by Adam Millard
The white furry thing looming over her hissed. The toe-ring which had been on her foot – which in turn had been attached to the rest of her – a moment ago, was pushed up onto one of the creature’s incisors.
“I hope you choke on me, you bastard,” she said, grimacing, knowing that they would be her last words. As the beast came forward, Galina found herself comforted by the fact that, if nothing else, there was a good chance that the creature would catch something nasty from her.
*
The Rossebuurt was in chaos. Nobody knew what the things were, or from where they had come, but it was clear what they were there for.
Food. They couldn’t get enough of it. Punters and prostitutes alike were torn limb from limb by the hulking quadrupeds. The canal ran red with blood and bodies. Some people had thrown themselves into the freezing cold water in an attempt to escape the slaughter and were bobbing around amongst the savaged corpses of the unfortunate ones.
Two of the creatures were toying with a small posse of private bodyguards, who were trying to fight back with what appeared to be dildos. Regrettably, twelve inches of rubber was no match for the beasts, who quickly tired of the game and finished the fools, spitting out anything that tasted like lube.
The creatures were almost fifteen feet tall now, and twice as long. They moved slowly, though, listlessly ambling along Oudezidjs Voorburgwal as if unsure of how best to occupy their time. Faces pressed up against hotel windows as guests tried to figure out why the fuck their rooms were shaking, and soon disappeared as they realised a small herd of otherworldly monsters were ransacking the place.
Sirens filled the night as de politie responded to the madness. Flashing blue lights didn’t frighten the creatures; at least, not in the same way they did catholic priests or murderous football players. The creatures approached the cars with caution, as if summing up what it all meant. Before the police cars pulled to a stop, though, the monsters attacked. Three of the beasts headed across the bridge, to where a S.W.A.T. team was getting into position. The van and its screaming snipers were forced into the Herengracht by the stampeding beasts. One of the creatures dived in after it, holding it under, making sure that its contents were well and truly drowned. Once it was satisfied – the bubbles had ceased, apart from the ones that accidentally escaped from the hamster – it clambered out onto the riverbank, shook like a Yorkshire terrier climbing out of a bath, and re-joined the others, who were slightly miffed at their counterpart’s behaviour.
In the square, which was now empty apart from the odd scattered corpse or Chinese tourist still trying to snap a picture worthy of Facebook upload, the six colossal creatures sniffed each other inappropriately. And as they continued to grow – painfully, judging by the guttural noises they made – those lucky few still breathing cowered behind bins, beneath corpses, under deserted vehicles, trying to figure out just what the fuck was happening in their beautiful city. Some newspapers, in weeks to follow, would blame Al Qaeda, suggesting that the beasts were made up of dozens of Taliban like some sort of modern-day Trojan Horse, though quite why they would attack poor old Amsterdam instead of the West would prove too confusing for the theorists.
*
As the quintet making up Mike Dooley’s stag party emerged from yet another freaky strip-club – this time with gimps and dominatrices, neither of which had the desired effect on Mike and his buddies – they came to realise that something was different.
When they’d entered Fifty Shades of Pain, the street had been teeming with people. Perverts from all across the world had been practically bouncing off each other; Mike had made it a priority to get checked for sexual diseases once they were back in the UK, even though he hadn’t had any sex. From what he fathomed, you couldn’t be too careful, not in Amsterdam, where the lower-class hookers were called things like Chlamydia Lydia and Phyllis Syphilis.
“What’s wrong with this picture?” Mike said, scanning the forsaken avenues for signs of life. It was like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie; he half-expected Vincent Price to come bounding along the cobbles.
“It’s getting late, I guess,” John said.
“It’s half-past-twelve,” Tony said, glancing at his Futurama watch. “Are you telling me that the sex- and drugs-capital of the world has a midnight curfew?”
“Listen,” Mike said. Off in the distance, dopplering sirens suggested that something was amiss.
“Guess what?” Donald said, patting Mike on the back. “We have those in our country. It’s called The Police. They like to stop people like us from having fu—“
The termination of his sentence was so abrupt that Mike whirled, his brogues scraping the cobblestones in a fashion reminiscent of nails on a blackboard.
“Holy fuck!” he said, staggering back, the sight of what stood before him almost too much to comprehend.
Donald was gone, though not wholly. That is, he was gone from the waist up. His legs remained in place, standing there like one of those shop-window displays focussed on selling you a shitty pair of Bermuda shorts. After a few seconds – the remaining four were as rooted to the spot as Donald’s legs and ass – what was left of their friend toppled forward, landing with a meaty thud on the cobbles. It was a nauseating noise, and Tony, who had been fighting to control his innards, watched as they spewed from his face.
What had done that? What the fuck had done that to Donald? It’s the giant rats! Johan was right!
The four men rushed into the middle of the street, squinting through the darkness, trying to figure out whether Donald had simply exploded due to the sheer excitement of the Dam. Ridiculous, yes, but so was the notion that he’d been gobbled up by some mutant dormouse.
“I don’t see anything!” Tony said, wiping the mayonnaise drool from his stubbly chin. “Oh, fuck! Donald’s dead! Oh, fuck!”
“Shut up!” Mike said. Something rustled to his right. He snapped his head towards it and was relieved to see a plastic bag dancing through the air. “Whatever did that is still here.”
“Oh, fuck!” Stuart said. “Shit. I think I’ve shit.” He tugged at the seat of his trousers, which seemed to hang from his body, now, like a toddler’s full nappy. The stench rose up, stinging at their eyes. As if they didn’t have enough on their plate…
“What’s that?” John said, pointing past the flashing neon light of Fifty Shades of Pain. Something was down there; Mike saw it, too, hiding in the shadows, waiting for them to make their move. The trouble with that, though, was that they didn’t have one. The standoff could go on all night.
Stuart had unintentionally stumbled away from the others, yanking at the bulge in his trousers. “Man, it’s so warm,” he said. “I think it’s in my socks.”
“Stu, get your ass back over here!” Mike said. “Something’s still fucking out—“ That was as far as he got. A huge black thing fell from the sky, landing on Stuart’s back, crushing him instantly. Mike pushed John and Tony back. “RUN!” he screamed, terrified of the black mass scampering over their friend. The darkness seemed to swallow the thing and their flat friend. Mike couldn’t believe what was happening. Had he fallen asleep watching the gimps? Was this some terrible nightmare brought on by too much PVC and too many ball-gags? He willed himself to wake up as he urged his jellied legs to move.
The thing on Stuart’s back stepped casually off before pushing the squashed corpse into its mouth. Its cheeks bulged; its eyes flickered red with each flash of the neon signage. It was, Mike thought, something from the depths of Hell itself.
He turned, launched himself after John and Tony, who were trying to get back into the bizarre bar they’d only just left. The doors, though, were locked for the night. The gimp-fanciers inside were safe for now; Mike, John and Tony, on the other hand, were up shit’s creek with a turd for a paddle.
“Forget the fucking bar!” Mike called, grabbing onto John’s arm and pulling him along the row of abandoned buildings. “Just…” He was going to say, ‘Just run,’ but when he saw what was st
anding in their way, he couldn’t finish the sentence. The thing that had been lurking in the shadows at the far end of the street had revealed itself, and was approaching them, slowly but surely, promenading toward them like a vengeful bull. A few streets away, a woman’s shrill cry told them they weren’t the only ones in trouble.
“You know what would be useful right now?” Mike whispered. “A fucking phone.”
John, trembling and on the verge of a complete breakdown, said, “Who would you call?” The creature behind them sniffed at the air, made a strange mewling sound that turned Mike’s blood to mercury.
The one in front responded with a sonorous growl of its own. Mike imagined they were picking out their favourites. The black one behind was saying, I’ll take the one without the sick on its face, to which the ginger one replied, Okay, but we get to share the one with the pathetic look of a soon-to-be married man.
“Shit, we’re dead!” Tony said. “We’re fucking dead, and I never got to do a helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon.”
“We’re not dead yet,” Mike said, though he knew they weren’t far off. Millions of people, since time began, had used the same words only to find they were their last. Since he didn’t want to be added to such an illustrious list, he added, “I don’t think they can see us too well.”
He’d noticed that, while the trio were backing into shadows afforded by the narrow street, the creature in front had squinted a little, and sniffed at the air, as if to rediscover its foreseeable meal.
“I think you’re right,” John said, watching the one approaching from the rear. “It’s like they’re relying on us to move.”
“They get any closer,” Tony said, “and they’ll get what they want.”
Mike steadied his friend’s trembling arm. Whispering, he said, “They can smell us, and I’m pretty sure they can see us up close, but if we just…stay…perfectly—“
Suddenly, the ginger beast yelped, as if something had crept up behind and inserted several fingers, maybe even an arm. Mike noticed something blue, and almost feather-like, protruding from the creature’s neck. It squeaked, writhed from side to side in an effort to shake the blue object free. Whatever it was, it had penetrated deep beneath the creature’s fur, burrowed into its flesh.
“Squeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaak,” the thing roared, leaning back on its haunches and pawing at its neck. The creature behind them had ceased crawling forward, and instead watched with morbid curiosity. “Squeeeeeaa—“
Mike didn’t understand hamster and neither did John or Tony, but what happened next gave them an idea of what the thing was trying to say.
It exploded. Hunks of furred flesh shot in all directions. Mike and the others dropped to their knees, not wanting to be slapped in the face by smithereens of scorched rodent. An eyeball larger than a tyre bounced off John’s shoulder, knocking him onto his back. Blood and viscera rained down in the street; fur fluttered around, illuminated by the red, neon light, giving the avenue an almost party vibe.
The black creature sensed danger, and when a man stepped out from the shadows – was that a gun in his hands? – it squeaked once before turning and loping away.
The man ever-so-slowly raised the gun to his shoulder. As he did, Mike, John and Tony shuffled off the street and into the shadows, really not wanting to play any role in what was to follow.
“This one’s for Anneke,” the man muttered before pulling the trigger. There was a whooshing noise as the dart flew through the air. All Mike saw was a green blur, and then it was embedded in the black monster’s ass.
The creature leapt metres into the air, squealing and yelping in pretty much the same way humans do when they stub their toe on a particularly recalcitrant piece of furniture. Before it had a chance to reunite itself with the cobbles, a meaty explosion tore it into millions of pieces. A large chunk of pelt landed at the armed man’s feet; he nudged it, as if the thing was apt to regenerate and endeavour a second attack.
After a few seconds – once it had stopped raining meat and fur – the man lifted the rifle to his lips and blew, like something from a Sergio Leone movie. He looked nothing like Clint Eastwood, though; more like that carroty monkey he dragged around in Every Which Way But Loose.
“You can come out now,” the man said. “These ones ain’t coming back.”
A pool of crimson had trickled toward the trio, who were staring at each other, waiting for one of them to make the first move. Mike shrugged and pushed himself to his feet. John and Tony quickly followed his lead.
“Rough night, huh?” the man said, lowering his weapon. He could see it was making the trio nervous. With good cause. He’d had no idea the effect it would have on the mutant hamsters. He’d expected them to wobble around a bit, groan and whinge as the Immobilom took effect. Their bursting had been something of a welcome fluke. “The name’s Barnhart,” the man said. “Guus Barnhart.”
If it was good enough for James Bond, then by God it was good enough for him.
*
Sharon Riddick should have been off for the night; her boss – asshole that he was – had called her up and informed her that if she wasn’t at the club in fifteen minutes, she wasn’t welcome at the club ever again. “Some guy wants an American gal,” he’d spat into the phone. “And since you’re the only fucking American on our books, you’d better get your fat ass down here before he leaves.” Sharon had told him to get Frederika to do an accent; how hard was it to convince someone you were American? But Jake wasn’t having any of it, and so Sharon had dressed, boarded a Metro, and made her way reluctantly to the Twenty Euro Saloon, where it was buffet night and rowdy as hell.
And now, she watched as some giant capybara chewed up the punters as if it hadn’t eaten in months. Buffet night, indeed. People were climbing over one another to reach the exits, but it was no use. On the street outside there were three more of them, mutant rodents or whatever-the-fuck they were. As people fell through the doors, still harnessing semi-erect cocks, they were picked unceremoniously off, forced into jaws wide enough to pleasure a blue whale.
“Help me!” a voice called. Sharon recognised it immediately. She turned to find Jake – her asshole boss – wedged between a table and a naked statue of Marilyn Monroe, The effigy had toppled onto him so it looked as though he and Marilyn were dining-for-two. Jake’s hand flailed about, grasping at the air.
Sighing, Sharon started to pull bits of wood off him, but a bestial groan stopped her in her tracks. The monster which had previously been snacking on the bar-staff had finished and was looking for something else to sate its undying appetite.
“Oh, hell no,” Sharon said, realising that she was the something else it sought. As it approached, kicking tables across the room with its powerful hind legs, she pulled a nail-file from her purse. If I’d known I’d be battling fucking Pokemon, she thought, I’d have brought my Taser.
“Don’t leave me here,” Jake’s petrified voice cried from beneath the rubble. “I don’t want to die like this.”
“Quit your bitchin’, hon',’ Sharon said, turning to face the creature. “We all gotta die. I’m surprised your nasty ass lasted this long.” She grit her teeth as the beast leapt into the air. Its trajectory brought it directly down on top of her, so hard that her stilettos popped off and flew across the room. She was dead in seconds; the thing’s sheer weight had crushed her organs into one, sloppy mess.
But instead of feeding – as it had intended – it choked and spluttered; suddenly became aware of a burning sensation in its throat. The euphoria it had been experiencing waned; the people running around were no longer wearing dunce hats and codpieces; the prostitute beneath it was not, in fact, a Cher impersonator. There were no rainbows in the room, or seagull flocks darting around the trembling chandeliers. It was all gone.
The blood, however, spurting from the wound in its throat was very real. And there seemed to be a lot of it. The hamster had not seen The Shining, but if it had, that’s what it would have likened it to.
“Yeah, die you fucking overgrown gerbil!” a voice said. For a moment, the hamster thought it was the voice of God, but then quickly remembered that it was an Atheist, so it couldn’t be.
Through blurred vision and pink-eye, the hamster staggered forward, squeaking and croaking like a frog with emphysema. A man was trapped beneath a table and something heavy and golden. The creature could just make out an arm, protruding from the mountain of lumber.
“No, please don’t kill me,” the man said, trying to free himself from the obstruction. “I’m still a virgin. I know that’s hard to believe, working with pussy all day long, but I swear I haven’t seen one since 1991, and that was my cousin’s. No, please, no…”
The hamster, in one final vindictive movement, allowed itself to fall forward, embracing the darkness as it swallowed it up. The man, who was neither a virgin nor the voice of God, felt his extremities push out through his anus before succumbing to the darkness along with the beast.
*
Around the city, Koninklijke Landmacht (Royal Netherlands Army) put into place fifteen Bushmasters, three Fennek medium-range anti-tank vehicles, two Leopards, two Fuchs, and three hundred terrified, still wet behind the ears, infantrymen. Air support was on its way, but since the enemy – reports were coming in about some sort of hairy dinosaur – appeared to be grounded, they would be doing the brunt of the work without the choppers.
“Get ready to move in,” Lieutenant General Jordi Haas announced over the radio. “I want those things brought down before they fuck up my city.”
“Sir, we’ve got reports that one of them has been killed by a prostitute with a nail-file,” Major General Marc Van Bastard’s voice crackled through the radio. “Don’t you think we might be going in a little heavy-handed? It’s the equivalent of blowing up a farmhouse with a 40-megaton nuke.”
