by Graeme Clark
No, he was scared, terrified and he wasn't comfortable trying to fight with Mary here, although that might just be an excuse, another one to prevent him from doing what has to be done. He knew he would have had a better chance without her.
Should have left her at home. Don't say that; believe she would have been dead by now if you had.
It must be able to smell him, it wouldn't be long until it was upon them. He didn't want to make a stand here but he gripped the shovel that little bit tighter. Another crunch, another whine. It was leaving. Or maybe not leaving but at least moving farther away.
'When I say run,' Peter whispered. 'Head toward the castle ruins, OK?'
If it was heading in another direction perhaps it wouldn't see them darting for the castle that was no more than two hundred yards away. Mary nodded her head. He waited. And waited. Patience. Calm breathing, calm soul, focus, focus, focus.
'Run,' he demanded. She did. He didn't hold her hand this time; he wanted her in front so he could be the target if the creature saw them. She hopped and jumped ahead of him, bouncing through the deep snow. He tried to stay in the footprints she left behind. Two hundred yards. One hundred and eighty yards. It wouldn't break any records but he felt they were covering a lot of ground. One hundred and fifty yards. Small steps. Valleyfield tree line - done. Uttershill castle ruins - en-route. One hundred yards. Old Pomathorn Mill - step three. Eighty yards. No creature. This was tough, like running under water, chest pains. Fifty yards. A screech. Far away. Thirty yards. The ruins in touching distance. Mary disappeared into them first and hid behind the nearest wall. Five yards and they dived through a gap in the South West gable end.
Uttershill castle ruins - done. Small steps.
Fight or Die
Although named Uttershill castle it clearly wasn't a castle. Peter had only ever been close to it when he was young, when firework displays were staged here by the locals because of its vantage point high on a bluff overlooking the town below. It actually was a late medieval hall house; a rectangle box that used to be two storeys high. A large portion of its south facing wall had long ago collapsed to leave an open space with three walls and no roof. It had comprised of an undercroft and kitchen, separated by a hall with a staircase that would have led to the first floor that had the main chamber directly above the vaulted undercroft. It lay to the side of Pomathorn Road and North West of Peter's target - the old paper mill.
The floor of the castle was deep in snow and where they sat cowering in the cold was what used to be the kitchen. He placed the shovel within grabbing distance and tried to relax. He didn't think this would be possible but to keep Mary calm he would have to put on a show, she couldn't get agitated. In actual fact he did feel himself relaxing, his breathing steadied and his pulsing head subsided. He could stay here, sleep, rest, dream.
The surviving stone walls and partial dividing wall that was still standing gave them a little nook to hide in. They sat in almost silence, Peter squeezed his wife; both for warmth and comfort. The part of the south wall that was still standing was at the kitchen area and this gave them only one open side of the old hall that could be seen from where they sat. The doorways and windows on the south wall had been blocked over with stone and this sheltered them from the cold wind that threatened to gust in through the building. The remains of a huge fireplace took up more than half the wall opposite them and Peter wished it was lit and roaring.
'How you feeling?' Peter asked.
'Not good, I don't know what's going on Peter but I'm scared and cold.'
He hugged her tighter and said, 'Me to, but that thing wants me dead, do you understand that?'
She nodded. He knew her head was all over the place most days, but today? The stress of Christmas, the stress of finding the right gifts, the stress of cooking for six, the stress of family in general and Mary had enough problems without the stress of being hunted through the snowy slopes of Penicuik by a creature that won't even know of the word stress, or Christmas. This had been one of the reasons he yearned to be home before Christmas morning, not so much to be with Mary but for Mary. To help her cope. She had suffered for eight years on her own with little help and it was about time he spent more time with her. She needed a stable life, the mundane and the ordinary, that's what gets her through the days. He shouldn't leave her too long on her own but shit wages meant grabbing as much overtime as was offered. But there were more important things.
Fuck the council, he wouldn't be working Christmas Eve ever again. Maybe quit overtime completely.
'And how are you feeling?' Peter asked again looking for a better answer.
'OK, not great.' She turned her head to look at him, his eyes were filled with tears that hadn't yet spilled down his cheeks; not yet anyway. 'I took my pills this morning, but I'm due another batch in an hour, but I'm fine, honest.' Peter stroked the soft tissue area of skin between her thumb and forefinger.
A screech echoed around them but Peter thought it was far away. Hoped it was far away. Mary cowered down closer to Peter's chest. His thighs burned as never before, he was uncertain if he could make the last couple of hundred yards to the mill - it was all up hill.
'I'll be OK.' She started to cry and Peter recognised the downturn as he had on numerous occasions since her diagnosis. The mood swings could be controlled with medication but only to a certain degree, what she really needed was less stress and he had pulled her out the house as if this was her problem.
He really didn't want to leave her alone but thought now that that would be a good idea, even send her back home. The creature had moved away from them but would he take the chance?
He actually wanted to fall asleep, right here amongst the three hundred year old stone that had crumbled from the surrounding walls. Amongst the dog shit and the rat shit that piled undoubtedly under the snow. Amongst the decaying animals that littered the area. Sleep ... with Mary.
His eyes closed for what felt like only a second, but a few minutes had passed. It was enough to see Danny. He was smiling that infectious grin of his, but it was just a head in the snow. Blood spewed in thick clumps from his neck and pooled around the head, melting the snow beneath, and then it spoke, 'Fight or Die.' Blood bubbled from his cracked lips and his eyes rolled back in his head to reveal just white. A creature appeared with the shovel in hand and smacked Danny's head like a large golf ball causing it to spin toward Peter's face.
Peter was startled awake and his mind was made up. 'Mary? I want you to stay here, it's safe here, but I have to finish this.' Peter strained as he got to his feet and he heard the crack of his joints as they extended and stretched, his knees ached, his back hurt. He took a deep breath and the cold air chilled his teeth but it also woke him up.
'You need to stay with me, I need you,' Mary said sitting sorrowful in the snow. Her legs were turning blue from the biting cold.
'I'll be back to get you as soon as I'm done.' He looked down at her slumped against the stone wall. His eyes were heavy but his heart was heavier. 'I need to do this, you're safe here, and I’ll be back before the family arrive.' He smiled at her but she didn't smile back, streaks of tears gave her face a two tone affect and tasted salty when he kissed her goodbye.
'If you think you see something, some movement, try and keep it in your sights, at all times. OK? Try and focus only on its movements.'
He turned his back and stepped out of the ruined castle building and made his way down the slope to the road below. He never looked back once.
Within a minute he was standing on the asphalt road, it felt good to be on solid ground. He stamped his feet to clean his boots, looked at the incline up to the mill and felt the burn in his thighs again. He climbed the hill nevertheless, onward. Fight or Die.
Reaching the Mill
Peter trudged up the hill with his legs screaming in pain. Every step caused a burn in his thighs, a jarring pain in his ankles and a jolt in his knees, but he plodded on regardless.
Pomathorn mill was up a few hundred
yards on the left and he had wanted to get there before the creature, but felt that was now impossible. A couple of cars had passed him; Johnny Pettigrew just waved and beeped the horn. Thanks for that. Harry Black's daughter, Gemma, didn't even acknowledge him and a stranger nodded a - Merry Christmas, nice day for a walk type of nod - and kept driving. Peter must have looked terrible but no one noticed his dirty, wet clothes and the blood that hardened on his face, possibly now frozen; looking like a Halloween mask. And nobody thought it strange he dragged a shovel behind him, not carrying anymore but dragging, as if it weighed tonnes.
He reached the service road that led down into the mill grounds and heard a screech of triumph. Not a screech of pain, but elation and joy. His breathing quickened and his pounding heart was felt as a throb all around his head.
I need to finish this.
As the building came into view it looked imposing, the red brick dazzled in the bright winter sunshine. To the left was the small weigh-bridge office and the mill stretched out to the right around the corner. He stepped around the red barrier and entered the grounds. The road bent to the right in-front of the building and also continued to the rear, passed the weigh-bridge and turned sharp right. He took the first right in front of the building.
The building was two stories fronted by small windows lined up along the face. There was also a raised rear section, stepped back a few yards from the front, which was fully glazed and probably allowed light into the factory floor. Some of the building's ground floor was now being used by mechanics for car maintenance; the steel shutters were down, obviously closed up for the holidays. The area was dead. Not a sound but the quiet grumbling and mewling of mother monster.
The building was 'L' shaped and it was at the rear of the bottom 'L' leg that the salt was stored. This was where he headed. Various metal containers to his right, a couple of skips to his left, he continued, he tried to find strength in his legs and in his arms so he could hold the shovel at shoulder height as he walked. There was a square archway that led through the building and in to the back yard. He could see the salt pile through this arch and he proceeded with caution.
The creature lay on the top of the salt pile rolling around in it and rubbing it into its skin. Similar to what the 'children' were doing this morning. It looked worse in the daylight. Its grey skin was marbled and rough, split and dried and its eyes were as red as spilt blood. Its jaws snapped open and closed, open and closed, click, clack, click, clack. Its teeth like stalactites and stalagmites, grinding and clacking off each other as its jaw muscles flexed. Then it stopped moving and turned its head toward Peter as he stood there like the frightened old man he was. Frightened but not running away, not hiding. Just standing, shovel in hand.
The creature stood up and Peter saw something even more terrifying than its teeth. The gash in its right leg was gone. It had used the salt to heal itself. Fuck. It was all healed up, rested and reinvigorated.
'Fuck,' was all Peter could manage.
Peter is Dead
Peter examined the area. There must have been upwards of sixty tonne of salt here, one big pile. The JCB loader was to his left about forty yards away. The last driver that used it had taking it over to the hose and washed it down, the hose lay to the right against the boundary chain-link fence. The water froze where it lay in the cold breeze that coursed through the yard and his body. Ice formed around the hose, sticking it to the ground. Most of the ground was white with frost but a strip of road had been gritted by drivers heading out once loaded. Where it once ran water though, black ice was beginning to form.
Before he could forget about his burning legs and run for the machine, the creature jumped and rolled down the salt pile and landed only a few feet from Peter. They stood facing each other for a few moments. A showdown that looked increasingly less likely to end well for Peter.
It bounded forward and smacked Peter hard in the chest with its shoulder, Peter's old body collapsed backward and landed with a thud and a sharp pain in his back, the shovel pirouetted a few times before coming to rest just out of reach. His head hit the asphalt and the world began to spin. He used every muscle in his arms to push himself up; he bent forward and stood. The creature walked around him, circling, its teeth glistening and dripping black stuff onto the ground. It snapped its jaws at him, Peter watched and waited for death, his head hung low and he watched his breath freeze as it hit the air. The creature's neck and arm muscles tensed and relaxed in a show of power as it stalked around and around, Peter tried to keep looking down, his eyes on the shovel. He didn't think he would be quick enough, but he had to try.
He waited on the creature to make another pass behind him, he was now between the creature and the shovel, he bent down and grabbed it as quickly as his aching body would allow. Peter turned to see the creature move a few steps forward, he lifted the shovel. But he couldn't get it high enough and the creature was faster, it swung its razor claws in the direction of Peter's midriff and slashed him deep, through his jacket, through his clothing, through his skin, fat and muscle. Peter slumped to the cold ground. He clenched his teeth and most of his working muscles as the pain seared through him. He felt the warmth of the blood soak into his clothing and for a second it was a relief from the cold. He strained his neck to look at the creature; it took the shovel in its hands and snapped it in two, Peter's eyes blinked twice before closing. The pain stopped.
No He Isn't
Peter opened his eyes, or at least tried to; they seemed to be crusted together with dried blood. His stomach hurt as a fucker but at least he wasn't dead. He wriggled but could feel restraints at his wrists and legs where he sat. He was on a chair inside an office block; a small office, like the one at the weigh-bridge. He could see through the broken, glass windows that he was just behind where the JCB was parked. A fabricated building set up especially for the mill clear out in seventy-five. It looked as if it belonged on a cheap and nasty car lot where the salesman was called Davie the dealer and sold dodgy second hand cars that nobody could even get money for at the scrap yard.
He was alone. Broken glass surrounded his feet and a stench of dead animal was pungent in the air. He had no idea how long he had been out for but the sun was beginning to make its way back down to the horizon. Soft flakes of snow were falling from the sporadic cloud cover and he knew the boys would be out again tonight, he wouldn't be, no matter what.
He could only think of Mary and hoped she had not listened to him and made her way back home. He struggled against the restraints and looking down, he could see that his legs were tied with electrical cable. His hands were tied behind his back and his shoulders hurt being pulled back in that way. He also saw his broken shovel; it lay in a pool of melted snow at his feet. He could also hear commotion outside, moving his head from side to side he could see nothing. A mewl here, a scrape there, a muffled cry here, a thud there. The doorway into this cabin was directly in front of him and into his view walked the creature. It stood at the doorway, proud and tall. Peter fought back tears and wrestled against the restraints again, wanting very much to jump on this thing and stab it through its black heart.
Because electrical cable didn't bind as well as rope - too smooth, no interlocking fibres - he felt the cable loosen ever so slightly. He knew that once it started he just needed to keep moving and the crude knots would fall apart. The creature stood just over five feet tall, but it towered over the kneeling Mary as it threw her down through the doorway and onto her front. She was unconscious and maybe that was a good thing, he could see the rise and fall of her back that told Peter she was alive. He struggled again - looser.
The creature stepped into the building and lifted a leg as if it was about to straddle Mary's body. It looked down and instead, moved to the side of her. Peter monitored this movement because it seemed as if the creature was being very careful where it put its feet down. Why? A little looser. It grabbed her from underneath and lifted her body until it had a grip with one arm around her chest. Peter could almost
pull one hand out, just a little more. It took its other hand and placed the claw of its index finger at Mary's throat.
'Don't you dare, just don't fuckin' dare,' Peter shouted.
The creature pushed its claw inward slightly, Mary groaned and Peter saw a spot of blood at the tip of the claw.
'I'll rip your fuckin' head off, don't you dare.' Peter sounded weaker almost pleading. He bowed his head and tears dripped onto his trousers.
Fight or Die.
They were both dead. He and Mary would die right here, right now. This shouldn't be happening, he just worked for the council, nothing ever happened there. He just maintained the roads in the summer and gritted the roads in the winter. A constant cycle that had lasted far longer than he had imagined when he started as a youngster, but he wasn't young anymore, he wasn't Danny. He could never be that person, his life was winding down.
I can't die here. We can't die here.
He was out of ideas, out of hope and out of fight. It was over. This fucker of a Christmas was going to be over. No presents. No turkey. No family. Just death. Fight or Die? Die it was then. Danny was right in given him a choice, but it wasn't the one Danny chose. He chose to fight and he died anyway, so who wins? Why be macho, why fight for a life that wasn't that great to begin with? Why be a hero? Why push one more time with strength that would probably be wasted anyway? Why fight to survive when death would inevitably be the result?
