by Ken Preston
Suddenly he swiped his sharp, talon like fingernails across Coffin’s cheek, a spray of blood arcing across the man’s face. Coffin kicked him off, and rolled out of the way, cursing as his shoulder erupted with shooting pain. Coffin thudded into a wall, put his left hand on the floor to leverage himself up, and clenched his jaws as he realised he was too late.
The naked man slammed into Coffin, snarling, swiping sharp talons across Coffin’s face again. He whipped his head back, but it was too late, and blood sprayed up the wall, and in his eyes.
Blindly, Coffin swung a fist, and it connected with the man’s throat, forced him staggering back, clutching at his neck. Coffin wiped blood out of his eyes. He took advantage of the pause and scrambled to his feet. Pivoting on his left foot, he swung his right up through a long arc, and into the man’s skull, the heel of his boot squishing into his ruined face.
Coffin’s attacker collapsed, all his fury and manic energy suddenly leaving him. He huddled on the floor, revolting in his blood streaked nakedness, his hands to his face, weeping. Walking in a circle around the pathetic creature, Coffin kept his eyes on him all the time. The best thing now would be to kick him in the head, cave in his face, and leave him there while he looked for Jacob.
“I can’t fucking believe it.”
Coffin spun round. He’d forgotten about the woman.
“What?”
“You beat him. I didn’t think you could do it, but you did. You beat the fucking crap out of him.”
Coffin wiped more blood out of his eyes. His face felt like it was on fire. “Why are you still here?”
“What and miss the fight? Are you crazy?”
Coffin held up his hand for silence. The muffled sounds of crying behind him had changed. What was he doing now?
Was he giggling?
The thing on the floor uncurled itself and leaped at Coffin, the impact throwing him across the hall and smashing into a draped window. The glass shattered, and the heavy drape collapsed over the two men. Coffin punched out wildly, trapped beneath the cloth. Although his fists wouldn’t connect with anything, he could feel the man slicing at him with his talons.
The flesh on his chest, and arms, and face, was being ripped open. Warm blood dripped into his eyes, the taste of it in his mouth. He couldn’t breathe under here, had no freedom to fight.
Suddenly his fist connected with soft, yielding flesh, and he drove the punch home as forcefully as he could, piling all his weight behind it. He heard the crazed man hit the floor, and Coffin grabbed a handful of the dusty material and dragged it off him.
Pale daylight filled the hall, lighting up motes of dust whirling around in the air like mini hurricanes. Coffin threw the heavy drapes to one side and blinked blood out of his eyes. He flexed the fingers in his right hand, pins and needles electrifying it. The lacerated muscle and tendons in his shoulder were slowing him down.
The man on the floor looked like an animal. He was crouching, lips peeled back in a snarl, black eyes staring at Coffin. Some of his flesh along his back, and down his right arm and thigh, was growing scaly and red where the sun was shining on it. As Coffin watched, the skin began blistering.
The creature didn’t seem to notice. He drew himself up to his full height, smiling again.
“Where’s the boy?” Coffin snarled. “What have you done with him?”
The man licked blood from his lips and then ran at Coffin. Before Coffin had a chance to step out of the way, the man was on top of him, jaws snapping at his neck, a thin whining coming from deep in its throat.
Coffin tried to grab hold of him, his wrists, his arms, his neck, but his hands kept slipping off the blood-smeared flesh. They staggered back like one life form, all whirling, struggling limbs, until Coffin snagged a foot under a rug and they both fell, hit the floor with a solid thump.
The thing sank its teeth into Coffin’s right forearm, and he roared in pain. They seemed to go so deep, those teeth, into the muscle, scraping along the bone, chewing and gouging, tearing up the flesh and sinew.
Coffin pounded at the savage thing’s head and back with his fist, trying to break its grip. Crazed with bloodlust, the man let go of Coffin’s arm and lunged for his neck. The long, pointed teeth scraped at his flesh.
He saw the woman standing over them both, and she was raising her hand. What was she doing?
She was holding something, and it came swinging down, and Coffin suddenly realised it was his cosh, smashing into the man’s head. The force of the blow whipped him sideways, and he rolled across the floor. As Coffin struggled to his feet, he saw the woman swing the cosh in a wide, powerful arc again, onto the man’s skull.
Coffin heard bone crunch, saw blood and fragments of bone shower the woman’s shredded suit. He glanced at his forearm. It was a mangled mess of blood and chewed tissue.
Coffin heard movement, looked up and saw the thing climbing to its feet again. It grabbed the woman by her hair. She screamed, grabbing at the man’s wrists. Before Coffin could move, the man had smashed the woman’s head against a wall, and let her go, to drop to the floor, senseless.
The rabid monster launched itself at Coffin again. They crashed through a door and rolled down the stone-flagged passage. As they fought, they smacked against the walls, leaving trails of blood along the stonework.
Coffin struggled beneath the furious onslaught of the wild man. He scratched and bit and kicked at Coffin like a rabid animal. Coffin’s right arm was almost useless, and he used it as little more than a shield held over his face. His chest, shoulders, arms, and head were covered in lacerations, and blood sprayed against the walls as they fought.
Coffin smashed his elbow into the man’s already ruined face, stunning him for a moment. Taking advantage of the pause, Coffin grabbed the man between his legs, and squeezed his balls tight. The naked man yowled in pain. Knowing he had to act fast, Coffin planted his left hand over the man’s face, and smashed his skull against the wall. His black eyes widened in surprise, and Coffin pulled him forward and smashed his head against the wall again.
There was a crunch, something popped, and when Coffin pulled the man forward, he left behind a red splodge of hair and bone and brain.
One more time, Coffin smashed the man’s skull against the wall. There was another sickening crunch, and Coffin let him go. He slid down the wall, his head leaving a dark trail of bone and brain matter on the rough stone.
Coffin stepped away, keeping his eyes on the man’s naked form all the time. He still expected him to jump up, snarling and hissing, teeth snapping, eyes rolling.
But no, he stayed still, back against the wall, head slumped on his chest.
Coffin wiped blood out of his eyes. His chest heaved with the exertion of the fight. He was covered in long, bloody lacerations, his shirt and trousers ripped, liked he’d been in a fight with a roll of barbed wire. He looked at the wound on his forearm and tried flexing his hand. Pain rode up his arm and through his shoulder, but he could still move his fingers, rotate his hand.
There was an open door beside Coffin, steps leading down into a cellar. On a ledge at the top was a fat church candle and a box of matches. Coffin lit the candle and walked down the steps.
He saw Jacob right away. The boy was lying on a makeshift bed of pallets and sacks, his eyes closed. From where Coffin stood, the boy looked dead. He approached him, holding the candle up to see him better. Hot wax dripped over Coffin’s fingers, but he didn’t notice.
Jacob’s right arm was wrapped in a blood-stained bandage. His face drawn and pale, smudged with dirt. He stank of filth and piss.
Coffin put the candle down and squatted in front of Jacob. The boy’s chest was rising and falling in a slight, shallow movement.
Coffin snapped his head round as he heard movement upstairs. What would it take to kill that thing?
Coffin noticed the mantrap, its rusty jaws snapped shut. If he could prise the jaws apart, and if it still worked, that might do the trick.
Coffin braced
his right heel against one jaw and gripped the other with his left hand. Slowly the jaws separated, grinding and complaining. He kept pushing with his foot, and pulling with his left hand, until he had fully extended the jaws, and he heard a click.
Coffin let go, and the mantrap jaws stayed in place. It was primed.
Standing with Jacob behind him, and the mantrap on the floor in front, Coffin watched as the creature crept down the stairs, the light from the candle dancing over its naked flesh, its hunched body casting a long shadow on the wall behind.
It seemed less human than ever, muscles rippling beneath blood soaked flesh, its cock hanging obscenely like a fat slug between its legs.
It fixed its black eyes on Coffin. He braced himself, every muscled bunched up, tense and ready.
This was going to hurt.
With a loud snarl, the creature rushed at Coffin, mouth open, teeth ready to sink into his soft flesh.
Ignoring the searing pain in his right arm, Coffin grabbed the mantrap in both hands and swung it at the creature. The jaws snapped shut with a wet squelch around its neck, the rusty spikes embedded into its throat. It staggered beneath the weight of the mantrap, its hands gripping the rusty contraption, trying to pull it apart.
The weight of the mantrap pulled it back, and the creature toppled over, hitting the cellar floor on its back. After struggling for a few more moments, legs kicking out in spasmodic movements, it finally lay still.
Coffin turned back to Jacob. His eyes were open.
“Joe?”
His voice was weak, nothing more than a hoarse whisper.
“I’m here,” Coffin said, crouching down beside him. “I’m getting you out of here, Jacob. You’re safe now.”
Jacob closed his eyes.
Coffin wrapped his good arm around the boy and picked him up. Jacob raised his hands, his arms trembling, and hugged Coffin, who held him tight.
“St…Stef…” Jacob whispered.
“Shh,” Coffin said. “It’s all right, we’re getting out of here now, get you to a hospital, to your mother. You’re safe now.”
Jacob fell silent, his body limp in Coffin’s arms.
Coffin climbed the cellar steps, walked through the house, cradling the boy to him, gently stroking the back of his head with his ruined hand. Outside, the rain clouds had cleared, and the touch of the pale autumn sunshine on his face and arms was like a soothing balm to his raw, bloody wounds.
EPISODE TWO
tight little stitches in a dead man's face
The long column of grey ash projecting from the cigarette butt clamped between Doctor Shaddock’s lips finally disintegrated and scattered over the table. Shaddock squinted at it through the spiral of smoke drifting across his face. Then he swept his hand over the table and brushed the ash onto the floor.
“Fuck it, isn’t one of you bastards going to offer me a drink?” he snarled.
Craggs nodded at the bouncer standing by the door, his back against the wall. Wearing the black Angels tee, with the angel wings outlined in white spread across his chest, he looked like he spent every spare moment down the gym, bench-pressing twice his bodyweight before breakfast. He glowered across the room at Shaddock, like he was thinking to himself, go get your own fucking drink, what am I, your fucking maid? He pulled himself off the wall, sauntered around behind the empty bar, and pulled a bottle of lager from the fridge. He walked across the dance floor, nice and slow, like he had all the time in the world, and put the bottle on the table.
Shaddock looked up at him, the cigarette still stuck in his mouth. “What the fuck do you think I’m going to do with that? Stick it in my mouth and prise the fucking top off with my fucking teeth?”
Craggs nodded at the bouncer again. He sighed and ambled back across the dance floor to the bar.
“You need to sort your boys out, Mortimer,” Shaddock said. “Kids, these days, got no fucking respect for their elders. Ain’t that right, Joe?”
Joe Coffin sat across the table from Shaddock. He held a towel to his face. The towel had once been white, but was now stained scarlet. Coffin had removed his shirt. His right shoulder was a mess of torn flesh and blood, and his right forearm looked like a Rottweiler had given it a good chewing. His arms and chest and back were covered in red slashes, some of them still dribbling blood.
“Fucking hell, Joe,” Shaddock mumbled. “What the hell did you do, break into the zoo and try shagging a tiger?”
“Forget the questions, Doc,” Craggs said. “Just sew him up.”
Shaddock twisted in his seat and stared at Craggs. “This man should be in a hospital. He’s probably lost a lot of blood, and he’ll need the services of a good plastic surgeon if he wants to minimise the scarring on his face. Then there’s the damage to his shoulder and arm.” He twisted round and stared at Coffin. “You still got any use in that arm, Joe?”
Coffin lifted his arm and winced. “It hurts, but, yeah, I can use it.”
“Clench your fist for me.”
Coffin clenched and unclenched his fist, wiggled his fingers, and rotated his hand.
Shaddock pulled the cigarette from his mouth and stubbed it out in an ashtray. “Well, that’s looking hopeful, I suppose. As your doctor, I’d still recommend you go to fucking hospital.”
“If I go to a hospital, I’ll be arrested before they get me on the table,” Coffin said.
The bouncer returned and dropped a bottle opener on the table.
“Bout fucking time,” Shaddock growled.
He prised the bottle top off, lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long slug of the cold lager. He swiped the back of his hand across his lips, pulled a cigarette from the crumpled packet on the table, and lit up.
“All right, then,” he said, the cigarette waggling up and down in his mouth as he spoke. He lifted a large, black bag onto the table, opened it up and rummaged through it. He pulled out scissors, bandages, packets of drugs and syringes, and sutures.
Coffin noticed the doctor’s hands were shaking.
“I can sew you up, Joe, but it ain’t gonna look pretty. I’m no plastic surgeon, the best I can do with your face is close up those wounds with some tight little stitches, try and minimise the scarring.”
“We should take him to a hospital,” the bouncer said. “Get him some proper treatment.”
Shaddock lifted the lager bottle to his mouth and drained the rest in one go. He slammed the empty bottle back on the table and grinned up at the bouncer. “You know what? I like these little French lagers. Get these fuckers chilled just right, they go down a treat. Best time I ever had drinking one of these, I was getting a blow job off a black whore down in Bearwood. She was sucking on my dick, and I was sucking on the bottle. What do you think about that? I got an idea, why don’t I go get myself another one of these fancy French lagers, and you can suck my cock while I drink it?”
The bouncer stared back at him, his eyes flat, his face deadpan.
“Go get him another drink, Clevon,” Craggs said.
“Clevon?” Shaddock barked out a sharp, hard laugh. “What the fuck kind of name is Clevon?”
“He shouldn’t be doing no operation on Joe when he’s drinking and smoking,” Clevon said. “It ain’t right.”
Coffin watched with interest as Shaddock stood up. He was tall and thin, looked like a stiff breeze might blow him over. He towered over Clevon, but the bouncer looked like he weighed at least twice what Shaddock did. Doctor Frankie Shaddock had been the Slaughterhouse Mob’s private GP for as long as Coffin had been a part of the gang. How old was he now? Sixty? Seventy?
As the years had passed, Coffin had noticed Shaddock growing thinner, and more stooped, his hands becoming increasingly shaky.
But he’d always been a cantankerous bastard.
“These are some high class bouncers you employ these days, Mortimer,” Shaddock said. “They got medical degrees and everything, at least this one must have, him telling me how to do my job and all.”
“Clevon, ge
t the doctor his drink,” Craggs snarled.
The bouncer turned his back on Shaddock and ambled across the nightclub to the bar.
“All right, then,” Shaddock mumbled.
He walked around behind Coffin and bent down and peered at the wound on his shoulder, the cigarette still clamped between his lips. Coffin winced as the doctor pressed his fingers down on either side of the gash and pulled the edges apart. He looked intently into the wound.
“Hmm, doesn’t look too bad, I suppose. Whatever it was bit you, has done some damage, but I’ll see what I can sew up. It’s going to be sore for a good while, though.”
“What about infection, Doc?” Coffin said.
Shaddock grunted. “It would help if you’d tell me what bit you.”
“You wouldn’t believe me,” Coffin said.
“Try me.”
“It was a man bit me.”
“You’re right,” Shaddock said. “I don’t fucking believe you. You look like you’ve been savaged by a wild animal.”
“You didn’t see him,” Coffin said. “He was like a wild animal.”
Clevon slammed the bottle of lager on the table with a loud bang and pointed at the doctor. “Hey, shouldn’t he at least have washed his fucking hands?”
Shaddock snarled and walked away from Coffin. “All right then, seen as the fucking sphincter graduate over here obviously knows better than I do, I’ll leave you in his capable hands, and he can fucking well put Joe back together again.”
Craggs stepped in front of Shaddock and placed his hands on his shoulders. “Hey, Frankie, what’s got into you? You know we respect you, I wouldn’t have called you over here unless I trusted you. Come on, don’t be like this. Joe needs you to put him back together, ain’t that right, Joe?”
