Hamsterdamned!

by Adam Millard

  “Major, until we know what those things are, I want everything we’ve got on this.” He shoved a cigar into the corner of his mouth and chewed frantically. “Nobody fucks with the Dam.”

  *

  “So they’re hamsters?” Mike said, incredulously. “Just your regular, garden-variety hamsters that happen to have picked up something relatively nasty along the way.”

  The man – Guus – nodded. “It’s my fortieth anniversary today,” he said, “but instead of not celebrating it at home with my pain in the ass wife, I’m not celebrating it out here, hunting the damned things that made her contender for Roadkill of the Year.”

  “That’s terribly sad,” John said, reacting to the sound of something exploding not too far away. “But you say that they were regular sized hamsters this morning. Just the kind you put in a cage, with a little fucking wheel?”

  Guus nodded again. In truth, his neck was starting to hurt from all the nodding. “But they were evil before they scarpered from the van. I could see it in their eyes as they headed for the river; I could see the fear in the eyes of the driver. He knew what they were capable of. They’d already chewed his ears off, poor sonofabitch.”

  Tony, who had remained quiet throughout, decided that now was as good a time as any to get involved. “They killed our friends,” he said. “Donald, Stuart, gone forever, and Donald still owed me fifty euros. That little midget gave him the best lap-dance he ever had. He’d have probably enjoyed it more if he knew it was going to be free.”

  Guus didn’t know what to say, so he remained silent.

  “But we know what will kill them,” Mike said, brightening slightly. “The tranquiliser darts blow them up quicker than a fat guy at a pie-eating contest. All we have to do is find the others and take them down with that thing. I mean, it can’t be that hard. All we have to do is follow the screams.” He cocked an ear. Yes, still lots of screams.

  “Now, wait a fucking minute,” Tony said. “Why are we getting involved in this? We were lucky not to have bit the big one ten minutes ago, and now you want us to go looking for trouble?”

  “Hate to say it, Mike,” John said, “but Tony’s right. Those things are monsters. Real fucking monsters. We’re stoned, half-drunk morons on a stag-do. The odds aren’t stacked in our favour.”

  Mike looked to Guus, who was cleaning the stock of his rifle with what appeared to be a pair of large knickers. “They were my wife’s,” he said, slinging the granny-pants across his shoulder. They almost parachuted him off into the distance. He had to lean forward to remain on the ground.

  “Your friends are making the sense,” Guus said. It was the first time his accent had made an appearance; up until that point he could have been from Finnmark, Germanyland, or Nimrod, Oregon. “You should run in the opposite direction. I’ve got this bitch.” He cocked the rifle, almost knocking his front teeth out in the process.

  Mike couldn’t believe what was happening. Two of his closest friends had been brutally killed, and the two he had left were too terrified to do anything about it. As much as it grieved him to admit it, they were right. Of course they were. People don’t just go off to fight monsters, not anymore. You have to have armour, or superpowers – or at least weaponry more effective than strong words.

  “Go hide in the shadows,” Guus said. “I will do everything in my power to avenge your friends’ deaths.”

  Tony nodded. “The shadows?” he said. “Isn’t that where those things like to hide? I mean, if we’re going to hide somewhere, shouldn’t it be brightly lit, with locks and armed guards? Do you know of a jailhouse we could—“

  His words broke off as a guttural roar echoed around the avenue. Guus pushed the rifle to his shoulder, but the quaking ground prevented him from pointing it at anything of note.

  And then it appeared at the end of the street; hurtling towards them as if it was a teenage girl and they were One Direction. It had once been white, but the blood now coating its fur gave it a pink complexion. The flashing neon lights of Chix With Dix – the club at the end of the street – made the creature glow, almost, as it darted after them.

  “RUN!” Mike yelled, only to find he was the only one standing still. John and Tony were heading in the opposite direction. Guus had made his way over to the edge of the street and had dropped to one knee, hoping to get a shot off before the beast reached them.

  Like fuck I’m relying on you, Mike thought, and hurtled after his friends.

  The hamster almost filled the street, such was its unnatural, and somewhat exponential, growth. As it rushed after them, street-signs were ripped from the ground; electric lights advertising Naked Vaginas Here Tonight and Now Recruiting, Ugly Dancers Required were yanked from buildings. Fizzling bulbs had caught around the irate beast, giving it the appearance of the world’s hairiest Christmas tree.

  “Shit, fuck, shit, fuck!” Tony yelled breathlessly as they headed toward the junction. They could see passing cars; an open-top bus suggested that people could have picked a better night to see the sights the Mokum had to offer. Explosions continued to tear through the city. Mike found himself wondering if the night would ever end.

  Guus fired, or would have if the rifle didn’t jam. Instead of a luminous green dart splitting the air as it discharged, he got a pathetic clunk! Resigned, he read the words on the side of the rifle. MADE IN TAIWAN. “Figures,” he said. Well, there was nothing else for it. He barely had time to think about what he was planning; before he knew it, he was standing in the middle of the street, staring down the approaching beast, its eyes all beady and filled with hate. Does it recognise me? he thought. What irked him the most wasn’t the fact he was about to be pummelled to death by a fucking hamster; it was knowing that Anneke would be waiting for him on the other side. Oh, so glad you could join me, you selfish bastard, she’d say. First you forget our anniversary, then you forget the suicide pact we made back in 1986.

  The last thing Guus saw before the creature reached him was Anneke’s angry face. Well, it was the last thing he saw before the teeth, and then the tongue, and then the throat of the monster.

  “Fuck, it got the Dutchman!” Tony said, before doubling over and sucking air into his lungs as if it was going out of fashion.

  Mike stopped running and turned. As Guus’s legs disappeared into the hamster’s face, he wished he’d had the gumption to take the fucking rifle. Before, they’d had a slim chance of survival; now, they’d be lucky to make it to the end of the street. This is what the Spartans felt like, Mike thought, remembering how Gerard Butler and his mates had set themselves up at the Battle of Thermopylae. He knew how that scuffle had ended, and this one was nowhere near as cinematic.

  The hamster surged after them again. The ground shook so violently it was all the trio could do to remain on their feet.

  They ran as best they could. If you happened to be watching from the side-lines (like some foul pervert with a penchant for death scenes) you might have believed an invisible rope held the three men together. Their clumsiness and inability to put one foot in front of the other made for uncomfortable viewing.

  Mike could see the street in front as it opened out. Cars continued to idle along, a normal Friday night in Amsterdam, or so their insouciance would lead you to believe. A few vehicles piled up as they realised what was happening; the sounds of twisting metal was almost musical – especially if you were a fan of Justin Bieber.

  Realising they were out of time – he could feel the thing bearing down on them; could almost smell its iron-tinged, and strangely chocolatey, breath – Mike rushed across to the front of a building. He turned, expecting his friends to be right there, but all he saw was blood-stained fur as the beast shot by at breakneck speed. A loud cry escaped his throat. Fuck knows where it came from, but it seemed appropriate given the circumstance.

  As the creature – it was hard to believe it was just a hamster – rushed past, Mike heard something that chilled his blood.

  It was John, screaming for dear life. />
  The thing had him in its jaws; Mike could see John’s legs kicking at its right cheek, to no avail. This wasn’t a cat, liable to drop its prey for putting up a bit of a struggle. John was alive, for now, but for how long? As the beast lunged across the road, knocking over a double-decker bus with the words Hans’ Tours printed on its side, Mike knew he would go after it.

  He had to.

  A groan from the side of the street caught Mike’s attention. He turned to find Tony, squished like a moth in the bath, leaning against the wall. The creature must have bounded straight over him, for his intestines had burst from his stomach and one of his eyes dangled listlessly against his face. Mike could hardly look.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” he said, rushing over to his flattened friend. “We’re going to get you to a hospital, and they’ll—“

  “They’ll put me back together?” Tony said through gritted teeth. Blood gargled in his throat, giving his voice the quality of a drunken Chewbacca. “Mate, I don’t…think I…can be fixed.” He smiled. Mike could see he was suffering. Of course he was suffering. His innards were now outards. He looked like he’d been trampled by a Riverdance troupe.

  Mike sighed. Fighting back tears – this was no time to go full-blown pussy – he said, “I’m gonna kill that fucking thing. I’m gonna find it, and I’m gonna make it suffer.”

  Tony shook his head. “Just get to…the airport,” he said. “Get out…while you can…” He trailed off into a coughing fit. His eye danced around on his cheek; Mike had to look the other way.

  Get to the airport? Sure, they’d let him leave the country while giant hamsters reduced it to a pile of smouldering rubble. Plus, he didn’t have his passport. It was back at the hotel, along with his phone. The hotel was on the other, less seedy, side of the city. We don’t want to be right on the Red Light District, John had said. That’s where the perverts and George Michael stay. Great idea that had been. Now he was stranded, all his friends dead or dying, with no phone, two miles away from De Ene Ster. As far as stag-dos went, this had to be up there with the worst.

  “I have to go after John,” Mike said, wiping a tear – fuck, he thought – from the corner of his eye. “Mate, I have to.”

  Tony spluttered once again. A spray of warm blood landed on Mike’s face. It was one of those awkward moments whereby you had to pretend you didn’t notice the drool as it dripped south, leaving a shiny snail-trail in its wake. He could forgive his friend, though. The guy was dying; now wasn’t the time for a reproach.

  “You…go…do what…you have to,” said Tony. He glanced down at the gaping hole in his chest, at the entrails snaking out of it. “I don’t think…I’ll be able…to come along for…the ride.” He sniggered. Mike put it down to shock.

  “Just relax,” Mike said. “I won’t go anywhere until you…”

  It was too late. Tony had succumbed to the darkness, leaving Mike free to cry without feeling like an absolute dick. And cry he did, but only for a moment.

  He stood, turned to face the street and the panicking people swarming through it.

  “I’m coming for you, John,” he grunted. It was all very heroic, and would have been all the more gallant if he hadn’t trod on a piece of wood the next second and fallen to the floor clutching his ankle.

  *

  Machine-guns fired from the Leopards; both the co-axial and the anti-aircraft mounts unleashed round after round at the creatures. It was like trying to hit Usain Bolt with a shuttlecock. The beasts were too quick, and although several of the bullets landed, they appeared to be unaffected and, more importantly, severely pissed off.

  Lieutenant General Jordi Haas had never seen anything like it. The still-expanding creatures were enough to give Freddy Krueger nightmares. The two they had pinned down at the Oude Kerk had survived a barrage of attacks. Very little remained of the Gothic church behind them, which was a shame, really, as it had been there for quite some time.

  “Look out!” one of the infantrymen cried as the octagonal bell-tower – previously an integral part of the old church – flew overhead. “Jesus Christ!”

  One of the creatures stood amidst the rubble, clapping its hands together in much the same way you would after swatting a fly with a newspaper. As the bell-tower smashed against the side of a retreating Fennek, the beast yipped.

  “Fire!” Major General Marc Van Bastard yelled, nursing a broken arm. “Fire! Fire! Fucking fire!”

  Muzzles flashed as a hundred soldiers gave it everything they had. The two creatures skittered across the rubble, hissing and recoiling as bullets tore into their flesh. Unable to regulate their breathing, their mouths fully opened.

  “Holy shit!” a soldier muttered. Unfortunately for him, the sound of machine-gun fire drowned him out. It was his only line, too, the self-centred sons of bitches.

  From the mouths of the creatures came the chewed and compressed remains of hundreds of people. They had been storing their victims in their cheeks, but not any longer. Food was not of paramount importance to them now; the holes riddling their fur and the blood gushing from them had taken precedence.

  “Here comes the air-support!” Haas said, jabbing a rheumy finger towards the night sky. The soldiers continued to fire at the creatures, loath to offer them any chance to recuperate. The noise of the jets overhead – three F-16s – was thunderous, even though it only lasted for a few seconds.

  The creatures looked to the sky as chunks of flesh and fur rained down; the rounds were doing their job, softening them up for the main event.

  There came a hissing sound; something flying through the air at an incredible rate. One of the hamsters groaned in recognition and resignation as soldiers threw themselves to the ground.

  The first missile punched into the darker beast, exploding with the ferocity of John Goodman on curry night. Those infantrymen not on the ground, covering their extremities, were blown from their feet. Major General Marc Van Bastard fist-pumped the air, screaming Hallelujah! at the top of his lungs.

  The remaining creature didn’t have time to comprehend what had happened. A second missile, and then a third, whooshed through the air, a smoke trail in their wake. The hamster audibly gulped, swallowing what might have been a prostitute, for it left a very bad taste in his mouth. Luckily, he didn’t suffer for long. The AGM-65s thunked into the creature, detonating on impact. The last thing to go through the creatures mind was its abdomen.

  When the dust and flesh settled, a collective whoop of joy sounded around the Oude Kerk, or what was left of it. The soldiers congratulated one another; high-fives and a veritable feast of dick-sucking was the order of the night.

  “Targets destroyed,” Lieutenant General Jordi Haas said into his radio. A crackle of cheers responded. The Lieutenant General was already contemplating his speech for the awards ceremony, a certainty after what he’d just achieved.

  A massive thud caused Haas to drop his radio. It shattered into hundreds of pieces, leading him to believe they just didn’t make them like they used to.

  The soldiers, who had been prematurely celebrating, staggered around, trying to remain on their feet like the crew of the Starship Enterprise did on a daily basis. A huge crack appeared in the concrete beneath their feet, spider-webbing out in all directions. One soldier fell into it; his family would be notified by way of a letter of condolence the following week.

  “Shit, there’s another one!” Private Bergkamp screeched. He knew he should have gone into professional football like his brother had.

  And by the sounds of it, it was fucking huge.

  *

  The hamster scaled the Rembrandt Tower as a crowd gathered at its base. The largest building in Amsterdam had never looked so small. In its mouth, the human continued to make a nuisance of itself, but that was okay. The hamster would eat it as soon as it reached the top. It was nice, it thought, to have something to look forward to.

  As it climbed, shit fell from its ass, thumping the ground beneath hard enough to crack the pa
vement. One woman – Irene Achterberg, whose father invented those shoes with the holes in – was glancing skyward when it started to rain people. Diving for cover, avoiding the shit-covered corpses, she realised that she was standing way too close for comfort, and proceeded to back away, stopping only when she reached her house twelve streets away.

  Mike arrived at the tower just as the creature reached the halfway point. He climbed from the cab, paid the guy a handful of euros without checking first whether it was suitable recompense. It was. Five hundred euros was more than the cab-driver made in a month. He sped away before the fool with the death wish had a chance to ask for change.

  “Where you going?” Mike muttered, running into the foyer. A stream of people barged past him on their way out, shooting him befuddled glances that said, You do know there’s a giant fucking hamster attached to the building?

  The entire tower shook and rattled as the creature continued its ascent. Plaster dropped from the ceiling; a large chandelier that looked extremely expensive fell and shattered at the foot of the first set of stairs.

  The elevator. It was the quickest way up, and yet Mike knew it was the most dangerous. The building was unstable, rattling like marbles in a washing machine. For all he knew, the shaft was nothing more than a pile of rubble. The building’s steel foundations may have been compromised. He might get halfway up in the lift before wedging, forever, between two crushed pieces of concrete.

  For John, he thought, pushing the flashing green button that summoned the elevator. The door pinged immediately, which was either a stroke of luck or a bad omen. The doors hissed open, and Mike climbed in. There were so many buttons on the panel, he began to panic. “Top floor, dickhead,” he said, jabbing at the button with the largest number on it.

  And as the doors slowly closed, beautiful and elegant muzak sprung into life, something by Mozart, perhaps, or Dido. Mike rolled his eyes, suddenly wishing he’d opted for the stairs.