by Stephen Laws
Cath saw Tully’s hand raising the gun as Pasco lashed at her. She saw Drew groping ineffectually to grab for that gun hand as Tully punched him hard in the face with the other fist—saw the gun aim straight at Faye’s fleeing back.
“Noooooo!”
Pasco punched her hard under the ribs, knocking the breath from her body, just as Faye wrenched the door open and let in the storm. The candles were instantly extinguished; the remaining orange lamplight—protected in its glass bowl—making shadows rear and lunge in the room.
A thunderclap filled the living room—a flash of lightning.
But it was not the storm.
The bullet entered under Faye’s right shoulder, slamming her against the door lintel. Cath saw blood and fabric explode from her silhouetted body. She never let go of Rynne as she rebounded from the doorframe, and then dragged her out into the savage night.
Cath had no breath to scream, could give no voice to the horror inside. Feebly, she clawed at Pasco’s leg. Pasco kicked her hand out of the way, took her by the hair and punched—turning to yank a dazed Drew from the sofa and hurling him to the ground next to her.
“Crip!” Tully screamed, his voice fuelled by agony and rage. “Pasco! Get after them! Bring them back!”
Crip was out of the door first, hand to his broken nose—straining to see where they had gone. But there was only darkness, and the sounds of their flight were masked by the sounds of the storm.
“Get after them!” screamed Tully. “Bring them back!”
Crip vanished into the darkness as Pasco blundered to the doorway, wind tearing at his body.
Tully pulled himself up on the sofa, yelling in pain into the storm wind that filled the living room, now raising the gun again and pointing it at Drew, as he began to rise, hair flying in the wind. Cath couldn’t move, couldn’t see straight. She groped dazedly, wanted to beg him not to do it.
“You—are—just—so—fucking—DEAD!’ Tully shouted each word with hate and pain.
Cath tried to scream, but nothing would come.
Drew tried to twist aside but, still dazed, fell to his knees in a half turn as—
Tully pulled the trigger.
Thunder and lightning exploded in the room again.
Drew was smashed backwards onto the floor. He lay still.
Cath curled tight into a foetal ball, hugging her grief, her soul screaming silently.
Tully turned the gun on her.
“Don’t!” called Pasco from the doorway. “Not yet. Let me have her first.”
Angrily, Tully looked up—then back at the woman on the floor.
“All right. But go and get them first. Kill them both if you want—but bring them back.”
FORTY
“We can’t leave Mum behind,” Rynne sobbed as they staggered in the darkness, the wind snatching and tugging at them.
Faye felt strange. Someone had hit her hard in the back, and she couldn’t find proper breath somehow. But she knew that they had to keep going, and they had to get as far away from the house as possible.
“Get help . . .” she gasped, dragging Rynne on through the night. “We’re not—leaving her behind. We’re going to . . .”
“Why are those men so cruel? Why are they so horrible to us?”
Cath shook her head, urging Rynne on and knowing that they would be coming after them. But now her grip on Rynne’s hand was failing. She could feel the strength somehow leaking out of her body, and there was a roaring in her ears that she knew had nothing to do with the storm.
She saw the vague outline of a fence up ahead, and knew that the main roadway lay up ahead. If they reached that road, they just had to follow it all the way into the village. But she had to rest, just for a moment, just so she could get her breath back. She coughed, held her hand to her mouth. When it filled with liquid, she knew then that something was very terribly wrong.
“He was hurting Mum, Faye! That man was hurting her . . .”
From behind them came the sound of a car engine being turned on, and in the next moment twin headlights stabbed through the dark to their left.
“Get down, darling!” Faye pushed Rynne ahead to the fence, the effort making her fall to her knees. Rynne staggered, turned and came back—now grabbing Faye’s arm and pulling her on. There was pain in her back now, beneath her shoulder blade—and it was becoming much, much worse with every beat of her heart. Her mouth filled with blood again and when she spat, some of it spilled on her front.
“Faye! You’re bleeding . . .”
The headlights stabbed across the farmyard forecourt as the car screeched and jerked in circles, from side to side—trying to find them. Faye reached the fence and the long grass there, pulling Rynne down beside her. The headlights skimmed the gravel not six feet from where they were, now lancing out across the outbuildings and the barn and the valley side as the car circled and turned again. Something was happening to Faye’s eyes as she looked at the headlights. Was the wind blurring her vision?
“Rynne, darling.”
“We can’t leave them there! We can’t!”
“I want you to follow that road. Can you see?” When Faye pointed behind them, she could barely lift her hand. “You keep on going until you find a house with lights. Then you—tell them what’s happened and . . .”
Faye’s hand fell to her side.
“I’m frightened, Faye.”
“I’ll try and lead them away. I’ll go that way—in the opposite direction from you and . . .”
“You’re not going anywhere,” Crip said from the darkness.
They heard his boots crunching on the gravel before they saw him.
“Run, Rynne! Run!”
Crip’s bulky silhouette lunged out of the darkness, seizing Rynne’s wrist as she rose. Faye struggled to rise, but could not; slumping back against the fence and with the roaring that was not the storm rising to fill her ears and her eyes as if she were sliding underwater. She watched Rynne struggling and kicking in Crip’s grasp. He was holding her away from him in one hand with ease, her legs kicking and free hand raking and clawing at where he held her. Crip grinned as he watched. Turning away, so that Rynne swung with him, he held up his other arm—waved and yelled.
“Over here, Pasco! I got ’em over here!”
His voice would not carry in the storm.
Still waving, he looked back to where Faye lay.
“You hurt my face.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Too late for sorry.”
Still waving, Crip was suddenly outlined when the headlights from the still-circling car fell on him. When he lowered Rynne to the ground, she sprang back; fastening her teeth on the hand that held her. Crip yelled, but kept his grip—slapping her hard across the head and making her hair fly. Faye tried to rise, but fell back against the fence.
“No biting!” Crip snapped.
Faye thought she heard a car door slam above the roaring, and knew that Pasco was coming and oh God—what was she going to do?
“Tell you something else,” said Crip, walking slowly back to where she lay.
“What?” Faye heard her voice, slow and dragging—but did not recognise it.
“You’re dying, you are.”
“Young man. If you hurt that little girl, you’ll go to hell.”
“Not gonna hurt her,” Crip said, pushing his head down toward her, jaw jutting like a schoolyard bully. “Gonna let Pasco do the hurting. He likes girls.”
Beyond him, Faye was vaguely aware of another silhouette approaching—backlit by the headlights.
Oh God, she thought. Let this be a dream.
The roaring in her ears enveloped Faye, seemed to fill everything in and around her; seemed to be shaking the very fence that she was leaning back against. She saw the expression on Crip’s face change. The intimidating expression began to dissolve; Crip’s out- thrust jaw sagging as his mouth opened. He was so close Faye could see there was fear in his eyes, sparking in the car headlights. Why
was he suddenly so afraid of her? He let go of Rynne, and she rushed back to cling to Faye, wrapping her arms around her—but Faye could not feel her at all, could only mouth again: If you hurt that little girl, you’ll go to hell. And now she could see that Crip was not looking at her, was not afraid of her at all. He was looking at something above and behind her; at something that filled him with terror, as he took one step back—and the rumbling roaring sound that shook the fence seemed to burst like a clap of thunder.
“Run,” Faye said directly into Rynne’s ear. “You must run, my darling.”
“No biting,” Crip said, in a little-boy voice filled with awe and terror.
And the massive black shape behind Faye and Rynne cleared the fence in one single, sleek-black bound—the storm in its throat and hell’s fury in its glittering opal eyes.
FORTY ONE
Pasco’s vision was a wonderful kaleidoscope of night colour. He was still in control and enjoying it. Even the struggle with the bitch hadn’t spoiled his mood. In fact, things had turned out well, after all, and he was enjoying himself. He could see that Crip had hold of the girl, and by the way that he was bending forward—he must be talking to the woman, lying somewhere in that long grass close to the fence. But that was on the edge of the headlight beam, and he couldn’t see her at all. Pasco had seen that bullet hit and if the old cow was still alive, it wouldn’t be for long. Now, he felt really good. Tully had changed his mind, and Pasco was looking forward to what he was going to do when he got the old bitch and the little bastard back to the farmhouse. He hoped that the woman would live long enough to enjoy a floorshow.
He had been wondering about Tully. He’d never held back like this before, had always been content to let him do what he wanted—and the whole business tonight had been pissing him off big time. It had to be the pain. That must be it. Hell, that was one fucked-up leg all right. The Nothing lady had made her play, and now she was going to suffer for it.
“That Nothing lady wasn’t no nurse. Hell, Tully—she was just pulling your leg!”
Pasco laughed out loud as he walked. Trust Tully to know that he’d been sneaking some of the suitcase heaven down. Now he would have to talk him into taking some himself. He’d need it for that leg—something to take the pain away.
Pasco saw Crip let go of the girl—saw her jump away from him into the long grass, could barely see her now on the edge of the beam. Was there movement there now in the darkness? The old lady? Crip was straightening up and standing back. Now another step back—
Something was wrong.
Crip was scared.
He was scared in a way that Pasco had never seen before. Alarmed, straining to see what he had focused his attention on in the darkness beyond the headlight beams, Pasco halted and was about to ask what the hell was the matter with him when—
Something gleaming black and roaring and huge flew over the fence, taking Crip in a powerful and enfolding embrace. Crip screamed, the high-keening scream of a terrified child. Pasco flinched back as the impact of that leaping night-black shape flung Crip back across the headlight beams to the darkness on the other side. Everything was too fast; the night colours were confusing to his eyes—but Pasco’s good mood turned instantly to something else when he thought he saw a devil’s face and teeth chomping at Crip’s head. Now he could only see Crip’s legs thrashing on the ground in the light while something that was hidden in the darkness hissed and screeched and roared as it ripped and slashed at Crip’s upper torso. Crip’s high- pitched screams reached a new height of terror and agony, and then—as something crunched in the darkness—Pasco heard those screams become a fading liquid gurgle.
Now there was only the sound of something rumbling in contentment, and the sounds of feeding.
Crip’s legs slithered out of the headlights and into the darkness.
Pasco backed off, turned and ran back toward the farmhouse.
The girl was somehow ahead of him, silhouetted as she ran—and calling for her mother.
Pasco was soon behind her, now seizing her arm and dragging her as he hurtled back. He was filled with terror and could feel the presence of something awful on his back. And as he ran, he could not get the drug-fuelled thought out of his mind.
Christ, the old woman turned into something—she turned into something!
FORTY TWO
The She Cat had continued to circle the place of stones, looking for another way in—but always returned to the same place. The hole in the wall, high up—the place where the male and female Two-Legs and the screeching, attacking tree had come. It paused on every circling at the storm doors, to smell and to listen. But the wind was too strong for any trace scent now, and there was no sound from its mate and cub. Only once had it heard movement, but that was the sound of the hated and imprisoning Two-Legs—serving only to further its rage. When they had left, it had waited for some call, some sign. But there was nothing, and so the She Cat had continued to circle the house, returning to that same place—the high opening—time and again. It remained open, unlike the entrance at the front of the stone lair that the Two-Legs continually opened and closed, but always before it could make a confident killing run. There was no other vantage point near to that high opening that the Big Cat could use, no tree or ledge that it could use as a rebound to reach it. Many times it had crouched low, opal eyes fixed on the opening above; ready to make a run and leap at the wall, imagining its claws raking and finding purchase somewhere on that blank wall, tasting how it would reach that ledge and gain entry to the stone lair. But the wind constantly threatened to affect its balance even as it crouched, hissing and hugging the ground, making it uncertain.
And then when it was prowling the external boundary fence, listening to the sounds of terrified livestock, the entrance at the front had opened again. It had tensed, paused—ready to make its run again. But now there were figures running directly toward it. Two female Two-Legs, running not away from it—but at it. It crouched low behind the fence, feeling confusion and fear at this erratic behaviour as they came. But it would not flee, because it had been thwarted and frustrated for too long. Now another Two-Legs—male—was running after them. One of the Round-Leg Beasts was suddenly alive again, roaring and running with its sun-eyes blazing through the night, searching for it. Could it be that the whole pride of Two-Legs had emerged to hunt it down? The female Two-Legs reached the place where it hid, and now the high wind brought the scent of terror from them—and the smell of blood! But still they would not even react to its presence, although they must surely see where it lay. The male Two-Legs joined them, with its brief wind-snatched smell of anger and hostility and blood. The Round-Leg Beast was now still and waiting, eyes staring as the light that was brighter than the sun fell on them. Another Two-Legs was coming.
Jabbering. The hateful sounds that came out of the Two-Legs’ mouths.
Fear.
Anger.
And blood—the sweet and arousing smell and taste of the kill.
Still the Two-Legs ignored her as they jabbered.
None of the behaviour made any sense to the She Cat. These were unnatural creatures with unknowable desires and hungers. The jabbering, the unnatural behaviour, the frustrations, the proximity of her imprisoned mate and cub, the scent of fear and blood—all suddenly coming together now in rage and the need to act.
The She Cat made its move, uncoiling with incredible strength in a killing leap. It saw the animal expression of terror on the male Two-Legs’ face, a sure sign of success. That look of terror and the smell of new blood, all overcoming the possibility that the approaching Two-Legs was even now drawing close with the possibility of thunder in its forepaw.
All that mattered was the successful kill.
FORTY THREE
Pasco threw Rynne ahead of him through the front door, turned and slammed it against the night and the wind and the terror of what hid in it. When he blundered into the living room, the girl had already run to her mother, still recovering on the ca
rpet and still trying to get her breath. Tully jerked up from the sofa, face beaded with sweat that glinted in the darkness as if he had just awoken.
“Where’s Crip? Where’s the woman?”
“Where’s Faye?” Cath gasped into Rynne’s ear.
“She’s dead, Mummy.” Rynne’s body was wracked with sobs. “I think she’s dead . . .”
“Oh noooooo . . .”
“Fuh—fuh—fuh—”
“Oh God, oh God—not Faye . . .”
Rynne pulled away, fighting to control her sobbing, eyes glittering with tears and holding her mother’s face in both hands, desperately trying to communicate with her.
“Fuh—Ferocitor, Mummy! There’s a Ferocitor out there . . .”
Pasco looked back at the door, walked in a circle in the middle of the room—and then stared back at the door again, shaking his head.
“That’s not right, Tully. That’s not right, man.”
“What the hell is it? Where the hell is Crip?”
“He’s dead! Crip is dead, man! He’s all tore the fuck up and something is eating him out there . . .”
Rynne crushed her mouth to Cath’s ear, and hissed: “The Ferocitor got him, Mum! It got him!”
“Those fucking drugs! If you don’t calm down, you’re going to end up on the floor next to him.” Tully waved at Drew’s body, lying motionless at the foot of the sofa. Rynne saw him for the first time, and began to wail. Cath pulled her daughter’s face to her breast, holding her tight as sobbing wracked both their bodies. “You shut that kid up!”
Pasco kept walking in circles, head in his hands as if trying to work out a desperate puzzle. There was too much night colour in here, too much happening inside his head. Either something was bursting out of his head, or something was trying to burst in. It had to stop before his brain exploded.
“Pasco!”
“She changed, Tully. You shot her and she ran out there and when Crip got to her—she changed.”
“Changed into what?”
