9
Fenn looked upwards, assessing the best route. Against the blue-black night sky, the iron fort towered above him, red with rust, its windows blank and foreboding. Lights glimmered on the other forts, but this one looked deserted; there was a blind, cold look to it. At its base was a perfect circle: a hole or tunnel that must have been used for access. It was as dark as a cave and Fenn didn’t fancy creeping up inside when he had only a few matches left. It would be colder out in the open, but he decided to make his bed on the platform just below the tower, where at least the girders were level. He made for the closest girder that went upwards, tearing off a piece of plastic sheeting as he passed by to use as some kind of cover.
Climbing up took a long time. It wasn’t like the Shanties’ alleys where a kind of road had been made. Here the girders didn’t properly connect to each other and were slippery from the rain. When he finally reached the platform, he found it was enclosed by railings, to which someone had lashed a patchwork of broken grilles to try and cut out the biting wind. In one corner was a large yellow steel locker – the flash of colour he’d seen from below. There were bright red warning signs screwed into the door. Fenn guessed it must have once been used for safety equipment on a ship, brought up here to make a shelter. It was jammed between the girders to shield it from the buffeting winds and Fenn imagined it would be warm and cosy inside. He yanked at the door, but it was either too stiff or locked.
He rattled the door again. The panels clattered but it didn’t sound hollow. He tried the handle but there was no shifting it. Carefully, so he didn’t frighten the Not-an-otter, he took out his knife. He pushed the strong blade between the door and the frame and began to twist it back and forth. He’d only just started when there came a frantic thumping from the inside – someone beating their fist on the steel panel. He jumped backwards in shock.
“Go away!” hissed a creaky voice through the grille at the top of the door. It sounded like an old man. Fenn stood on tiptoe and spoke through the gaps, recoiling at the stench wafting out from the hole.
“I need somewhere to sleep,” he pleaded. Silence. “Hello?” he said more loudly, but still silence. He hammered on the door, thumping it hard with the side of his fist. “Hello?”
“Go away!”
Despairing, Fenn sunk his head against the door. He had to find somewhere, he was freezing and the night air was getting even colder. He warily put his face close to the grille again and whispered in the same coaxing voice he’d sometimes used to get the pigs to come back to the pens.
“I’ve got food.”
“Shut up! They’ll hear you!” came the voice.
Fenn peered around guardedly but most of the lights below had been put out now and he was sure no one had followed him.
“Go away and hide! While you can!” the old man pleaded.
An icy gust sliced across the platform and Fenn’s teeth began chattering. He wrapped his arms around himself, clapping and stamping his feet to keep warm. Casting around to see if there was anywhere else he could shelter, Fenn saw a huge old oil barrel wedged tight against a single rail. Between it and the girder supporting it was a tiny space about a foot wide, like a small ditch underneath the curved side of the drum. Because he was so skinny, it would be just big enough for him to squeeze down into. There would be no shelter if it rained though, and the small piece of plastic sheeting wasn’t really big enough.
He spied a rickety ladder against the railing with a maintenance shaft of sheet metal around it. Fenn grabbed the end of the sheet and pulled hard. It was so rusty it came away easily, but made a lot of noise as it banged against the girders. He dragged the iron sheet back to the oil drum and made a curved roof over his little trough. The ledge had no side and he was terrified of falling off, so he untied the strap from his rucksack, then tied one end around his waist and the other around one of the iron joists. Once he was secure, he held the rucksack against his chest and put his arms through the remaining strap, then pulled the sheeting over his head. He tucked his face beneath the collar of Halflin’s Guernsey and breathed in the smell of oil and fish. The wind howled around him and rain started to patter down steadily.
Fenn had never felt so alone, and he was glad when the Not-an-otter wriggled inside the rucksack. Fenn tried to imagine it in there; curling its furry tail over its head in the dark warmth. By imagining how the Not-an-otter felt, he felt warmer himself. It was the same way he’d given the sow back home extra hay on freezing winter nights, so he could sleep easier, even when Halflin scolded him because the fodder had to last all winter. Fenn squeezed the rucksack closer to share some of his body heat. In a comfortless world, it felt better than nothing.
But he couldn’t sleep. Instead he remembered the times he’d grumbled about being cooped up, nagging to go out. He couldn’t believe only a few weeks before he’d wanted to know about the world. Now he longed to be back home, falling asleep by the fire, listening to the soft shuffle of Halflin’s feet as he moved around, always working. He was even homesick for the Panimengro, recalling all the good things: Magpie’s delicious food and the twanging music. He even missed the stinking hold – at least it had been warm and dry.
Fenn clenched his teeth against tears until his whole jaw ached, consoling himself with the thought that at least things couldn’t get any worse. Eventually he nodded off into an uneasy doze.
He was so exhausted he somehow slept until nearly dawn, but woke abruptly with a sharp stinging in his ankle. The plastic sheeting had stuck to his face like a shroud and he fought to be free. Pushing it to one side he shook himself awake and looked down at his ankle; a huge grey rat was sitting on his leg, staring at him with sly yellow eyes, its fur glistening with damp. So things could get worse! He kicked out and sent the animal squealing over the side of the ledge, then sat up, rubbing his ankle, sickened to feel his fingertips wet with blood.
It was then that he heard it.
Something was shuffling softly in the girders above. The wind had dropped while he had slept, and there was just the noise of the waves below. It was so quiet that at first Fenn wasn’t sure if he was imagining things, but then he heard the gentle scraping sound coming from the direction of the metal locker.
He looked up. Dark shapes were moving slowly in the girders, silently slipping downs towards the steel platform. Fenn couldn’t work out what they were at first and had to squint to see clearly in the half-light. They were human in form, but didn’t move like any human Fenn had ever seen; their arms and legs looked too long for their bodies. Most of them didn’t have any hair, those that did had clumps growing around scaly bald patches and the thin, greasy threads of it stuck bedraggled to their sweat-wet necks. It was difficult to distinguish anyone from any other as their faces were covered in blue marks over every inch of skin, including their eyelids. The remains of clothes clung to their thin frames: tattered orange jackets and boiler suits shredded to ribbons that fluttered like kite tails behind them. Their sinuous movements made them look reptilian as they slithered downwards.
Fenn froze in fear. He looked over to the locker, gauging if he could get to it safely, then realised with a jolt that one of the creatures was already silently squatting on top of it, like a grasshopper. The scraping Fenn had heard came from a shard of metal the creature was using as it methodically worked around the top of the locker roof, slowly unscrewing every single screw. The others, three or four of them – it was difficult to see for sure – had arrived and were now crawling soundlessly over the locker like spiders. They each began to work at a weakness in a joint or a hinge. They hunted as a pack; one prying open the lock, another starting on the lowest hinges, a third easing a knife under a sheet of steel to prise it off. The last of the moonlight glinted on them. Their slender, blue-grey hands and spindly fingers glistened like snakeskin as they unpicked the seams of the tiny fortress. Soon the locker could barely be seen beneath their slowly writhing bodies.
Staring in disbelief, Fenn forgot to breathe and nearly fai
nted. In shallow breaths he quickly tried to pant some air into his constricted lungs. Immediately two of the creatures stopped and extended their bulbous heads. They turned their chalky eyes in his direction and his heart thumped so hard he could feel the wall of his ribcage being buffeted. He reached into the rucksack, keeping his breath as soundless as possible. He couldn’t take his eyes off them. He was mesmerised by their slow, graceful movements and felt cumbersome and heavy by comparison. His fingers felt the smooth handle of Viktor’s knife and he grabbed it.
Fenn clenched the knife so hard it hurt, dizzy with terror, unable to think straight. The faintest shimmer of dawn was on the horizon; soon he would be visible. So this was why Viktor had warned him to hide. He assessed his chances of outrunning them and getting back down to sea level. It was dangerous down there too, but safer than this.
The creatures had turned back to the task in hand and soon worked the door and sides free, detaching the yellow steel panels from the locker, making less noise than a banana skin being peeled. Inside, at the bottom of the locker, Fenn could see the old man, curled up fast asleep. He was a pitiful thing, dressed in layers of frayed cloth, his face covered in a thick layer of something like tar, his hair and beard in knotted dreadlocks that he’d wound around his neck like a scarf. He was snuggled deep down in filthy paper and cardboard, like a dormouse in a nest.
The creatures had their prize; the nest was ready to be raided. Quickly, moving as one, they reached in and grabbed the old man by the hair, pulling him up into a standing position. The old man opened his mouth to scream, but before any noise left him a fistful of cloth was stuffed in his mouth. His scrawny arms flailed uselessly as he tried to beat them off with his bony fists, but one of the creatures spooled out a length of cord and wound it around him. Within seconds he was trussed up, his arms and legs bound tight against his body – entirely cocooned, like a fly wrapped in spider silk. Out of nowhere, another rope suddenly dropped down and they tied it around his waist. The rope grew taut with the old man’s weight as they hoisted him up through the air, bumping him through the girders. A few creatures followed, pawing their bounty possessively. Finally the bundle disappeared up into the black hole Fenn had noticed earlier. The ones that hadn’t followed clustered around the old man’s belongings, picking through them carefully, gleaning what they could.
Moving carefully and holding his breath, Fenn undid the strap securing him and hitched the rucksack onto his shoulder trying to silently edge out from the shelter. His movement must have woken the Not-an-otter, as it suddenly jumped roughly, making the rucksack slip. As Fenn lunged for the strap, the knife slid from his sweaty palm.
Time froze. He saw the knife and his own fingers grasping out for it as if he was watching himself in a dream. He saw the blade sparkle as it twisted, the slow somersault of the ebony handle over steel. He held his breath, waiting for the world to start spinning again.
Time unfroze. The blade clattered down against the first set of girders, bouncing from one to another, the sound of the last clatter still echoing as a new one started. Finally it bounced off the last girder and catapulted into the sea, disappearing for good.
Instantly the creatures stopped moving, their faces tense with concentration. Their eyes stared blindly as they turned in Fenn’s direction, seeking out the stranger in their midst. The nearest one, a little taller than the rest, stood on tiptoe, tilting the hairless dome of his head to the breeze. Although barely recognisable as one, Fenn now realised the creature was a man. The man took a long, deep sniff, his nostrils flexing open as he drew in the scents of everything near: the sea, oil, rusty girders, rotting fish, the old man’s stench. And Fenn – the sweet scent of fresh, young flesh. The man smiled slightly, rolled out his tongue and licked the air.
He took a step forward.
10
Fenn bolted towards the girder he’d climbed the previous evening. He threw himself onto it, clinging to the rusty wet sides, half sliding, half falling down towards the next girder that met it and then scrambling onto that. He jumped again until his feet found another beam, but he immediately slipped off and fell against a rotting fishing net. He grabbed hold of some wet rope but it fell apart in his hand and instead he sprawled on a jagged beam that stretched out into mid-air. For a split second he tried to get his bearings but then he heard noises above. They were coming for him. They had no need to be quiet now; the hunt was on.
He looked around in desperation. There was no quick or safe way down. One wrong move and he’d fall, smashing on the girders before hitting the decks and breaking every bone in his body. But if they got him, he guessed he was as good as dead anyway. The next beam was at least ten feet away; he shuffled back along the rafter holding on to the netting. He took a deep breath, two great strides, then took flight.
As he leapt he felt sure it was the last thing he was going to do in his life. He squeezed his eyes shut, blotting out the Shanties and all its secret horrors, and made himself think of something happy. He imagined Halflin giving him a thumbs up as he made his way back to the hut from the Punchlock, patting his bag to show he’d snared a rabbit for supper and they wouldn’t be going to bed hungry for once. For a second he almost felt light and happy as he spun through the air but then reality smashed up against the soles of his feet with a jolting agony. He grabbed at some slimy rope and caught himself just before he fell. Swinging around, he looked back to try to see how many were chasing him. Against the silver dawn he could see more dropping out of the hole they’d winched the old man into. Several were now only a few feet above his head, reaching down for him. He felt long fingernails brush his hair.
Frantically, Fenn threw himself down again into some rigging below. It was a terrible mistake. His leg went straight through a hole in the netting and he lost precious seconds trying to disentangle himself. With sickening dread he realised he wasn’t alone; two of them had jumped down onto the net after him. Without hesitating, they rotated like spiders until they were upside down, and crawled towards him. Half upside down himself, Fenn kicked out as hard as he could, catching the nearest one on the jaw. There was a horrible cracking sound and something small and black, no bigger than a pebble, spun past Fenn’s face. It was a tooth. With a howl of rage the creature threw itself at Fenn and wrapped its bony fingers around his foot, dragging Fenn upwards, hand over hand, like a fisherman hauling in a catch.
Fenn kicked and jerked his legs with a strength he hadn’t realised he possessed. He clamped his teeth around a strand of net for extra anchorage, held it as tightly as he could, then unhooked his free leg. He stomped the iron heel of his free boot against the creature’s wrist and wriggled his other foot out of its boot. Then he let his body swing away, leaving the creature holding the empty boot, while Fenn dangled defencelessly a few feet below. Fenn looked down; thirty feet beneath him was a barge, canvas stretched over the deck. He calculated his chances; he might get lucky and just break a leg. They were almost on him…
The boot he’d left behind landed with a crack on his head. It tumbled across the net then dropped onto the canvas below, which instantly ripped open. If it was too rotten to take the weight of a boot, Fenn stood no chance. He still gripped the net with his teeth and hands, but just as he was preparing to let go, he heard a vicious snarling sound, like a dog makes when you try to take its bone. He looked up.
Perching precariously on the end of a girder jutting out opposite him was a boy not much older than Fenn. He was sawing at the tie lines of the rigging with a jagged piece of metal sharpened to a blade. In his other hand he held a thick, long stick, with two sharp spikes on the end of it, and he was stabbing this at Fenn’s pursuers. When he drew blood from the nearest creature’s arm, it grunted, sniffed and looked perplexed, then licked the trail of its own blood like a cat laps milk. For a few precious seconds the creature was distracted. Then the boy severed the last strands and the rigging fell away, with Fenn still clinging on. The two creatures screeched as they pitched down, smashing through the bea
ms until they finally disappeared with a splash into the water below. As Fenn crashed against the girder the boy reached down, grabbed his collar and hoisted him up to the safety of a wider platform made from an old door.
“Follow me if you wanna live,” he said, gulping hard as he spoke.
Up close he looked older than Fenn had expected, raddled and pinched. The boy’s face twitched and his eyes were bulbous, like hard-boiled eggs, with darting pupils surrounded by filaments of blood vessels, taking in all dangers. He was stick thin, and wore a bright yellow oilskin that only fitted him because the hem had been stapled up. On his feet were welly boots, so ancient that the rubber was cracking and splitting, and the soles had been tied with a rope to keep them from flapping. A plastic sheet was tied around his head with some baling twine, with the words “Smokeless Fuel” on it and a picture of some blazing coals. Stalactites of seagull dung dribbled down the sides.
Fenn hesitated for a second, looking down at where his boot had been lost.
“Quick!” the boy yelled as he swung under a girder. Fenn followed.
“Thank you!” Fenn just managed, but the boy was already off, dropping through the rigging and girders without hesitation, never pausing for breath. Fenn scrambled clumsily after him, cracking his head on beams, scraping his hands and cutting his bare foot on the raw edges of metal.
Fenn Halflin and the Fearzero Page 8