by Shaun Hutson
Denton nodded, then disappeared around the side of the house.
Wallace banged three times on the front door and waited.
There was no response.
He didn’t try a second time.
Wrapping his handkerchief around one fist he smashed one of the glass panels of the front door, hurriedly fumbling for the key which would unlock it. He twisted the key and hurled the door open, stepping into the long, narrow hallway.
Ahead of him was the staircase, to his left the sitting room, to his right a white door, firmly closed.
In the momentary silence, Wallace heard frenzied barking and it took him only a second to realize that it was coming from below. From the cellar.
He tugged at the white door, surprised when it opened so easily.
The heavy bulk of Mick Ferguson came hurtling through the door, ducked low, catching Wallace in the midriff. Both men crashed into the sitting room, toppling over a coffee table and upending a standard lamp as they struggled.
Wallace, despite being taken by surprise, managed to bring his knee up hard between his attacker’s legs and Ferguson groaned in pain, rolling off.
The inspector struggled to his feet, his hand closing around the leg of a small stool.
As Ferguson rose the policeman swung the stool like a club and caught the bigger man across the shoulder with it. It broke apart in his hand and he was left holding the one leg. Hefting it before him like a truncheon he steadied himself for his opponent’s next attack. This time, the bigger man ducked. beneath the swing and drove a fist into Wallace’s stomach, winding him, the impact propelling him back over a chair.
Before he could react, Ferguson was upon him, both ham-hock hands grasping the policeman’s throat, the thumbs pressing into the windpipe. He found himself looking up into a face which was distorted into a mask of sheer rage.
Wallace struck out with his left hand, driving two fingers into his attacker’s eyes.
As Ferguson screamed in pain, Wallace tore the large hands from his neck and rolled to one side, scrambling to his feet. The bigger man struggled to rise, but the policeman kicked him hard in the side, hearing the sharp crack of breaking ribs. Ferguson went down in a sprawling heap, clutching his injured side, and Wallace saw him spit blood. A second later he was up again, lashing out wildly, catching the inspector across the face with a backhand swipe that split his bottom lip. Blood spilled down his chin, and for precious seconds white stars danced before his eyes.
The lapse was enough to give Ferguson the upper hand.
He launched himself at Wallace, knocking him back into the hall, slamming him up against the wall with a bone-jarring thud. As the policeman slid to the floor Ferguson drove the toe of his boot into his stomach twice in quick succession, then tore open the front door and prepared to flee.
He cursed as he saw Laidlaw running towards him.
Ferguson ducked back into the house, wrenched open the white door and bolted down into the cellar.
Wallace struggled upright, helped by Laidlaw, and both men hurried after their quarry, struck by the foul smell as they entered the cellar.
Now they heard the barking of the dogs, echoing around the subterranean room until it was deafening.
In the gloom, Wallace saw Ferguson over by the two cages, fumbling with the lock which held the black dog firmly behind bars.
Laidlaw ran at the bigger man, apparently unaware of what was about to happen. Wallace’s restraining arm wasn’t enough to halt him.
The cage door swung open.
Jaws open wide, long streamers of saliva dripping from them, the pit bull terrier bounded forward, snarling madly.
As Laidlaw opened his mouth to scream, the dog launched itself at him.
Fifty-Nine
The cellar had become a madhouse.
Shouts from the men mingled with the frenzied barking and growling of the dogs in a deafening cacophony.
The black dog crashed into Laidlaw, and as he raised both arms to protect his face, it clamped its jaws over his right forearm, shaking its head back and forth frenziedly as if the arm were a rabbit. With horror the policeman felt the material of his tunic tearing, and an instant later the sharp teeth found his flesh.
The skin and muscle were shredded as easily as by a meat grinder and the taste of the blood which jetted from the wounds inflamed the ravenous dog further. It jerked its head away and struck at the policeman’s unprotected stomach, tearing through his clothing until it reached his midriff. He screamed in pain and fear as he felt the sharp teeth gnawing at him and grabbed desperately at the beast’s head.
Laidlaw succeeded in grasping the beast by the ears and dragging its head up by sheer force, but he knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold on forever. The brute twisted and writhed in his grip, its fetid breath strong in his face as it struggled to snap at the hands which held it.
Wallace, after fighting his way past Ferguson, now dashed across and drove a powerful kick into the animal’s side, almost grinning as he heard bones splinter under the impact. The dog rolled over, then came hurtling back at Laidlaw, as if sensing which was the weaker of the two men. This time he could not raise his arms in time and its snapping jaws closed over one of his ears like the sprung blades of a man-trap, severing the fleshy appendage with ease.
The dog swallowed the severed ear and came at the policeman once more.
He was moaning in pain, one hand clapped to the place where his ear had been. Now there was just a ragged hole which pumped crimson down the side of his face. Some hair had also come away, tom from the roots to leave a bloodied bald patch above the hole.
The bull terrier skidded on some blood and this time only succeeded in sinking its teeth into Laidlaw’s belt.
He gripped it by the ears once again and dragged it off him, trying to hold the snapping, squirming beast at arm’s length.
Wallace, meanwhile, spotted Ferguson preparing to free the other dog and made a dash for him, knocking the bigger man backwards over the second cage.
They grappled as the albino dog leapt and barked at the bars, anxious to be free of its prison, to taste blood in its mouth.
Wallace picked up one of the stainless steel trays used to store the dog’s meat and swung it in a wide arc at his opponent.
There was a dull clang as it caught Ferguson full in the face, shattering his nose and causing him to stagger back, blood pouring down his face. Wallace struck again, using the side of the tray in a backhand swipe that splintered two of Ferguson’s front teeth and opened a hideous gash in his upper lip.
The bigger man dropped to his knees, the barking of the dog loud in his ears. Beside the cage lay a palette knife which Ferguson used to cut up the meat and offal which he fed the beasts. In one swift movement he snatched up the weapon and lashed out at Wallace.
The broad blade caught the inspector on the thigh, slicing effortlessly through the material of his trousers and into the muscle. He winced in pain and drew back, blood running freely from the cut.
‘Fucking coppers,’ Ferguson said, moving towards the front of the cage which held the albino. His free hand fumbled for the lock while he kept the knife lowered towards Wallace.
The inspector knew he had only seconds to act.
Using the metal tray as a shield, he ran at Ferguson and managed to swing the object downwards to deflect the thrust. The knife went spinning across the floor, but Ferguson lashed out with his other hand and Wallace groaned in pain as the backhand swipe connected with his throat. He tumbled backwards, rolling close to where Laidlaw still struggled with the first dog.
The black beast had, by now, all but slipped loose of his desperate hands and it twisted its head to one side, closing its jaws on the policeman’s left hand. He shrieked as the razor-sharp teeth penetrated, but fear gave him an added strength and he threw himself on top of the dog, using his free hand to rain blows down on its skull.
Still it would not release his left hand.
Wallace knew that he would nev
er reach Ferguson before he could set the other dog free. All he could do was look around for something to defend himself with.
The bigger man slipped the lock on the albino brute’s cage.
Wallace leapt to one side, his hand closing over a stout length of wood which had been broken off from a fruit box during the struggles in the cellar.
Two long nails protruded menacingly from one end, their points rusted but razor sharp.
Ferguson threw open the door of the cage. The insane barking of the dog reached nerve-shredding heights as it flew forward as if fired from a cannon.
Wallace braced himself for the onslaught.
Ferguson gave a shout of triumph which turned suddenly into a yell of fear as the dog rounded on him.
The powerful beast leapt at its owner and, with one well-aimed bite, fastened its steel-trap jaws around his genitals.
Ferguson shrieked in uncontrollable agony as the white brute bit through his jeans, its teeth shearing through his scrotum and most of his penis.
With one powerful twist of its head it tore his testicles away, ripping a thick length of penis with them.
Blood erupted from the massive hole, spraying the floor beneath and also covering the dog, which merely swallowed the fleshy ovoids as if they had been boiled eggs. Blood dripped from its haws, the smell exciting it as much as the taste.
Wallace was transfixed by the sight, watching helplessly as Ferguson screamed and dropped to his knees, both hands clutching at the tom mess between his legs, his fingers sinking into the gore-filled chasm. He was helpless as the dog attacked again, its frenzied charge knocking him onto his back.
Horrified by what he saw, Wallace reacted in the only way possible. He lashed out at the dog with the slab of wood, the two nails cutting open its right shoulder. But the animal seemed oblivious to the wound, reluctant to let go of its prey.
Its head darted forward and it snapped its jaws together around Ferguson’s throat, crunching the larynx to pulp, ripping away most of the skin and muscle beneath his chin.
Huge fountains of blood burst from the severed arteries, rising a full three feet into the air, some of the red liquid spattering Wallace. He struck out at the dog once more as it began to shake Ferguson, whose head rocked back and forth with such terrifying speed that Wallace feared the beast would rip it from his shoulders.
The animal was drenched with blood, looking as if it had just emerged from an abattoir.
The policeman struck at it again with the spiked wood, and this time the nails punctured the side of its head, almost gouging one of its watery pink eyes from the socket.
Snarling in pain, it turned on him.
Wallace swung the piece of wood again but the dog caught it between its teeth. The inspector gripped both ends, hearing the timber crack as the dog bit through it and, in horror, he hurled the two ends away, throwing himself to the blood-soaked floor in an effort to reach the knife.
As his fingers closed around the handle he felt agonizing pain shooting through his leg.
The dog had fastened its teeth in his calf, practically ham-stringing him with the ferocity of its bite. But he lashed out with his other foot and drove a piledriver kick into its face, forcing it to release its grip for precious seconds. Wallace rolled over as it launched itself at him again, teeth aimed for his throat.
He raised one arm to protect himself, and with the other struck upwards with the knife, using all the force he could muster.
The dog’s jaws closed around his wrist, lacerating flesh and almost snapping the bone, but the pain was only momentary.
He drove the knife into its belly and, using all his strength, tore downwards, gutting the beast with one savage cut.
Its stomach opened and Wallace moaned in revulsion as its intestines spilled onto him like thick, reeking spaghetti. An evil smelling flux of bile and viscera splattered him and it was all he could manage to prevent himself from vomiting. The stench was unbelievable. But the grip around his wrist loosened and he managed to push the creature off, rising unsteadily to his feet, his head swimming now, pain gnawing at his arm and leg.
Laidlaw was still struggling with the first animal, still trying to force the beast to release his left hand. It took Wallace a second or two to realize that the creature was actually dead. The blows which the constable had been raining down on its head had finally succeeded in shattering the skull. His hand was coated in a sticky greyish-red porridge which Wallace realized must be the brain.
As he staggered across to the injured constable, Wallace felt his leg starting to go numb. He stumbled, then fell, sprawling alongside the dog, the knife slipping from his hand. He felt sick, his clothes sticking to him, soaked in blood.
‘Oh, my God!’
He heard the voice from the top of the cellar steps and looked up to see PC Denton scuttling down, his face draining of colour as he saw the carnage before him.
Wallace exhaled almost painfully, coughing up blood which, for a moment, he thought was his own. With disgust he realized that he must have swallowed some of the albino brute’s blood. The thought made him violently and uncontrollably sick and he rolled onto his side, retching until there was nothing left in his stomach.
‘The ambulance is on its way,’ Denton said, struggling to retain his own self-control.
‘Terrific,’ murmured Wallace, using his handkerchief to staunch the flow of blood from the bite on his leg.
Laidlaw had blacked out.
Sixty
The light above the worktop flickered once then went out.
Kim looked up and muttered to herself, annoyed at being plunged into darkness for long moments until the power came back on again. Outside, the wind was roaring like an enraged animal and she wondered if it had brought down a powerline somewhere in the vicinity.
The light flickered again, and this time she decided that enough was enough. She’d been at the museum since three that afternoon, having left Clare in the capable hands of Wendy Barratt, a neighbour from across the street. Now, as the hands of the clock reached 9:45, she decided to ring her home and tell Wendy she was on her way.
Kim had spent most of her time at the museum carefully packing and labelling the stone tablets and skulls as well as the scores of other relics which she’d examined over the past couple of weeks. Now they were all secure in wooden boxes. She wondered what would become of them and the other relics found at the dig now that work there had ceased. That decision would be up to Charles Cooper, but her attempts to contact him throughout the evening had proved futile.
She gazed at the box containing the tablets, her eyes narrowing slightly. Although Kim had sealed it herself, one corner looked loose, as if it had been prised open slightly with a chisel. She picked up the hammer which lay nearby and banged each nail twice to ensure that the lid was adequately fixed on, then she returned to the staff room and picked up the phone, dialling her own number. She waited for the receiver to be picked up.
The wind shrieked around the building.
She waited.
Finally she pressed down the cradle, waited a moment, then dialled again.
The ringing tone sounded loudly once more.
Twice. Three times.
No answer.
Kim tapped on the worktop with her index finger, waiting.
Waiting.
The lights suddenly went out and, as they did, there was a tremendous hiss of static from the phone, so loud that she held the receiver away from her ear.
The line was dead.
Kim dropped it back onto the cradle, cursing the storm. She bumped her shin on the stool as she turned, waiting for the lights to come back on.
It was a full minute before brightness once more flooded the room.
She rubbed her eyes as the fluorescents flashed on, illuminating the staff room and the laboratory beyond it. Kim swallowed hard and took a step into the other room, her eyes fixed on the box which held the stone tablets.
There was a pungent odour in the air, like
burnt wood, and she waved a hand before her as she moved into the lab, her breath coming in short gasps.
The lid of the box lay on the floor, the nails twisted and bent.
As if the lid had been torn free with great force.
There were dark patches on the lid and sides of the box.
Like burn marks.
Sixty-One
The house was in darkness.
Kim brought the car to a halt, pulling up the collar of her jacket as she climbed out, shivering as the wind swirled around her.
Perhaps some power lines actually had come down. Maybe that was why not one single light burned in her house. She approached the front door glancing to her right and left. The houses on either side were both well lit, and the street lamps too were on.
Why was it only her house which remained in darkness?
She fumbled in her pocket and pulled out the key, turning it quickly, walking into the hallway.
The house was as quiet as a grave. The only sound Kim heard was her own muted breathing as she pushed open the sitting room door, reaching for the light switch.
The lights came on instantly.
The television set was on too, but the sound was turned off:
On the nearby coffee table was a mug of tea. Full but cold.
‘Wendy,’ she called, wondering where the child-minder had got to.
Kim moved through to the kitchen, flicking on that light too. The fluorescent sputtered into life, bathing the room in a cold white glow.
‘Wendy,’ Kim said again, softly, her voice almost a whisper.
She felt the first twinge of fear then. As if cold hands were being placed on her back and neck.
She turned and headed through the sitting room, towards the hall and the stairs. She tried the light at the bottom but it merely flickered once, then went out.
The staircase remained in darkness.