by Graeme Clark
Maybe there had only been the two left.
On first glance around the site he couldn't see them. If there were more why hadn't they just killed him? And where were the police, the people at Leadburn? They might not have seen the crash because of the twisty road but surely they had heard it. They would have walked up the short hill to see what happened.
He stood up on weak legs, he was soaked through due the deep snow he had been lying in and he shivered an almost uncontrollable shiver. His jaw chattered and his breath slowed to get the cold under control. His face was numb, his hands were numb, he felt numb all over but at least he was alive.
He scanned the scene out of the corners of his eyes and saw the creatures again. Two of them stood at the roadside looking down at the wreckage, surveying the damage from their vantage point. He needed to keep looking away; he didn't want to lose sight of them. They seemed to be searching the area, perhaps they hadn't seen him yet. He crept toward the gritter, shoulders hunched and footsteps light, being careful not to make any sudden big moves or make any noise. He tried to understand why they attacked in the first place. What was it he had that no one else did? Creatures in the snow randomly attacking vehicles in the winter nights? This would have happened before, he would have heard about it. What did he have that they wanted so badly?
Salt.
They are after the salt? No, that's silly. Is it? They only attacked when he stood between them and the salt. The pure-unrefined-crushed rock salt. Danny struck the first blow. They were only after the salt and now they were after Peter?
He crept farther toward the gritter and heard mewling, it sounded like a scorned cat, but he knew it was them. Calling to each other, warning each other, talking to each other?
On approach to the gritter, which he now thought may be a bad idea, Peter saw his shovel lying in the snow; just the handle protruding from the white, like Excalibur. He clenched the handle and pulled slowly, the disturbed snow fell away from the shovel and now Peter had a weapon. He headed around the back of the gritter out of sight of the creatures that now began descending the banking towards him, upright and sliding most of the way on clawed feet. He took in a huge lung-full of air, slowly and controlled. He gripped the shovel in both hands with the scooped part raised, anticipating a fight. Maybe it would be a short one, but he readied himself anyway. He thought of Echo Base and as much as he hated the little twerp; he wished he was here right now. He also wished Danny was here but for different reasons. This was the moment when he actually really needed a 'second man'.
He could hear the deep, growling breath and could almost smell it approaching from the side. They didn't come near Peter, they crouched down at the overturned lorry. The salt cage was burst open; the salt spilled from the side and lay burning through the snow to the grass beneath. Peter watched as they grabbed large handfuls of the salt and rubbed it over their skin, as he would have a bath with water, they bathed in the salt. They rolled around in it, throwing it at each other, playing in it. Mewling, screeching as they did. There were only two of them and he had to shut them up before others arrived. Gripping the handle until his knuckles turned white, Peter came around from the rear of the vehicle and stood in direct sight of the creatures.
Fight or die.
They just glowered at him, and then stood up tall, almost elegant in stature. They were far from elegant as they both bared their teeth and ran at him. Peter knew the first swing was the important one, he couldn't afford to miss. He took a deep breath and braced himself, puffed up his chest and when one of them was within shovel range he swung, he didn't miss. In fact he took a huge chunk of face with it. The creature was dead instantly; one blow and gone. The other stopped, it was frightened. Peter couldn't say how he knew, he just did.
'C'mon fucker, don't you dare run away,' he said through gritted teeth. 'I will never catch you.'
It didn't run; it got angry and charged. Head down and body prone like a missile, it came at him hard and fast. Peter had no chance of getting out the way, and it was too close for a shovel swing. It went directly for it, trying to grab it out of his hands, but he wasn't giving it up that easy. They stood pulling the shovel this way and that between them, a dance of survival, whoever got the shovel was the winner. The hot creature breath stung his eyes, it was like getting salt in them. The creature was stronger than Peter so he had to be clever. When the creature yanked once more Peter simply released both his hands from the shovel, the creature stumbled backward and fell onto the pile of salt behind it, smacking its head on the gritter cage as it fell. The salt cage access door dangled from its hinges to his left. As quickly as his old bones would allow, he grabbed the door in both hands and pulled with what little strength he had. First pull, nothing. The creature stirred. Second pull, nothing. The creature sat up. Third pull the hinges squeaked in protest then gave way and now Peter stood above the creature with another weapon in hand. The mesh had broken to allow metal prongs to be exposed. Peter raised it above his head and brought it down sharply on the creature's exposed chest. The prongs penetrated deep and the creature mewled again. Calling for help? None would be coming. Peter lifted the shovel from the creature's weakened grip, and raised it to the side as if he was swinging the largest three iron ever.
'This one's for me.'
The shovel came down with a crunch of bone. The creature's head crumpled under the sheer force of which the shovel had been swung. Peter dropped it immediately. He panted and puffed and knew it was over. He listened for a moment to hear screeching or mewling or squealing; he heard nothing. It was over.
'I will be home Mary, just wait a while longer.' Peter climbed the banking toward the road and when he reached it, he only remembered seeing the white van for a second before collapsing in a heap on the black asphalt.
Rescue
He could hear commotion, footsteps and voices but he couldn't open his eyes. The crunch of freezing snow below boot steps, the opening and the unmistakable slamming of a van door.
'You OK?' one voice said. Peter replied with just a grunt and groan.
'Get him in the van,' Voice two said.
'Where the fuck's Danny?' Voice one asked but Peter was too weak for more than a grunt.
'We've been trying to get you all night Pete.'
Peter felt himself being dragged and carried, heard the squeak of the van door opening and the metallic thud as it closed at his feet. He was sprawled out over the back seat of the council van; he recognised the smell of bitumen and diesel. His limbs throbbed with an echo of the night before, he wondered who's high pitch whistle entered his ears and his jaw clenched in a hope to stifle it.
A few minutes later voice two opened the passenger door, 'No sign of Danny down there, what the fuck happened, Pete? Whose blood is that? You don't seem cut.' He jumped in and moments later Peter felt the van swing around in a large arc as he got pushed up against the back seat panel.
Peter couldn't answer the questions yet, not yet. He wanted to close his eyes, wanted to feel safe, here amongst the tools of road-workers scattered on the floor below him. The smell of work was thick in the air and he thought of Mary.
'We'll get you home Peter, we'll deal with base later, you need to be home and rest.' The voice of the driver was now familiar, it was Harry Black.
'Harry?' Peter grumbled a lazy drawl.
'Just relax buddy, we'll be in Penicuik in no time, the snow's off now and the road is almost black, radios were down for a while, had a power cut but I'll take care of base,' Harry said, never taking his eyes off the road ahead.
Peter sat up as much as possible and looked out the narrow back window. One creature stood in the middle of the road. Its head was stretched up and it was screaming into the bright sky. He knew how to see them now; don't look directly at them, they disappear if you do. Focus, focus, focus.
'Danny's dead,' he whispered through the aches, then passed out.
Still One Left
Peter's body ached all over, ached in places that should nev
er ache. His face felt numb from the cold although all he could now feel was warmth. His fingers were frozen in a grip position and were painful when he tried to straighten them. He could sense the bright winter light penetrating the closed curtains as his eyes strained. He lay on his back but now it was comfortable, soft. His eyelids had matted together with crusty sleep. He slipped his left hand from inside the tightly pulled bed covers and prised his eyes open. The covers of his bed had been pulled tightly around his body, suffocating and yet comforting. He was in his bedroom, in his bed. It felt safe but that creature was still out there somewhere, he had to warn people; just in case there were more. Every movement caused a painful ripple around his body but he had to get up. He couldn't see clearly; just shadows, blurred shapes, one shaped like a table lamp to his right, one shaped like a wardrobe at the bottom of the bed and one like a picture frame, with a picture, but blurred. Two figures in the picture with no features, shadow people, but he knew who they were.
I told you I'd be home Mary.
He pushed himself up-right with his stiff fingers. Focus was coming more and more. He could hear a noise outside, laughter and screaming. He wondered what time it was, children would be playing in the street, it was Christmas morning. The door creaked open.
'You're awake? Don't move though, you've been in an accident.' His wife's voice was delicate and sweet. He needed delicate and sweet. 'You're uninjured but they need answers Peter. What happened? You're usually so careful on those gritters, it's what you do. They wanted to take you to hospital but you were fine, no point bothering them I said. I'll look after him I said. They said to tell them when you're awake, I said I will, so I will.'
'Mary?' he said, stopping the word spew. 'Shut up for just one moment and tell me, did they find anything else,' he paused for a second to gather his thoughts. 'Around the gritter I mean.'
'Like what Peter?'
He knew if she had to ask then they hadn't. He hoped there was just the one. He swung his legs around and out the bed. He was still fully clothed; he must have just crashed out on the bed and Mary had covered him up. Taking a deep breath that seemed to take away all the pain, Peter stood up. A little shaky at first and Mary steadied him then let him stand on his own. He shuffled over to the window and peered through the curtains.
'What are you looking at Peter? Really you should be resting, presents can wait.'
Peter saw the creature, just the one in the street outside, snow still adorned the foot-ways and grassed areas but the road was clear; it had been gritted.
Salt.
The creature moved back and forth, back and forth but it didn't move freely. If Peter knew how to see it, maybe it knew how to stay in the shadows; in the corners of our eyes. A glimpse here and there but when you turn to check, it's gone. It was looking for something or someone. Peter's whole body shook as he kept track of the creature's movement through wet, glistening eyes; never looking for it but always looking where it was. His eyes darted this way and that until the creature stopped, right outside his house. It was bloodied and its right leg was gashed from knee to hip. Peter looked down at his hands and saw they were still bloody and dirty, he hadn't washed. He must stink of salt.
He turned to his wife and held her close. 'Stay away from the windows, don't look, bad things are coming OK? But I'll protect us,' he said. Did they have a chance of surviving? There was always a chance, even if he was too old for this. 'I just need you to answer one question OK? Can you do that?'
'Yes, of course, anything,' she said.
'Where's - my fuckin' - shovel?'
Escape
Peter pulled his boots back on, grabbed Mary by the hand and hauled her out the bedroom door and down the staircase to his front door. Through the stained glass he could see the shape of the creature standing; its hot breath steamed the glass where it touched. He hurried to the rear of his property, through the kitchen and opened the door to his back garden.
'We need to be quick OK, can you do that? Can you be quick?' Peter said.
'But I need to make dinner,' Mary said oblivious to the urgency of the situation.
'Forget about dinner, forget about presents, there is something after us and we need to run.' Peter's voice always changed when he spoke to Mary, almost as if speaking to a child. Calm and concise.
'But my hip, you know my hip Peter, I can't run, I need to put the turkey in or it will never be ready, this isn't funny anymore.'
When had it been funny?
He tightened his grip on her hand and led her to the back fence through three feet of untouched snow. His shovel was propped up against the back fence beside the rear gate and he grabbed it as he fled out the garden and into the street behind his house, cheap lights and Christmas decorations drooped from every lamppost, they swung in the breeze.
What did the creature want? Why did it come after him? Was it revenge? Revenge for killing its buddies? Then a realisation hit Peter like a scraper hitting a snow drift. Killing its family? Fuck. Peter ran through the night in his head as he imagined he would for a long time, if he survived.
Three attacked first, the big one, was it Dad? With two smaller ones, Dad dead. The four he took out with the scraper, but were they all dead? One under the wheels at the lay-by, then two smaller ones with the gritter crash. Then two more little ones after the crash; when they were playing in the salt? Fuck. Children, he had slaughtered a family. So who was left? Mother? And she was pissed but hurt, possibly one of the four he took out with the scraper. The only way to distract her was to head to somewhere where there was an abundance of salt. He hoped her need for salt would out-weigh her need for revenge. They scurried through the streets, never pausing for breath.
'Where are we going Peter?' Mary asked.
'We're going to the salt storage at Pomathorn Paper Mill.'
On The Run
Pomathorn Mill stood on the outskirts of Penicuik, the largest town in Midlothian. The mill's construction started in nineteen fifty six and produced its first run of paper in nineteen fifty nine. It had closed in nineteen seventy five and Peter's dad had lost his job after a takeover that eventually led to the four mills in and around Penicuik being sold off; with production moving to England. The extensive grounds around the mill had recently been used by the local authority as a salt store to solve the travel problems of returning to the main depot for loads of salt on nights of heavy snow such as this. Local depots had been closed down due to budget cuts with Peter having to move to a depot much farther from home.
It was now a chance to take the creature away from its natural surroundings. He hoped to disorientate it and get a chance to kill it and end this blackest of Christmases for good.
As he bounded through the back streets with Mary in tow, Peter worked out his route to Pomathorn, he could stay on the long and winding roads, this would take longer but less strenuous because of the lack of snow on the roads. The other choice was quicker, head in a straight line, through the snowy fields of Valleyfield, passed what was left of Uttershill castle and up a short stretch of hill into the mill grounds. As he moved with Mary puffing and panting beside him, his brain unconsciously made the decision for him; the knee-deep-in-snow fields it was. He had seen these creatures move through the snow at speed but really hoped this one was wounded enough to even the race. It hadn't caught them yet anyway and that was a good sign. Before reaching the fields they would have to negotiate a small band of trees that surrounded them, it was inclined enough to cause muscles to ache even before he reached them.
'My hip hurts Peter,' Mary said.
'I know, I know, if we can get through these trees we can rest for a second, just a second though.'
A painful screech echoed around them, Peter darted his head this way and that but couldn't tell where it was coming from.
'What was that?' Mary asked.
'That is what is after us.'
After us? No after him. That was right, if he had left Mary at the house, would it have gone after her or bounded on towar
d him? Would she have been safe at the house?
Oh my god, what have I done?
She didn't have to be here, he had put her in the line of fire; in the line of claws and teeth. He must get her safe. They moved through the trees, the snow here was so deep they were almost jumping from footstep to footstep and the shovel felt heavier and heavier with every stride. The bottom of Mary's flower pattered dress was damp and dirty from the kicking up of the muddy field and snow. The trees weren't thick at this time of year and he could see right through them to the open fields beyond, only a few yards separated each tree. They kept moving, jumping, kicking and dodging their way through to the far end of the trees. When they reached the last line they dove behind the largest Scots Pine that Peter could see, it had a wide base and scaly bark that prodded his back as he pushed hard against it; wishing he could just melt into it and return home for turkey and presents.
His chest heaved and hurt, he wanted the pain to stop, his throat coughed up some mucus and he spat it out onto a clump of pine cones that lay at the base. Twigs broke and he froze. He grabbed Mary tight to his chest. Because this was Christmas afternoon there was no sound of traffic, the roads were quiet and the distant laughter and bustle of children playing did not give him the comfort it normally would have. It was silent here and he had to control his breathing.
'What are we..?' Peter threw his arm around her face and muffled her voice to silence her. She protested, but a couple of wriggles later and she had stopped fighting. Peter's back to the tree, Mary's back to him, they tried to become one with the tree as another twig broke, a pine cone shattered. Silence. No movement. Snap. No breathing. Crunch. It was behind them but not far. As Peter's panicked breathing returned to almost normal he could hear it puffing. He pictured its chest heaving; its body crouched down in strike mode. Sniffing the air. Its teeth dripping with saliva, melting the snow where it landed. It screeched again but not a cry for help or an angry- where the fuck are you? - screech, but a pitiful whining screech. Soft and sore. It was hurting. Could he stand before it now - shovel in hand? Smack it square in the chops and get home for turkey with all the trimmings? Settle in for Christmas TV and a nice port? Jingle Bells, all the fuckin' way?
