Savage

by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Sidney’s gears were turning. CO2, flame-suffocating chemicals—it could be just the thing to help them clear a path from the house to the truck.

  “Give it,” she ordered, moving her fingers in Rich’s direction. Her friend came down the hall and handed the tank to her.

  “I think this might do it,” she said, hefting the extinguisher. “We spray to drive them back, and keep spraying until everybody gets to the truck.”

  “Will that work?” Rich asked.

  “Better than anything I can think of right now,” Sidney said.

  “I’ll do it,” Cody said, moving to take it from her.

  “Like hell you will,” she said, stepping away from his reach.

  The sounds from outside were becoming more raucous, and she could have sworn that she heard glass tinkling to the floor.

  “Are we ready?” she asked.

  “Keys,” Cody demanded, holding out his hand.

  Sidney reached into the pocket of her sweatshirt and removed the keys, handing them to him. “I’ll give you that.”

  “What’s my job?” Rich asked.

  “Make sure Snowy and Isaac get safely to the truck,” she said.

  Rich nodded, patting Isaac on the shoulder. He had his meat tenderizer in one hand and his long-reach knife in the other.

  They stood there for a few moments, no one really wanting to give the go-ahead. And then Sidney heard her father calling out from the garage.

  “Go on,” Rich said. He put out his hands for the extinguisher.

  She handed it over and trotted down the hallway, Snowy by her side. She threw open the door, certain that her father had changed his mind. Instead, she saw him still in his chair, surrounded by dynamite, wires running from the ends of the explosive sticks to the detonator he held in his hands.

  Her heart sank. “I thought you had changed your mind,” she said dully.

  “No,” he said firmly. “I wanted to let you know I’m ready. It’s time for you to go.”

  “Dad, please reconsider,” she started.

  “Clock’s ticking, Sidney,” he said. “Go. I love you.” Then he pressed the button to open the garage door. “Come and get me, you filthy bastards!” he cried.

  The insects were first, flowing under the door as it rose, crawling onto his body.

  Sidney knew she had to leave before she couldn’t but chanced one final look over her shoulder as she passed into the kitchen.

  Bugs were crawling up onto his neck and face. He caught her look and nodded. “Beep the horn when you’re safe.”

  Sidney ran through the kitchen and down the hall to her friends. “Get ready,” she said, stopping short and wrenching the fire extinguisher from Rich’s hands.

  “Where’s your father?”

  “Where he wants to be,” she said as she pulled the pin. “Open the door. We’re leaving.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  Dale Moore would have been lying if he said he wasn’t having second thoughts.

  Nobody really ever wanted to die.

  Even as he was, less than half of what he used to be, a part of him still struggled to remain. He guessed it was some primitive part of the brain that had existed to keep the species alive ever since mankind dropped down from the trees.

  What if there really was nothing after this? Was that actually better than a life plagued by handicap?

  Had he been wrong? Did he really want to stay alive?

  Maybe he had, but now . . .

  The insects were crawling under his clothes, biting and stinging his flesh. No matter how many he swatted away or crushed against his body, they were still there, an endless swarm of bugs and spiders.

  He had to force himself to remain in the chair, knowing that he’d probably make it only a few feet before landing on the floor, rolling around like a turtle on its back.

  No, he would hold out as long as he could for Sidney and her friends.

  His grip tightened on the detonator in his lap. As soon as she beeped the horn . . .

  The insects were just the first wave. He could see the cats jumping over the fence, skulking through the front yard, many wearing pretty collars, some with bells on them. If the insects failed, they’d be there to take him out. He’d never really cared for cats. He’d always been a dog person. Dale found his memory going back to a day in his childhood, his grandmother having come to stay with them for the weekend. He remembered her telling him a story of when she was a young girl in Ireland, and how new mothers were always afraid of the wild cats that were about. He had asked her why, and she had told him the cats would come into the baby’s crib, perch upon the sleeping child’s chest, and steal away their breath.

  Dale heard the ringing of a bell as the first of the cats pounced upon his chest, its claws piercing his shirt to hook into the tender flesh beneath. He cried out in pain, swatting the silent beast away, before the others leaped upon him, scrambling up his body to get to his face.

  To steal his breath away.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  Cody threw open the door, and Sidney stepped out, spraying a cloud of choking CO2 at the animals swarming upon the porch.

  “Run!” she screamed, relieved to see that she had been right, the cold blast from the fire extinguisher actually driving the animals back. She fired more of the chilling CO2 and chanced a quick look over her shoulder to see Rich, Snowy, and Isaac following Cody to the driveway and the waiting truck. She sprayed one more arc of the choking white chemical, then darted off the porch to the left.

  And slammed into somebody standing in the cold, swirling mist.

  Sidney let out a yelp, falling backward and dropping the red canister. It took a moment for her brain to process what she was seeing: the man who had tried to kill her. He glared at her with horrible mismatched eyes, a bloody smile upon his face. Alfred the nasty French bulldog stood by his side.

  She frantically reached for the extinguisher while keeping an eye on the man as he lumbered toward her.

  Multiple stings of burning pain caused her to cry out, and she yanked her hand back as a cloud of wasps swarmed around her salvation. She scrambled to her feet, ducking beneath Berthold’s filthy hands as they reached for her. Alfred decided to help then, lunging forward and sinking his nasty, bulldog teeth into the meat of her thigh.

  She pitched forward, landing hard on her side. Then quickly rolling over onto her back, she managed to wrench the dog off of her, losing a chunk of her leg in the process and flipping him backward. The pain was intense, her vision swimming as she struggled to get to her feet.

  Remembering her weapon, she reached to her side, found the carving knife’s wooden handle, and yanked it from her belt.

  Alfred was back, and all she could see was his open, slavering maw as it came at her. She stabbed at the French bulldog’s face, the point of the knife entering his jowls and scraping across his gums and teeth. There was suddenly blood, lots of blood, as she pulled back on the blade, ready to stab at the dog again.

  But now Berthold was crawling on all fours toward her like some kind of animal. He reached out and grabbed her ankle, dragging her back down to the waterlogged lawn. She dropped her knife and found herself staring up into the man’s leering face as he bore down upon her, his filthy hands closing around her throat.

  And starting to squeeze.

  * * *

  Isaac had started to slow down, his hands again going up to his head.

  That’s all I need, Rich thought, turning and grabbing the kid. “C’mon, Isaac! We have to get in the truck.”

  “It’s getting loud again,” Isaac whined. “The bad radio is getting loud again.”

  “Maybe it won’t be so loud in the truck,” Rich said as Cody reached around from the driver’s seat to open the back passenger door.

  Rich pushed Isaac inside, then turned and gestured for Snowy to climb in as well.

  The German shepherd looked at him, and then turned around to stare in the direction they’d just come from. Exasperated, Ri
ch ran to her and picked her up.

  “She’ll be right here, girl,” he said, even though he knew she couldn’t hear. He hefted Snowy onto the backseat beside Isaac and slammed the door closed. Then he raced around the truck to the front passenger door. He stopped, hand on the door handle, staring off in the direction of the house. Animals were coming across the side lawn toward them, probably drawn to their movement, their life. Some were still coated in powdery white from the fire extinguisher.

  Where is she? he wondered, staring ahead, hoping to see her coming around the corner.

  But Sidney didn’t come.

  “Get in the truck!” Cody yelled, and Rich ignored him, waiting.

  “Rich, get in the truck, you stupid—”

  “Where is she?” Rich asked, opening the door and leaning in toward Cody.

  Cody looked nervous, antsy, his hands clenching and unclenching on the steering wheel. “I don’t know. Get in the truck before—”

  “Something’s wrong,” Rich said, standing up to look toward the front of the house again.

  Isaac was grabbing at his head and moaning, rocking back and forth, muttering beneath his breath, and Snowy whined pitifully.

  A rottweiler the size of a hippopotamus suddenly lunged around the truck at Rich. Rich managed to duck into the truck and slam the door closed just as the dog hit it.

  Furious, it leaped against the truck, its slathering jaws biting at the window.

  “Where is she?” Rich asked again.

  Cody looked like he was going to jump out of his skin.

  “She’s coming,” he said, looking out his window that was now being assaulted by stinging insects slamming against the glass. “She’s coming.”

  The rottweiler leaped against the door, scratching with its large paws, trying to get in.

  Rich looked at Cody. He could see that he was scared as well. Terrified that something had happened.

  Where is she?

  Rich suddenly slid across the seat, slamming his hand down in the center of the steering wheel and leaving it there.

  Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Dale Moore was waiting to die.

  He was definitely ready, but he had to wait . . . he had to hold on until it was time.

  The animals were all over him, the cats doing the most damage as a pack of dogs sat passively on the sidelines, waiting to see if they would be needed.

  The pain really wasn’t quite so bad anymore, most of his body having gone coldly numb. It wasn’t too different than after the stroke.

  He kept his eyes shut, feeling the insects on his lids, biting—gnawing.

  He wasn’t sure how much time he had left. He was losing a lot of blood for sure and could feel his hold on his poor tortured body beginning to slip away.

  But he could not go yet; he had to fight the pull of the end. He had to be sure that she was safe. He needed to be sure that she had reached the safety of the truck before . . .

  Something large, and far heavier than bugs or cats, leaped up onto his lap and sank its teeth into his neck. Dale’s eyes shot open as his throat was at first crushed and then torn open. He could see his own dying reflection in the silvery coating that covered the dog’s right eye.

  It must be time for the second shift, he thought, feeling the blood pump from the gaping wound in his neck and down the front of his shirt, the pull of death even more forceful now.

  Then thankfully, he heard the blare of his truck’s horn. Sidney was safe, and it was time for him to go.

  And to take as many of these nasty sons of bitches with him as he could.

  Dale Moore had always said that he’d want to die with his family and friends surrounding him, leaving the world with the knowledge that he’d done good and he was loved.

  Two out of the three would have to do, he thought as his ragged and bloody fingers twitched upon the detonator, applying just enough pressure to—

  The garage, and everything inside it, was consumed in fire.

  * * *

  Berthold’s twisted face started to blur, obscured by blobs of writhing color that appeared before Sidney’s oxygen-starved eyes.

  She was trying to fight him, thrashing and bucking, but he easily outweighed her by forty pounds.

  Sidney found herself transfixed, nearly hypnotized by the single glistening eye inside the right socket of his skull, the way it moved, dilating and contracting, reminding her strangely of a camera lens attempting to focus.

  In and out, drawing her in, pulling her within the solid blackness of the strange eye’s center as her strength began to ebb.

  The blaring horn snapped her from her trance, sending an adrenaline surge shooting through her body like lightning. One last chance to survive—one last chance to live.

  It took all she had left. She drew her legs up underneath her attacker while placing both hands upon his shoulders. Then she wrenched her body to the side, rolling the man from atop her. He grunted as he landed on his back.

  Sidney gasped for breath as she scrambled away from the man. Her hand fell on her knife as she went, and she gripped it tightly.

  Alfred had come to the man’s side, the dog’s face a mask of torn skin and blood. She watched the man rise to his feet even as she struggled to stand, the wound in her leg throbbing painfully.

  She was barely to her feet, and Berthold and the dog were slowly stalking toward her, when the explosion came.

  A roaring, fire-spewing dragon that picked her up and threw her across the yard.

  * * *

  “I’m going to look for her,” Rich said just as the house exploded.

  The truck rocked, licked by tongues of flame before being pelted by burning pieces of vinyl siding and pink insulation.

  Cody looked at him, the expression on his face probably very much like Rich’s own.

  The rottweiler was still outside the passenger-side door, surrounded by pieces of burning debris.

  “It’s still out there,” Rich said, slamming his hand against the closed window. “We have to . . .”

  Cody turned the engine over and put the truck in drive.

  “Hold on,” he said as he stepped on the gas.

  And for perhaps one of the first times in his life, Rich did as he was told without question.

  * * *

  The peace of unconsciousness was calling to her in a soothing voice that she could hear just bellow the bells ringing in her ears. It was trying to tell her to give in, to come on down to Dark Town and rest a spell.

  It wanted her to give up, to throw in the towel, to tap out.

  But Sidney didn’t feel like dying.

  She forced her eyes open and looked at her childhood home in flames.

  “Dad,” she croaked as she watched the burning remains, knowing he was gone.

  Dazed, she climbed unsteadily to her feet and began to limp toward the driveway, where she hoped the truck, her friends, were still waiting. Something clamped around her ankle, and she fell to her knees in the grass, crying out in pain as the wound in her thigh reminded her it was there.

  Berthold was still alive, his body blackened and burning. He was holding tightly to her ankle, attempting to pull her closer. Not too far away, she could see Alfred, flat on his stomach, the fur on his back smoldering as he dragged himself toward her.

  Why can’t they just die? she thought, frantically trying to shake the man’s hold on her leg. His face was a horrible mess now, a mass of lacerated flesh and weeping blisters. His left eye was swollen shut, but the right was still wide with life.

  She stared at it as she struggled, the silvery orb growing larger and smaller. She hated that eye and what it represented: the end of the life she had known.

  She’d had enough. It was time to end this. Sidney gripped the knife and surged toward that silvery eye, plunging the blade into its center, hearing an oddly satisfying pop. She twisted the knife for good measure, then pulled back.

  Berthold froze, strange silver liq
uid—like mercury—running down his burned and blistered face before he pitched forward to the ground, dead. Sidney yanked her foot from his blackened grasp and turned, horrified to find Alfred almost upon her.

  She pushed herself back, ready to fight if she had to, when the truck appeared with the roar of its engine, barreling across the grass, the front tires running over the French bulldog’s head as the vehicle came to a stop.

  All she could do was stare as the door to the truck swung open and Cody reached for her.

  “You really do need to keep up,” Rich screamed from the passenger seat.

  Sidney scrambled up and into the truck.

  Before something else tried to kill her.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Doc Martin hissed and gritted her teeth as she cleaned her wound. She thought of the shots she would have to get, tetanus for sure, and probably rabies.

  She thought about rabies for a moment but knew in her gut that it wasn’t that at all. Rabies would be easy, she thought.

  What they were dealing with here and now was something altogether different and quite terrible.

  She got some gauze pads and tape and bandaged her leg, then sat back to check her work. Deeming it satisfactory, Doc Martin tugged the leg of her torn and bloodied slacks down and cautiously stood. There was some pain, but she felt like she could walk—and maybe even run—if she had to. She stomped her feet for good measure and winced from the pain, but it was manageable.

  The sound of the storm outside, as well as the scratches and rustlings of animal life searching for a way inside, made her listen. Whatever it was going on out there was bad and people needed to be warned, but she wasn’t doing anybody any good trapped in here.

  Limping from the back area, Doc Martin went up to the front of the clinic. In the faint red glow of the emergency lights she approached the main entrance, peering through the glass at the darkness outside. It was as if they were drawn to her presence, a veritable menagerie of dogs, cats, and rodents flowing from around the parking lot toward the front door. A Labrador–pit bull mix that she recognized from the neighborhood ran at the door full tilt, slamming its face into the glass, leaving a bloody stain behind as it stumbled back.