by TJ Park
Mick faltered, hearing his name, then hurried along faster. From his position, Doug saw something low to the ground scampering after the old man, keeping pace, changing direction when he did, snaking behind him. The sly shift went all the way back to the shed.
Doug couldn’t help himself, spitting at Rob: “You did tie him up, you prick. You left him wrapped up like a birthday present.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Rob was beside him on the veranda, surprised by Mick’s circumstances.
“The old goat is still alive,” he said, with respect. “I knew I should have checked.”
Mick came to a sudden halt when he reached the limit of the chain tied around his ankles, the other end somewhere back in the dark environs of the machinery shed. In his befuddled state, he looked more annoyed than distressed. He tried shaking it off like wet leaves stuck to his boot. After a pause, he shuffled forward again, and nearly fell over. He bent down to tug at his restraints, and without warning they were yanked from under him. He was pulled straight, hitting the dirt face-down in a bone-jarring thud.
Doug ran to the bottom step, but no further. He knew better. It was part of the sport. They were being played with.
Mick dazedly attempted to get up by pulling his tethered leg under him. He shuffled onto his belly to get some slack. He was rising up on his hands and knees when the chain pulled taut and yanked him flat again.
Doug reacted as if punched. His fury was turning blue for what was being done to the old man. The chain lifted from the ground and trembled as Mick was dragged slowly and steadily back toward the shed, thrashing about weakly as he went.
Doug didn’t care that he was expected. He hit the ground running, aiming the rifle as best he could for the shed. The chain began to hasten, reeling in Mick like a fish on a line, vibrating like a plucked guitar string. Mick had given up clutching at the dirt with his nails and held out his hands in blind supplication, pulled ever faster.
Doug ran past him and stamped down on the travelling chain, steadying it. Wishing he had the sawn-off, he shot the links centimetres from his own foot. A busted link smacked him on the back of his hand, stinging mightily. And the newly shortened chain went slack, landing in a loose pile,.
His skin prickling, Doug drew the bolt on the rifle, getting ready. And … as he guessed, the puller of strings leapt from its hiding place. Not from the shed, but from a different direction, seemingly from the open air, from the night itself.
Doug was alerted by the palpable shift of weight in his immediate surroundings, long before he saw or heard it coming. He spun, firing at a deeper black that unpeeled from the surrounding dark. Not braced for attack from that angle, he was thrown off-balance, the rifle’s recoil bringing him down to land on his back.
Trying to see past the muzzle-flash he sought to rise. An agonising pain seized his chest and laid him back down. His ribs had received a glancing blow from the rifle recoil, but that had seemed inconsequential until his lungs attempted to inhale.
While he lay back trying to sneak in shallow breaths, his eyes cleared.
Mick was lying face-down beside him. And behind Mick, towering over them both, was the sight Doug had seen when he came off the bike earlier tonight. Except, this time, there was no fence holding it back.
Someone on the veranda turned a torch on them.
The monster was down, too, hunched like a whipped cur, too stupid to run. If it hadn’t been stopped by the rifle blast, it would have landed on him and Mick both. It shook its bowed and considerable head from side to side.
There was no more pretending the earlier shots had missed. Doug knew he had hit the thing direct centre, in the head, and … the monster was simply shaking it off. He and Mick were as good as dead. The casual tossing of the lowered head finished with, it straightened to look upon Doug.
Doug’s chest hurt again as he attempted to scream. He clumsily tried to bring the rifle to bear on the thing, but it slipped from his nervous fingers. Whoever shone the torch let go a splintered cry and put the light away. But they’d done Doug no favours. He’d already seen too much.
Trying to define the monster as a being of height, width and breadth threw Doug off-kilter. His senses weren’t registering properly. If he had to base it on any of those things, then it wasn’t real. The natural world had been cut away with a scalpel, leaving behind a monstrous bullish shape with four limbs and a heavy slash for a tail, a rent in the known universe. What gave any hint it was anchored to reality were the open cuts and scrapes all over it, though the bloody wounds wouldn’t stay still. They leapt and jumped across the empty canvas that was its skin, coming forward, then slipping out of focus. There was fresh gore carved as rough pictures. They were moving.
Doug saw a swastika that throbbed and pulsed like a jellyfish. A skull with flames for hair laughing through a hinged jaw. A spider crawled jerkingly, stop-start, carrying a babe in its fangs. A snake crushing a naked woman in its coils slithered by, or perhaps it was the woman winding the snake tight around her, about to tear it apart. A decapitated head bobbed into view, singing or screaming a song Doug thought he recognised though he couldn’t hear the words. A panther stalked nearby. The word “RIP”, then names evolving into corpses showing the horrors done to them, evolving into simple stick crosses on bare humps of hills.
In the large, black insistence of the monster’s head, the swastika approximated the setting of an eye, the axis of its broken arms focused on Doug. Below it, a stem and rose slotted into place of a mouth, curved up in a thorny grin. An eight-ball wheeled into position to become the second eye. And though Doug had never seen any such thing before, he instinctively knew who it was that was watching him. He’d seen that expression before, that smug look of the cat who got the cream.
Keeping his head down, Mick started crawling away on his belly. The monster noticed. It idly batted at him with its paw, tearing away part of his scalp. Mick screamed thinly and the monster sat the same heavy paw on his back to keep him still.
Somewhere off to his rear, Doug heard a motorbike fire into life – possibly the same one he’d been riding earlier. He felt no resentment. He endorsed it. Perhaps some of the Clarksons would get away while this thing was … occupied.
A powerful light struck them, stronger than the torch. The monster contracted with a voiceless snarl, thorns bristling warily. Doug saw the bloody scrawls that made up the thing’s face blow apart and scatter into disarray. The dark inside the scalpel-sharp outline lost definition, a matte card fighting too bright a lamp.
The trail bike’s engine grew louder as they were bathed in light and a woman’s scream. Doug instinctively rolled clear as the riderless motorcycle careened past, missing him by inches and slamming into the monster.
Displaying impossibly quick reflexes, the thing twisted and rose to meet the bike, catching it in its paws. It tried to throw the machine away, but the impact tumbled them both to the dirt. The bike drove up its flank, digging a smoking channel into its hide. Then it fell on top of the thing, wheels still spinning madly.
Somehow Doug had the rifle in his hands again. He pulled the trigger before he was ready. The monster and the bike disappeared into a barr-rumphing flash of light. The shot had ruptured the fuel tank, somehow ignited it. Doug wished he could say he intended to do it.
The bike bounced away, its tyres now pinwheels of flame, but most of its burning fuel had been dumped on the monster. The thing jumped and ran in a maddened circle, fanning the flames, driving the inferno.
Doug heard Scott’s exultant cry close behind him.
“That’s for my dogs, you mongrel!”
Doug staggered to his feet, snagged Mick’s armpit with his free hand and started pulling him away before the fiery beast could blunder into them. Mick’s dragged boots wobbled lifelessly in his wake. Doug prayed he’d only passed out.
Further along the yard, he found Scott sitting on the ground streaked with dirt. The boy was both teary and triumphant. He had jumped off the bike at
the last moment, having aimed it at the monster. Damn impressive. Doug tried to shepherd the boy back to the house, but Scott evaded his touch with a spit and a curse, intent on watching the monster burn. Doug left him to it. Mick needed his help more.
Lauren was nowhere to be seen, but Janet and Rob were at the foot of the stairs, tussling with each other over who would fetch Scott back. The boy saved them the trouble, jumping up and racing past Doug and Mick to rejoin his parents. There was no sense of fear in him, only a desire for his parents to share in his moment. Janet embraced him and throttled him in the same move.
Bent over and hobbling backward, Doug now had both hands hooked under Mick’s arms, the rifle balanced on the old man’s lap, going for all they were worth. But it now appeared there wasn’t a need for hurry.
Wholly ablaze, the thing began to slow, its struggles becoming less athletic. It instinctively knew to roll in the dirt – had done so several times – but the action appeared to have no visible effect. The dirt would not stick, unlike the flames. The fire was gorging on the monster.
The thing sat down roughly. It turned into a tall, swaying bonfire, letting the flames devour it at will. Then it collapsed with a thud Doug could feel even through his feet. It lay there, not moving, continuing to burn.
Halfway to the house, Doug paused, watching.
From the ground up, an intense sheet of stunted flame encased the monster, now surely no longer alive. Doug was plagued by uncertainty, wondering what it would take before he would be convinced this was over – to scatter its ashes with his boot?
Below him, Mick began to moan, his heels scratching in the dirt, hands scrawling mindless circles in the grass. Doug looked back. The Clarksons hadn’t left the house. They weren’t coming any closer. That was understandable. The monster might be down, but the criminals were still lively. Scott alone appeared keen to go spit on the burning thing, or dance around its corpse. But his father held him back.
Doug might have warily approached it, too, to take a better look at those flames. Those odd, rosy-tinged tongues of fire dancing across the beast. Flames that had nothing of a blue or yellow tint in them, but solely the bright rosiness of blood.
Then realisation socked into him.
“Oh, shit! Oh, oh … shit!” He began dragging Mick back faster than ever before, as fast as he could scuttle.
The monster was up and running for them, the flames snuffed out in a snap and twist. Doug had watched the conflagration too closely for too long. The monster had not been reduced by the fire, the flames were in it, like a film projected from the inside. It might have burned at one point, but no more. All a trick to bring them closer.
Doug’s shuffling feet kicked Mick in the back as he tried to speed up.
The monster was faster. It was almost upon them.
Doug heard the bullet whine past him before he heard the rifle’s stiff report. The monster’s upper half snapped back, its charge knocked down.
Continuing to back-pedal madly, Doug glanced over his shoulder to see Janet pulling Scott up the steps. Rob stayed put and reworked the bolt on the rifle in his arms to fire another shot. Doug could tell it wasn’t the son’s smaller half-rifle. It was a new weapon, something Doug had missed. The sneaky mongrels!
The rifle fired again. Doug instinctively ducked. Rob wasn’t firing at him, but he didn’t seem to be taking special care either. The monster was struck, but kept coming.
Doug kept his head down, going like mad until he hit the stairs, crashing onto his back, the risers painfully digging into him. He had no time to rest, not with Rob quick-marching up the stairs beside them, snapping one shot after another above their heads, working the bolt like a seasoned soldier.
Doug dragged Mick’s limp form up the steps. Rob stopped to retrieve the second rifle when it slipped from Mick’s lap. The Clarksons were clustered in the doorway, Lauren having joined them, the doona still wrapped around her waist.
“Get out of the way!” Doug crowded them back into the house, Rob followed last. The grazier moved fast, almost skipping over the threshold. Outside, something struck the front steps hard.
“Shut the door!” Doug yelled.
But there was no door to shut. The upper half had torn away from its hinge. The canted lower half was a barrier a toddler could climb over.
Rob put down both rifles and started shoving at the large hallstand next to the door, knocking loose hats and a rain slicker hanging from hooks. There was a narrow mirror framed within it, reflecting now a jerking panorama of frightened, shell-shocked faces. Scott saw what Rob intended and took up the other side. Together, father and son pushed the hallstand flat against the doorway with a bang, shutting it off.
Doug settled Mick in the closest lounge chair, removing the chain from his ankle. With more tender fingers, he reset the flap of scalp peeled back from the old man’s head. Its wrongness offended him. If it hurt, Mick was too out of it to say.
Doug then saw the new rifle brought into the fight, picking it up from its place beside the Winchester. It was not in good nick like Rob’s more showy piece, but as recently demonstrated, just as effective. Then he considered the Winchester propped against the wall, as Rob watched him. There was a weighty pause. Rob stepped forward, took up the Winchester and placed it under his arm. Doug simply nodded. The others never noticed the fashioning of their uneasy truce.
Doug spied Warlock dawdling in the corner of the living room, faded as far back as he could go. He was holding the shotgun as well as the pistol tucked into his pants. Doug marched over and snatched the shotgun away. The ease with which he was able to do it made him angrier still.
“Where were you when the shit was flying? Where was my back-up? You’re brave enough when you’re up against women, aren’t you?”
Warlock tried not to cower. He failed.
Doug did not wait for a reply. None would be good enough. He had an urgent need to get away from the punk before he beat the sense out of him.
At Doug’s approach, Scott stood his ground. He showed the boy the shotgun.
“Know how to use this?”
Scott was insulted. “Course.”
Doug tossed it to him.
“I don’t know if you want to do that,” Rob said.
Scott pumped the shotgun awkwardly, but with gusto. He considered Doug with a narrowed eye.
“Where do you want it, the heart or the head?”
“What did I tell you about threatening people?” Rob said sternly.
Janet laughed out loud, abruptly. She covered it up with a hand like she had impolitely burped. She and Rob looked at each other, swapping tight, helpless smiles. Then she gave her son more stern attention.
“Make sure you’ve got the safety on.”
Mick suddenly arched from his seat, a strangled gasp escaping him. His eyes flew open, trying to fix on his surroundings. Doug rushed to his side. Mick had to focus on him a moment before he recognised him, eyes wide and staring with fright. To Doug it looked dismayingly like Mick being in the throes of dementia. Then recognition and pain bit down together in his face, and Mick hunched in his seat, trembling.
“Are you alright?”
“Stop asking that,” Mick managed through clenched teeth. “I’m fine.”
Warlock approached them while rifling through his bumbag. He picked out three capsules with white and brown halves, offering them to Mick. The old man slapped at them with remarkable swiftness for someone so injured. They flew from Warlock’s hand. With a squeal, he chased after them.
“Stick them up your junky arse, Wally. I don’t need that shit.”
“They’re painkillers,” Warlock cried indignantly, reaching for one that had rolled under a sideboard. “They’re prescription.”
“C’mon, Mick,” Doug said gently. “The punk knows his drugs.”
Mick remained obstinate, sitting rigid in his chair, braced for the next bolt of pain to race through him. Doug took the capsules from Warlock. He held them out in his palm. “C’mo
n, Mick.”
Mick thought about it. He squinted fiercely, mouth drawn up, cheeks hollowing. Either he was foregoing his principles with difficulty, or clamping down on another spasm. He gave a curt nod and took the pills from Doug’s palm.
Doug was quickly away to the kitchen and, after some clattering, soon returned with a glass of water for Mick to swallow the capsules down. Watching, Janet noted the care, the reverence in the gesture. After briefly checking over her family, she made her way to the kitchen as well. She didn’t need light to know her way around in this familiar space. Without any of Doug’s fumbling, she brought back two more torches and a clutch of new and half-melted candles.
Doug waited for Mick to get the pills down before he turned his attention back to Warlock. He knew Wayne’s nickname stemmed chiefly from the magic he could perform with certain chemicals. But he also had a stake in the insanity going on outside: it was time to see if Warlock could live up to his moniker in more ways than one.
***
“You’re asking me if I know a way to stop it?” Warlock spluttered in high, nervous laughter. “You’re asking me?”
Then he eyed Doug with clear derision. He chuckled scornfully. “Why would you need me when you’re all so capable and experienced?” He turned around. “Hey, Mick! You don’t need help from me, surely? Not from Wally?”
Mick glared at him balefully, but it didn’t have the effect he hoped for, not when just leaving his chair again looked unlikely.
Warlock laughed again. There was nothing good-humoured in it. “You want me to tell you what’s going on? Oh, fuck, that’s good! That’s funny!”
He was ready for antagonism from Doug, but he didn’t see Rob coming. Setting his rifle set aside, the grazier went over and grabbed a fistful of Warlock’s shirt, throwing him hard against the wall. Warlock yelled as his head socked against it.
“Give a proper answer,” Rob demanded.