by Stephen Laws
Something behind him—now!
Drew whirled, instinctively holding up the torch like a club to ward off whatever was about to launch itself upon him.
The living room beyond was as empty as before.
A sheet of newspaper slithered slowly from the sofa to the floor.
Was there something crouched behind that sofa—something watching and waiting to pounce?
This was ridiculous! Drew rushed to the edge of the sofa and pushed it hard.
He recoiled as something screeched. He raised the flashlight high in defence.
It was the castors on the sofa. That was all.
Quickly dodging to one side so that he could see what was behind the sofa, Drew kept the torch raised high like a weapon to see—
Nothing at all.
Cursing himself for a fool, Drew straightened, pulled the sofa back to its original position and then froze.
Something scratched in the kitchen.
Drew whirled back, but could see nothing. He strained to listen for further sound.
There was only the rattling of the storm doors below.
A trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades also served to raise the hair on the back of his neck as he moved slowly back to the kitchen. He paused in the doorway—and the noise came again.
A long, deliberate scratch—like a single claw dragging on a concrete floor.
Now he realised that it was coming from the darkness of the cellar doorway.
Drew rechecked the living room, scanning the kitchen for movement as he moved to the cellar doorway. Leaning into the darkness, he flicked on the light switch. The sudden illumination received no response, did not serve to alert any intruder or whatever was making the noise. Drew carefully stepped into the doorway and looked down into the cellar.
It was as before. The storm doors were still locked; still rattling as the storm wind pounded at the hasps. There was no sign of anyone or anything down there. But could someone or something be hiding beneath one of the workbenches?
Drew started down the stairs.
Now it seemed as if it was more than the storm trying to get in through those rattling double doors beyond; it was as if some wild animal was trying to break in.
Drew paused on the stairs, stooping low now to see if anything was crouched in the shadows. He flinched when the overhead lights flickered.
“Christ, Drew! Pull yourself together.”
At the bottom of the stairs, he heard the scrape again—off to his right, from the cage.
For a moment, he could not move.
When he did, he turned carefully and slowly.
And looked.
“Good God . . .”
The Big Cat snarled at him, revealing its long yellow fangs. The sound filled the cellar, louder than the storm. The fetid smell of its breath was the same as the smell from the cave. Its opal-glass eyes seemed to radiate hatred as it shifted position, pushing closer to the bars—as if willing its sleek black body to press through the bars to the other side, where it could rend him to shreds.
Drew staggered back, bumping against a workbench. The torch dropped from his hands and rolled across the concrete floor.
The Big Cat shifted back, away from the bars and onto its haunches, as if it could now launch itself forward and smash its way through those bars. Its gaze never left him.
Something moved between its forepaws.
The Big Cat looked down briefly to acknowledge the presence of the thing that emerged from the sleek black fur of its underbelly, before returning its deadly opal-eyed gaze to Drew. He watched, mouth open, as the thing pushed forward between the Big Cat’s paws and rubbed itself against the bars. When it saw Drew, it pulled back and hissed.
“Good God almighty . . .”
It was a cub.
“How . . . ?”
And now Drew could see the streaks of white fur above this creature’s eyes that were so like the white flashes of fur on the cub they had caught in the net back at the cave. The fact that the Big Cat should now suddenly be alive in the cage when it had been so clearly dead was—impossible. But that there should now somehow be a cub in there with it was even more impossible. The bars of that cage could not possibly be wide enough for it to squeeze through from outside. But the Big Cat was alive, and somehow the cub was in there with it. For a crazy moment, he wondered whether the Big Cat had given birth. But this was the male cat, damn it! Drew struggled with his thoughts, unable to take his eyes from the white fur on the cub’s brow and telling himself that this could not possibly be the same cub they had encountered in the cave. Could this creature have followed them, made its way down to the farmhouse through the storm? Could this cub have been the presence he had sensed as it made its way back to its parent?
“It can’t be . . .”
The cub slithered and shifted.
On the dewclaw of its right forepaw was a snagged fragment of netting.
There it was—and there they were—alive and so full of what seemed to be a wild and naked hatred for what he had done to them. Somehow—impossibly—Drew now had what he had been hunting for, and more, all these years.
He could not believe it.
And now—God help him—he did not want it.
Stunned, unsure what to do, Drew retrieved the torch from the floor. He never took his eyes from the creatures. They spat and hissed as he carefully placed the torch on the bench behind him; as if this mundane act could somehow undo everything that had been done.
“I’ll . . . go . . .”
They were the only words he could find as he stumbled away from the cage and back to the stairs.
He turned back only once, as if expecting the vision in the cage to have disappeared. As if in answer, the Big Cat roared defiance at him; the cub shrinking back and burying itself in the black fur between its parent’s forepaws and chest.
Drew froze.
Beyond the shuddering cellar storm doors, there seemed to be an answering roar in the night. A snarl of sound which was like a hellish echo of the Big Cat’s fury—but which must surely be just that—some bizarre echo, or maybe the storm’s thunder.
Drew waited for that sound to come again.
There was nothing but the storm, raging and buffeting.
Drew ascended.
At the top of the stairs, he paused in the kitchen doorway; one hand braced in the doorframe—and felt the storm shuddering the very fabric of the house.
“What have I done?”
In the living room, he picked up a sheet of newspaper—something for his hands to do—and continued to struggle with the reality of the creatures downstairs in the cage.
Headlights swept the glass windows of the porch.
“Cath!”
Drew cast aside the newspaper and hurried to the front door. As he moved, he heard the crunch of gravel as the car came to a halt, heard the car door open. At least she was safe! She’d seen that Rynne and Faye were safe, and she had come back to him through the storm. As he opened the door, he realised just how much he wanted her.
“Drew!”
He recognised her silhouette running toward him, as the storm gusted through the front door and into the house.
“Cath, thank God! You’re safe.”
“Drew, go back! Don’t . . .”
Something was wrong with her voice. There was a jumble and flurry of movement behind her, but Drew couldn’t make out what was happening as he took a step forward and—
Cath was suddenly propelled forward into his arms from behind. He staggered back as they embraced, instantly recognizing her smell and her warmth, the impetus of Cath’s forward momentum throwing them back into the porch. She lost her balance and clung to him, his foot skidded on leaves and Drew fell clumsily back against the porch shelf. A blur of silhouetted movement, Cath was shoved hard against him again, and this time they both reeled and staggered—back into the living room, as shapes filled the porch and the front door slammed shut.
“Honey!” said an
unfamiliar man’s voice. “We’re home!”
THIRTY ONE
That which had followed its prey back to the Two-Legs’ stone lair and had slithered low through the darkness as the Two-Legs managed to close the entrance before it could make its killing run, hissed at the vehicle in the driveway and retreated to the feed shed to hug the ground, watching.
It had heard its mate calling from the cellar and had clawed at the cellar storm doors, answering its mate’s cry and knowing that its cub had joined its father in captivity, instead of waiting in the lair for its return.
The rushing, roaring sound of the Round-Leg Beast approaching had made it retreat to the darkness again. It had watched as more of the hated Two-Legs had emerged and entered the house. Its mate and its offspring had been taken then, not by two of the Two-Legs—but by three more, who had now come to savour and gloat in the capture.
The She Cat growled long and low as the storm wind continued to grow in strength and ferocity. It was a sound of fury and intent. Once there had only been two, now there were five.
Five hated Two-Legs.
Its mate and its cub were held by them.
Five would die.
THIRTY TWO
The first face Drew saw was the face of a baby, atop a man’s body. He was grinning, standing with his hands held at each side as if he were hoping Drew would rush him. Drew made to pull away from Cath, baffled and enraged by the sudden rough entry of these intruders—but Cath clung tight to him, holding him back.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? Get the hell out of my house!”
The man in the woollen cap was half carrying a third man, arm-over-shoulder, moving quickly to the sofa in the centre of the living room. Now Drew could see that the man was badly injured, one leg at an unnatural angle below the knee. He cried out in agony as the man in the woollen hat rested him back on the sofa.
“Cath, who are these people?”
“These people,” laughed the baby-man, looking back at his friends to see if there was a joke.
“Not funny, Crip,” said the man in the woollen hat.
Drew pulled away from Cath and seized the baby-man by the shoulder.
“Get the hell out of here!”
The smile vanished from the baby face.
Drew did not see the blow, but in a flash of white light he was suddenly on the floor and Cath was kneeling beside him, holding him close again. Everything had suddenly become a blur of slow motion.
“Now that,” said the woollen-hat man, standing suddenly in Drew’s line of vision and smiling down at him. “That was funny.”
He lashed out with his foot, connecting with the side of Drew’s head.
White light exploded, and Drew was suddenly not there anymore.
Cath flew at Pasco, fingers clawing at his eyes.
Pasco seized her wrists, stumbling back—and Crip began laughing and whooping at the fun. Cursing, Pasco collided with the sofa and the sudden jolt sent a spasm of fresh agony through Tully’s leg.
His scream was drowned by the pistol shot he fired into the ceiling.
Cath pulled away, Crip was no longer laughing—and all three remained frozen as flakes of plaster drifted down on them like a single flurry of snow.
“You,” said Tully through gritted teeth, pointing the gun at Cath. “Painkillers. For Christ’s sake. Get me some painkillers.”
Cath stared at the gun. When Pasco had taken it out of his jacket in the car, Tully had cursed as if he had shown their hand, and snatched it from him. She had known then that everything was going to turn bad.
“Now!” Tully shouted—and Cath backed off into the kitchen, and started looking through the cupboards and cabinets. Tully turned the gun to Pasco. “And you!” Pasco’s hands clenched and unclenched at his side.
“You will fucking behave yourself, Pasco. You’ll keep your hands off the both of them.”
“You pointing a gun at me?” Pasco asked. His face was blank, an expressionless mask. But that very blankness, and the tension in his words, conveyed a menace that Cath could feel as she rummaged through a cabinet and found a red cardboard box.
“I’m telling you,” Tully continued, “that we don’t need any more hassle than we’ve already got.” Tully turned to Crip, who was looking back and forth between the two men, alternately smiling and frowning. “And you, Crip.”
“Yes, Tully?” Now he was smiling broadly and eager to please.
“Get back to the car. Bring the stuff in here.”
“Stuff?”
“The suitcases, Crip!”
“What do you want them in here for?” Pasco asked. “Leave ’em in the car.”
“I want them in here.”
“Why?”
“Comfort!”
“For Christ’s sake!” Pasco turned—the threat and the tension dissipated. “We’ll both go.”
Cath hurried back, throwing the red cardboard box onto the sofa next to Tully as she moved quickly to Drew. Groggily, he was rising on one elbow, a livid weal on his temple.
“What are these?” asked Tully.
“Solpadeine. That’s all I could find in there.”
“What’s solpadeine?”
“Painkillers.”
Drew groaned as Cath pulled him into a sitting position, his back resting against a chair.
“Aspirin? Is that what this stuff is? Soluble aspirin?”
“Drew, are you all right . . . ?”
“I’m . . . okay.”
“You’re giving me aspirin for a broken leg?”
“Damn it!” Cath stood erect, fists clenched, glaring at the man on the sofa. “That’s all there is. Which is why you should be in a hospital, not here! What do you want? What the hell are you doing here?”
The front door gusted open, admitting the storm. “Pasco! Shut that bloody door!”
The door slammed, and Tully looked back at Cath—now examining the box in his hand and nodding, as if he had solved a problem.
“You and your boyfriend behave and you’ll be okay. You mess around, cause any trouble—and I’ll turn Pasco loose on the both of you.”
“What do you want?”
“First off—I want the car keys. For the Land Rover.”
“Land Rover’s damaged,” Drew said.
“Yeah, right. Where are they?”
Drew pointed to a side table. When Tully gestured, he swept them up and tossed them to him.
“We’re going to stay here until the storm dies down,” Tully continued. “And you’re going to be nice and polite and behave yourselves. Then we’re going to leave and you and your boyfriend can carry on with your lives as if we’d never been acquainted.”
“That leg needs proper medical attention.”
“And now—would you be so kind as to get me a glass of water? It says on this box that I need some water to dissolve these things in.”
Drew rose shakily and Cath helped him into a chair. As she went to the kitchen to get water, the door banged open and shut again as Pasco and Crip returned. Cath handed the glass to Tully. He smiled up at her; a ghastly rictus of mockery and pain—now holding up the gun in one hand and the painkiller box in the other to show that his hands were full.
“Why don’t you be a mother?”
Cath took the box and watched as Pasco and Crip brought three suitcases into the living room. She put the tablets into the glass as they placed the luggage—almost reverentially—in the middle of the room. Pasco had a small bag with a drawstring over his shoulder. She handed the fizzing glass to Tully, watched as Pasco slid the small bag off his shoulder; quickly sliding it to one side beneath a writing table. There was something too nonchalant about that movement. She became aware that there was an expression of alertness on Tully’s face now as he watched him. Tully sipped from the glass.
“Good idea,” Pasco said. “A drink. Got any booze in the house?”
Tully downed the painkiller.
“More. Give me more.”
“He
llo?” continued Pasco. “Booze? In the house? You deaf?”
“I don’t know.” Cath headed back to the kitchen with Tully’s empty glass.
“You don’t know? What the hell kind of girlfriend are you, then?”
“Kitchen,” Drew said. “Second shelf . . .”
“That’s more like it.” Pasco swung from his chair and loped to the kitchen.
“I don’t want you getting pissed, Pasco.” Tully grimaced.
“You just going to tell me what I can and can’t do all night?”
“I don’t want you losing it, that’s all.”
“After what we’ve been through, you’re not gonna say I can’t have a drink?”
Returning with more water for Tully, Cath was suddenly confronted by a grinning Pasco. She tried to side step him. He moved with her, blocking her way.
“Excuse me!” Cath moved around him, squeezing past.
“Nice manners.” Pasco turned to watch her go. “Nice arse, as well.”
“Pasco, I’m telling you . . .” Tully took the water, and Cath moved back to Drew, now coming out of his grogginess at last.
“Okay, okay!” Pasco gave a whoop of delight when he found a whisky bottle on the shelf. Quickly unscrewing it, he drank deeply. “Christ, that’s good!” He screwed the top back on and threw it across the room to the child-man. Clumsily, Crip caught it—then greedily took a hefty swig.
“Don’t hear you telling Crip off.”
“Drinking makes him cleverer. Just makes you more fucking stupid.”
The blank expression was on Pasco’s face again.
Cath waited for something bad to happen.
But that blankness didn’t hold. Pasco’s face suddenly cracked into a grin; now he pulled off his woollen hat and ran a hand through thick curly hair as he guffawed. He returned to his chair, still laughing—patting the suitcases lovingly as he passed—sprawling and beckoning again for the whisky bottle. Dutifully, Crip brought it over; now sitting cross legged and grinning next to those suitcases—eager baby face studying the faces of his two ‘friends’ for instruction or approbation.
