’re wondering why I’m home, ain’t ya?”
King meowed and padded eagerly across the carpet. The cat’s coat bushed up as Jeff ran his leathery hand over it, loose fur coming away in clumps as the animal raised its rear end into the air with ecstasy. The tomcat enjoyed his fuss as much as ever.
“That’s a good boy, King. Come on.” Jeff clicked his fingers above his lap, letting the cat know that it was alright to jump up. King happily obliged, leaping up onto his master’s thighs and writhing to and fro as the fussing continued. The cat’s purring started up slowly like a revving motor.
Jeff felt himself relax and closed his eyes for a moment, letting the morning’s stress melt away. The sight of his workplace going up in flames was almost like a dream now. Everything there was so high-tech that the notion of an industrial accident seemed impossible. Stote Investments was part of one of the biggest corporations in the world, but it seemed that even they were not adverse to cutting corners when it came to the construction of their facilities. They had paid the price for that today.
Jeff re-opened his eyes when he felt a presence near his face. His beloved cat, King, had stretched out his body, so that his front paws were on Jeff’s chest. The cat’s face was only inches from his own.
“What you doing, little man?” Jeff asked his pet.
King did not answer. Instead the cat bit into Jeff’s cheek, needle-like teeth piercing deep to the bone. Jeff screeched in unexpected agony and leapt from the armchair. King remained attached to his face like a furry leech.
Jeff’s wife rushed into the room and quickly added to her husband’s screams. Jeff fell to his knees as a white hot sickness seized his entire body in thickening waves of shock. The cat continued to rip and tear with its carnivorous jaws—jaws made for rending flesh. Blood flowed down into Jeff’s open mouth, choking him as he struggled to pull King from his face.
Jeff’s wife thrust the steaming hot cup of tea in her hand onto the cat, but it did nothing to deter the attack and only added to Jeff’s agony as the liquid scorched his skin. Eventually the pain become so intense that Jeff managed to find the force needed to rip the savage creature away from his face, shredding his own flesh to weeping tatters in the process.
Lying on his back in a heaving, semi-conscious mess, Jeff could just about make out, through his dimming vision, his wife smashing his beloved cat, King, into a bloody pulp with a steam iron. As he finally lost consciousness, he managed to think one last thing to himself:
Don’t panic, woman.
HOWARD’S WOOD
Thirty-six acres of woodland around a house most people could only dream of. Howard still found it hard to believe he was so lucky. One book—that’s all it had taken. One crime novel, written in his spare time, and Howard had found himself a millionaire. It was a big change from selling carpets for a l
iving and, if he was honest, he was still unsure how to deal with the luxuries that had befallen him since a publisher had found gold in his words.
The indoor swimming pool, the sauna, the billiard room, the outdoor hot tub—they were all wonderful possessions, but somehow they just magnified the lack of the one thing Howard wanted: companionship.
Howard had been single for over two years now, not because he was unattractive, but more so because he had developed a shyness and need for privacy that was not conducive to finding a mate. People had let him down often enough that he had stopped participating in the social contract of collecting friends while constantly trying to pick up women. He found the whole thing very tiresome and, at times, hurtful. Maybe that’s what his reclusiveness was really all about: hurt.
Howard entered the woods of his land and stepped around the giant oak tree that marked its beginning. Fallen branches snapped underfoot as he walked, making sounds that seemed to echo off the surrounding trees. The smell in the air was crisp and piny, almost intoxicating. This was the best part of his wealth—owning his very own slice of nature. A piece of land that was only his and the animals that lived on it. No one else’s. Howard had taken to spending every morning walking through the woods, seeking out the many birds, deer, and rabbits that adorned the landscape. Then, in the afternoon, he would work on his new novel: The Manson Files.
Howard had written his debut novel, Manson P.I., after his girlfriend, Grace, had left him. It was the only way he found that he could occupy his grieving mind. He had loved her dearly since the day they had met in high school. In fact, in Howard’s entire life, he had never loved anything else. She had been the greatest comfort in his life; beautiful, sweet, and endlessly caring. Grace had been his best friend, his partner, his family, his everything. Then she left.
To this day, Howard never knew fully why the love of his life had left him so suddenly. It certainly wasn’t due to mistreatment. He had never hit her or cheated her in the eight years he’d known her, or the three years they had been a couple. Howard had treated Grace as well as any man could. Yet she had left without explanation. The only clue to gain anything by was that she had visited a doctor in the same week.
Howard knew that Grace had a history of mental illness on her mother’s side and her greatest fear was ‘going crazy’, but he had never seen any sign of that. In the weeks and days leading up to the breakup, Grace started to behave skittishly: locking herself away in the bathroom for hours on end, wearing strange clothes that seemed to cover every inch of her flesh, and even refusing to eat. Then she had gone to see a doctor. She left Howard two days later. He could only assume the two things were connected.
A pair of rabbits ran across the clearing, several yards ahead. They dove into some nearby bushes when they noticed Howard’s presence. He watched the rabbits and allowed his mind to come back from maudlin thoughts of lost love. There was too much to enjoy here in his woods to let himself to ruminate on things past. Nature was free from caring, and when Howard was around it, he was carefree too.
Another pair of rabbits appeared in front of him, only this time they did not bolt at his presence. Instead they sat and stared at Howard, examining him intently. Peculiar.
“Hey, bunnies. What you up to?”
The rabbits continued staring.
Howard wrinkled his brow and took another step forward, expecting the small animals to run away. But they did not and instead took a step towards him.
“You’re brave little fellas, aren’t you?”
The rabbits took another step forward and, inexplicably, Howard found himself stepping backwards. There was something unnerving about the creatures; their lack of fear where fear should be present.
The rabbits continued towards Howard.
Howard continued moving away but was startled by something behind him. He spun around to find an entire colony of rabbits standing in a line behind him, blocking his path home. Howard wasn’t yet afraid, but he was approaching it. Rabbits were not frightening by anyone’s imagination, but there were just so many of them. Hundreds of pairs of eyes boring into Howard with something that was unnatural for such timid creatures.
When the rabbits lunged at Howard, all at once, he froze in absolute shock; the absurdity of the situation too much for his brain to handle. When the creatures began biting into him with their razor-edged incisors, the situation became even more unfathomable.
The last twelve months of Howard’s life had been extremely lucky—he was a millionaire author and a breakout sensation. But there, in the woods he now owned, his luck finally ran out.
THE HUNT
When you have shot one bird flying you have shot all birds flying. They are all different and they fly in different ways but the sensation is the same and the last one is as good as the first.
Ernest Hemingway said that, and he was right. Hunting is a human endeavour as old as history itself—something every man has buried deep within his breast. To kill a lesser animal is the most natural thing in the world.
But all that ended in 2004, when Blair’s liberal propaganda finally made its way into Parliament. They banned fox hunting outright and turned us all into pariahs. A law passed by peasants for no other reason than the resentment of refinery and class.
My name is Clive Middlesex, and I am Master Huntsmen, descended from a dozen Master Huntsmen before me, and I am now also a criminal. They made me one, for I continue to hunt despite their wretched ultimatums. Hunting is in my family’s blood. It is my right.
The hunt is on, our quarry ahead. Red foxes flee our hounds with the desperate intensity that only the fear of death can provide. This, my friends, is life. This is living.
***
“That was great, Clive. Will be good in the sound edit when we overlay it on top of videos from the hunt.”
Clive smiled proudly at the journalist, rather pleased with the speech as well. “Good, it’s about time someone took a stand. I will not lie down for the unschooled peasants any longer, and if that makes me a martyr, then so be it.”
“There’ll definitely be those that support you as well,” said the journalist. “It’s still a hot debate. Anyway, thank you for allowing me to be the one to record your story.”
“My pleasure. Now, let us retire to the stables. They’ll be getting our horses ready. I take it you can ride?”
The journalist blushed from behind his notepad. “Not well, I’m afraid.”
Clive shook his head and almost spat at the ground. “Then how the bloody hell do you expect to keep up with the hunt?”
The journalist cleared his throat, seemed to steel himself slightly. “We have set up several cameras across the glen that will capture the hunt as it passes by. We will be able to get a grand, sweeping view that way.”
Clive liked the sound of that. Grand sweeping view. He adjusted the lapels of his bright red huntsman jacket and raised his chin. “Very good. Shall we commence?”
The journalist nodded. “Of course, after you.”
Clive led on, the seedy little wordsmith following closely behind. The family’s stables were just a few lengths up ahead. Marcus, his stable hand, was busy getting Petronella ready for him, fastening the bridle securely on the prize mare, ready for the master’s mount.
“Good man, Marcus,” he said, reaching the stables and taking the reins. “We’ll be ready for tea at noon.”
“Very good, sir.” The stable hand walked away, heading for the Manor.
Clive turned to the journalist who was continuing to take down notes. “You sure you’re not willing to ride? It’s the ultimate thrill, man.”
“No thanks,” the journalist waved a hand, “but I’ll be here when you get back.”
Clive hoisted himself up onto Petronella and secured his feet into the stirrups. He immediately felt comfortable, as though he had returned to a place he belonged—the saddle of a noble beast, surveying the lay of his vast lands. A king of his estate.
Petronella trotted slowly toward
s the end of the paddock, heading for the open gate. Once through, entering the fields of the Middlesex Estate, Clive coerced the beast into a canter. The other huntsmen, along with the pack dogs, would be waiting for him atop the nearby hill, as well as the first of many cameras that would be rolling to catch the majesty of the pursuit.
Patronella slowed down as her hooves met the incline and Clive gently manoeuvred her up the hill. Near the top, he began to hear the jovial banter of his peers and looked forward to joining them.
But Petronella stopped suddenly, unwilling to move another step. Clive whipped his riding crop against her rump and kicked his heels. “Onwards!”
As if never stopping in the first place, the horse started moving again. Clive decided to ignore the animal’s momentary insolence. She had most likely been temporarily spooked by some sound that his human ears could not detect. Still, Petronella knew better than to disobey her master.
The many fine gentlemen of the hunting club, along with a dozen yapping beagles, were gathered loosely together at the knoll’s peak. Clive quickly joined them, excitement growing in his heart with each passing second. They greeted him merrily as he came and Clive raised a hand to get their attention.
“A fine morning we’re having today, gentlemen; as brisk as it is sober. A perfect day for a hunt.”
The group cheered as he said the word for which they had all gathered. The dogs began wagging their tails joyously in response to the commotion. They too were anxious for the games to begin.
“We are an endangered species,” Clive continued. “Men with the very essence of the countryside running through our blood yet forced to deny it. They have tried to extinguish our right to manage our own lands in our own ways, but that is something we will never allow willingly. These ancient lands have belonged to my family for centuries and as their current custodian, I permit you the right to spill blood in the honour of sport.”
Animal Kingdom: An Apocalyptic Horror Novel Page 20