by Adam Millard
The people on the next table climbed to their feet. Their leader, a gangly fellow with a long, Viking beard and a beret, said, “Thanks, Jo, you’ve totally ruined our buzz.”
“Yeah, thanks,” a smaller Viking added. To Mike, he said, “If you guys are out here on a stag-do, you might want to check out Small ‘n Sensual three streets over. They got midgets doing all kinds of shit.”
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Mike lied. The Vikings headed for the door, but a loud chi-chink stopped them in their tracks. The shotgun in Johan’s hand was now cocked, ready to blow a hole in anyone stupid enough to go for the door. He was shaking his head; flakes of dandruff were visible against the 20-watt strip lights.
“Can’t let you go out there,” Johan said. “Those things’ll get you. They’ll get you like they got Armando.” He took a moment to remember all the good times he and Armando had shared, but as it turned out there weren’t many and he was soon back in the room, his fond reverie forgotten in an instant.
“You can’t keep us here,” the tall Viking said. “That’s kidnap.”
Stuart took a long drag on his joint. “As far as kidnapping goes, this would be the best. I could get Stockholm Syndrome here, no problem.”
“What the fuck is that!” Donald said, falling back off the couch. He quickly scrambled to his feet and rushed towards the front window. They all did.
Outside, a man flailed around, bouncing off things like a fly trapped in a bathroom. His head – quite an important part of human survival – was gone. Blood geysered up from the stump. The pavement was covered with arterial spray.
“That, dude,” Tony said, relighting his joint, “is how you paint the town red.”
*
The hamsters had once again flung themselves into the river. It was becoming something of a habit, one that none of them appreciated. They had been fortunate enough to locate a dark bridge, and now cowered beneath it as they tried to make sense of what was happening.
The man had been stealing the yummy stuff. Of that they were certain. But was it necessary to tear his head off? Perhaps they could have sat him down and given him a stern talking to. Not that he was fluent in hamster. They had yet to meet a human who was. But maybe they could have bartered with him. You give us the bag back, and we’ll try not to chew your head off. Surely he would have gone for that.
There wasn’t much of the yummy stuff left. After settling on the riverbank, the hamsters had worked up quite an appetite, apart from Whitey who was still full from the eating the thief’s head. The sweet, sickly goo in the bag was wrong – they knew it was – and yet it was so, so right.
“Squeak,” one of them said. We’re growing. We’re almost the same size as the humans. There’s something very dodgy about the yummy stuff, and yet I can’t help but want more. It must be some kind of hamster catnip.
“Squeak,” one of the black hamsters said. I don’t think we should eat it all. My guts are giving me some right gyp and if we get any bigger we’re going to smash this bridge from underneath.
They continued to discuss their options, and decided that they didn’t have any, not really. The yummy stuff was too addictive; there was no way they could resist it. To hell with growing; so what if people pointed and laughed at the funny, giant hamsters. Fuck ‘em. It was about time somebody stood up and showed those puny humans what real captivity feels like.
“Squeak,” one of the ginger hamsters said. For far too long, our kin have been bred as pets, placed in cages not big enough to swing a mouse in, forced to drink three day-old water from a plastic bottle like fucking babies. Well not anymore. No longer will we suffer at the hands of overzealous nine year-olds. No longer will we fear the vacuum cleaner or the hairdryer. We are bigger than these fuckers. Stronger. By the end of tonight we’ll be unstoppable, and the humans will be cowering in their own little cages. Tonight, when we run out of yummy stuff and this bridge is no longer able to hide us, we go out there and we show them what it feels like to be scared.
The five engrossed hamsters, by way of applause, approved of the speech. Overhead, sounds of revellers and traffic filled the night. Music, distant but loud enough to shake their fur, suggested they were close to a tourist hotspot, the perfect venue for what they had planned. The bag of yummy stuff lasted barely an hour, and the creatures agreed to let it settle before taking down Amsterdam so hard the screams would be audible in China.
Because not only are hamsters renowned racists and homophobes, they are also highly-schooled in Geography.
*
Detective Koenraad sighed so heavily that his rancid cheese-and-onion breath was picked up by a Labrador almost a mile away. Mike thought the dark bags beneath the detective’s eyes suggested he was either a heavy drinker or a severe insomniac, though the two usually went hand in hand. What else was there to do at three in the morning?
“So,’ the detective said, tapping his notepad impatiently with a pen. “You say you saw the attackers run away, and you believe they were…” He read aloud what he’d written a moment before. “…Some kind of weird, bloody big animals. Possibly bears, but they could have been sloths, pandas, or ewoks. Is that correct?”
Johan nodded. “That is correct,’ he said. “I saw them attack Armando. At first I thought they were furries, but then—“
“I’m sorry,” Koenraad interrupted. “You thought they were…?”
“Furries,” Johan said. “People that dress up like anthropomorphic animals.” Koenraad shook his head, clearly confused by this new information. “It’s a new thing,” Johan continued, “and something you’ll probably never have to worry about. Anyway, I digress. These weren’t furries; these were real animals, but big. If I had to guess, I’d say they were scavenging for food in the bins. That’s where Armando must have found them, just before they gnawed his head off.”
Koenraad scribbled something indecipherable in his notepad. “And you,” he said, turning to the traumatised witnesses lining the bar. “You didn’t see these…these creatures…just the aftermath, the human fountain out there?”
Mike nodded. He hadn’t smoked as much as the others; it was best that he took charge. “He came in,” he said, pointing to Johan, “and told us he’d seen giant rats outside. We were about to leave when we saw the body. Of course, it wasn’t just a body then. It was still moving.” He glanced out through the window, to where the headless corpse had fallen. A team of Uniform Patrol Officers surrounded the body, glancing down at it and shaking their heads as if trying to figure out which part was missing.
Koenraad leaned in so that Mike was the only person in earshot. “Do you think animals did that?” he whispered, nodding towards the window. Mike wondered if the detective had heard of mouthwash.
“To be honest,” he whispered. “I think a lot of drugs get smoked in this place; most of them by Smokey Jo over there.”
Koenraad knew exactly what Mike was talking about. “I know,’ he said. “What’s strange, though, is that this is the second animal-related incident today.”
Mike shrugged. “Coincidence? I’m sure what happened to that poor lad out there wasn’t animals, or furries, or ewoks.”
The detective ummed and ahhed. “Well, I have your number if we need to get in touch,” he said. “You and your friends are free to go. Stag-do, is it?”
Mike nodded. “I’d like to say I’m having fun, but so far all I’ve seen is dancing midgets and dead people.”
“Well, look at it this way,” the detective said, walking with Mike to the door. “It can’t possibly get any worse.”
*
“Well, that was fucking insane,” John said. “Didn’t I promise you a weekend you’d never forget?”
“Can you believe the way that guy’s neck spewed up?” Donald said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Well, that’s what happens when you fuck with the rats in Amsterdam,” Tony said, grinning. “I’ve heard the squirrels are all rapists, too. Gangs of them, just hanging around the park,
waiting for virile young gangs like us. Then, when you least expect it, POW! You’ve got a furry dick in you.”
“Not funny,” Stuart said. “My aunt was raped by a squirrel.” He exploded with laughter; they all did, except Mike, who wanted nothing more than to hear Beth’s voice, to tell her the truth about where he was, to let her know that he was being good and there was nothing to worry about, and that he’d make up for lying to her when he got back.
It was relationship suicide; there was no way she would be okay with it.
“Listen, guys,” Mike said, stopping in the street. “I’m going to call Beth, and I—“
John snorted and glanced down at his watch. “Who had ten-thirty?” he said. “I think that was you, Stu.”
Stuart smiled. “Yeah, I had ten-thirty to eleven, first night,” he said. “Fuck me, I never win anything.”
“Well, technically you haven’t won anything this time, either,” John said, patting Stuart on the back.
“Wait a minute,” Mike said, suddenly irritated. “You guys were betting on how long it’d take me to call Beth?”
John smiled. “Not really betting, mate. Like I said, there’s no prize, but we thought it’d be fun to see how long you managed to go without wanting to call her.”
Mike could have punched John in that moment. Why was he the only one growing the hell up? Surely they could understand why he’d want to speak with his girl. After what they’d just witnessed, it was a surprise none of the others had updated their Facebook statuses or tweeted about the headless guy, spattering the pavement, whirling around like a Morris dancer while his lifeblood cascaded out. Back in England, that body would have been surrounded in seconds, people wanting to get a good photo, chavs instantly uploading the grisly images to fucking Instagram. It was strange that Tony hadn’t tried to take a photo of the body; his wall was usually filled with grotesque and reprehensible pictures.
But then, Mike remembered that he hadn’t seen any of them check their phones, not since they left the hotel earlier that evening. Panicking, he reached into his jacket pocket; his wallet, a tub of tic-tacs, and nothing else.
“Shit, I’ve been pickpocketed,” he said, his heart leaping up into his throat and almost choking him. “Check for your phones,” he gasped. “Your wallets.”
Strangely, none of the others seemed concerned that he’d been robbed. Instead, they cast each other surreptitious glances. It hit him like a tonne of bricks. John must have seen his expression change, as he began to explain.
“Mate, we knew it would happen. Try not to kick off, but we kinda made a pact this morning. No phones; no interruptions. Look, you’ve gone all day without—“
“You took my phone so I wouldn’t be able to call Beth?” Mike said, clenching his fists so tightly his knuckles whitened. “What the fuck!” He wanted to hit out. Any of them would do. Preferably Tony; he had the softest face. He wanted to, but he knew that if he did, the trip would be over. Good intentions, or not, he hated them for what they’d done.
“Chill,” Tony said. “Mate, Beth doesn’t need to hear from you tonight. Call her in the morning. Your phone’s at the hotel; it’s not like we sold it to some street urchin.”
Well that’s okay then, Mike thought, sardonically. “What if something happens?” he said. “What if one of us has an accident? What if we get set upon by giant fucking rats?” He almost laughed, but managed to supress it.
“Nothing’s going to happen tonight,” Donald said. “And if it does, I’ll let you kick me in the balls. Free shot, right in the crackers.”
Mike took a deep breath. The red mist lifted. He sucked in the clean night air, exhaled slowly and deliberately. When he opened his eyes, he felt a lot better. Not enough to forgive the pricks for their idiocy, but enough to thwart the rage that had threatened to erupt only a moment ago. He told himself that they were right; that Beth wouldn’t be expecting to hear from him on his first night in Blackpool (Amsterdam). In fact, it was probably a godsend; he had been about to tell her the truth. Now that he had had time to consider it, he realised how reckless a move that would have been.
“Okay,” he said, still regulating his breathing. “When we get back to the hotel later, I want my phone. You morons can stick to your pact if you want but, since I was never a part of it, I want mine back.”
“Fine, fine,” John said, throwing a languid arm over Mike’s shoulder. “Now, can we just enjoy the rest of the night? Shit, we’re only here for the weekend. Let’s not waste a second of it.”
Mike was almost afraid to ask what was next on the agenda. So far, things had not entirely been straightforward. Seeing a man sans head had put a dampener on the whole affair. It was the first time he’d seen a dead person – other than on those execution videos you could watch online – but what Mike didn’t know, what none of them knew, was that by the end of the night, they’d be sick of the sight of dead folk.
*
The Red Light District – or the Rossebuurt to the locals and those interested enough to learn Dutch – was busier than a Jehovah’s Witness at Doors Unlimited. Couples giggled as women of all shapes and sizes flaunted their goods – and in some cases, not so goods – in their respective windows. Myriad Chinese tourists pointed cameras at anything that moved; taking photos of the ladies, however, was strictly prohibited, as Zhang Wei discovered a few minutes before the ambulance was called. The Condomerie was heaving with people looking to stock up before partaking in a bit of window-shopping; red, neon lights illuminated the inky canals, and the illegal dealers lining them. Fights broke out, people had sex; it was a little like Birmingham, only less seedy.
Galina – a Russian prostitute with one leg, and even that was dodgy – danced in her window. Dance might not be the right word for how she moved; it was more of a seizure, an unbalanced spasm, though she did alright, most nights, and would soon have enough money to buy the fur coat she’d seen in the window of Bont en Vintage. Some people called her Galina Vagina, for no other reason than it almost rhymed. She looked like a million other Russian ladies: blonde, tall (thanks to her one stiletto heel), and sultry, the way Debbie Harry would look if she hadn’t opted for a face full of collagen.
She danced, and people pointed and laughed. That was okay; she was used to it. Before the night was out, some kinky bastard with an amputee fetish would sweep her off her foot. It was amazing how many stump-lickers were out there, and she was grateful for them.
The fur, the fur, think about the fur, she told herself as she swayed her hips, bouncing off the glass like a wasp caught in a Rover Metro. She was, funnily enough, thinking about the fur when suddenly, something furry thumped into her window. Startled, she tottered back; if it hadn’t been for the red, lace curtains in her booth, she’d have been on her ass.
And then she screamed. The thing on the other side of her window sniffed at the glass; a patch of steam appeared and vanished with each breath it took. Drool seeped from its wide maws, dripping from its razorblade teeth, which were longer than Galina’s other leg, leaning up against the chair.
She screamed again, or was she still screaming from the first scream? The thing – some sort of cow, she thought – butted at the glass with its face, which scrunched up on impact. Outside on the street, people were running, but not from the thing at her window. There were more of them; she watched as a black one – twice the size of the humans it attacked – tore a man’s arm off and beat him round the head with it until he fell into the canal. Another, this one auburn, launched itself into the air and came down on a rotund woman’s back. Galina was certain the ground shook as it landed. The poor lady didn’t stand a chance as the thing’s teeth penetrated, tearing through her flesh like a steak-knife through butter. When its razor incisors retracted, they were coated in fat and viscera.
The creature, gawping at her through the window with what appeared to be stoner’s eyes, smashed its face once more against the glass. This time, a spider-web of cracks appeared, growing steadily outwards. Galina scramb
led to her foot, but by the time she turned – ready to launch herself away from the window – the thing had sensed its chance.
Glass exploded in, knocking Galina back to the ground. She landed face down, and something – the mysterious cow-thing – snagged her leg. What followed could only be described as the most intense pain Galina had ever experienced. Losing her first leg had been a walk in the park compared to this. Now, she’d be lucky to walk anywhere. Agony scorched her entire body, and yet she was too terrified to turn, to see what the creature had done to her. She had an inkling, though, when she was suddenly able to drag herself from the booth into her boudoir.
Fucker took my other leg, she thought, rolling over onto her back. Whether it was shock, or anger, she didn’t know, but she wanted to confront the thing, to voice her frustration. Nobody would want a prostitute with no legs; she’d been lucky to find a niche in the market with one.
Her leg was gone from the knee down. Strands of glistening meat had left a trail behind her as she’d pulled herself forward. The creature chewed frantically, crunching through the tough bits in its mouth which had been Galina’s tibia and fibula. She screamed at it incomprehensibly; what came out sounded like, “Ahhhheeeeerrrrrrhhhhooooo!” but should have been, “How dare you!” Not only had she lost her last leg, but the ability to speak had been cruelly snatched from her, too.
Seemingly unaffected, the giant thing finished its mouthful, swallowing with an audible gulp which sickened the stump of a prostitute. No sooner had it consumed Galina’s leg, and livelihood, did the creature push its considerable bulk through the window and into the boudoir. Brick shattered as the thing thrust itself forward; Galina’s eyes widened as she realised the thing appeared to be growing.
It had grown at least three feet since it had appeared at the window. Galina could hear the screams from the street out front; hundreds of people, no doubt as confused as she was by the anomalous beasts.
