Fangtooth

by Shaun Jeffrey

  “Brad, Powell, keep a watch,” he said, then he slid down.

  Jim stood by the conveyor. As Zander crashed down, he raised his gutting knife, prepared to strike.

  “Whoa, Jim, it’s me.”

  “Skipper. Have you seen those things? What a size. Should be worth a fortune.” Jim raised a creature’s gutted carcass. The beast’s innards lay in a sloppy pink congealed mess in a basket.

  Zander grimaced. “For God’s sake, man. Get a grip. We’ve got to get out of here. Those things, they’re …” His words trailed off when he saw Muldoon’s eviscerated body lying on the ground.

  Jim shook his head. “First decent catch we’ve had in ages, and you want to leave it. Me and the boys, we’ve got bills to pay too, you know.”

  “Jim. Listen to me. Look what’s happened. Look at Muldoon.” He pointed at the body. “Do you know where we are? We’ve run aground in the harbour.”

  Jim laughed. “Then we’d better get the haul ashore.”

  “Skipper,” Brad hollered. “You’d better shake yourself. We’ve got company.”

  Zander gulped. “Come on Jim. We’ll gut the catch later.”

  Jim’s eyes twinkled maniacally. “You bet we will.”

  Zander grimaced.

  He followed the conveyor towards the exit, peered out at the ladder leading up, then slowly ascended. He kept glancing back and to the side, wary of something jumping out on him. When he reached the deck, he saw the creatures scrambling towards them. He counted four, the sight turning his blood cold. He turned back, grabbed Jim by the arm and hauled him out.

  “Come on, man, hurry.”

  Jim came topside and stared at the creatures. “More money for the pot,” he said, rubbing his hands. “Come on ya fuckin’ monsters, let’s be havin’ ya.”

  Zander gritted his teeth. “Jim, get ashore.”

  Powell withdrew an extendable baton and started hitting the nearest creature, but it had no effect, so he scuttled away.

  “Duck,” Brad shouted.

  Zander looked back up the deck to see Brad levelling the high-pressure hose his way. Operated by the auxiliary donkey engine, it didn’t need the main engine to operate, and as he opened it up, a jet of water shot out and lifted the lead creature off its feet and slammed it back into the sea.

  “Don’t lose the bastards,” Jim shouted.

  Zander grabbed Jim by the arm and manhandled him back up the deck towards the bow. Powell followed. Brad kept them covered.

  Once they reached the bow, Zander sat astride the edge and forced Jim to clamber over the side.

  “Brad, you go next. Make sure Jim gets down,” he said.

  Brad nodded and squeezed past. Then Zander reached back for Powell, but a creature scuttled out of the wreckage and grabbed Powell’s foot.

  “No,” Zander shouted. He stretched to grab Powell’s hand, the officer’s fingers only millimetres away, but the creature pulled him down.

  Powell screamed as the creature sank its teeth into his stomach, twisting its head. It pulled its head out, trailing a length of intestine from its jaw, formed the semblance of a grin, then chugged down the morsel of flesh.

  Zander tore his gaze away, hopped over the side of the boat and scrambled down to shore.

  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.