The Wilds

by Kit Tinsley

  Jerry had a happy but hardworking life and he did not have time to be worrying about aliens and monsters. Just because a few animals had been killed, and some teenagers had run away from home, there was no need to jump to foolish conclusions.

  These were the things going through Jerry’s mind as he headed back to his tractor, his packed lunch under his arm. The sound of an engine pulling into the driveway made him stop and look back in that direction. A small car he didn’t recognise was pulling into his drive. Jerry stood looking as the young man got out of the car. He was a stranger, but from the polite smile and friendly wave, Jerry guessed he was selling something. The young man walked over to him, Jerry was usually polite to salesmen, but today was a very busy day.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said as the young man approached. ‘I’m really busy today, so whatever you’re selling make it quick.’

  The young man arrived with an outstretched hand, which Jerry took and appreciated the firm handshake.

  ‘Hi. I’m not actually selling anything,’ the young man said. Of course, Jerry knew that this was what they all said.

  ‘Then what can I do for you?’ Jerry asked.

  ‘My name’s Karl Morgan,’ the young man said and the reached into his pocket. ‘My brother Phil has gone missing. His car was found near here, just on Maltham Lane. He sells farm insurance. I just wondered if you had seen him?’

  The young man, Karl, handed over a photograph. Jerry recognised the man in the picture instantly; he had only seen him the week before. He began to nod.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He came by last week, nice lad, I bought a policy off him. He was very prompt, I got my cover note the next day.’

  Karl smiled, but Jerry could see the concern in his eyes.

  ‘Have you seen him since?’ Karl asked hopefully.

  ‘No, but I hope you find him,’ Jerry said, handing back the photograph, which he tucked into his pocket.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ Karl said, shaking Jerry’s hand once again. ‘If you do see him, or remember anything he said that might help, please let me know.’ He handed him a card with his name and mobile number on. Jerry took it and put it in his coat pocket.

  ‘I doubt I will,’ Jerry said honestly, ‘but okay.’

  They said farewell and Karl walked back to his car. As he watched him drive away Jerry felt incredibly sorry for him. It must be awful when someone you loved just disappeared without a trace. He couldn’t begin to imagine what that poor young man and the rest of his family must be going through, but guessed that this was how people latched onto these ridiculous theories. When you were that desperate for answers, even the most fantastical ones offered some comfort.

  Jerry shook his head and then carried on walking towards his tractor. A loud thud coming from one of his outbuildings stopped him dead. He knew that Sue, his wife, was in the house, and their kids were at school. There should have been no one else in the farmyard.

  ‘Hello?’ he shouted over towards the corrugated iron doors of the shed.

  He waited for a few moments, but no reply was forthcoming. It could have been one of the cats knocking something over in there. He would have to check it out when he got back later.

  He turned back towards the tractor, but there was no time for him to start walking to it, as another thud emanated from within the outbuilding. Jerry was starting to worry that someone was in there, trying to steal something. There was nothing of any real value in that particular shed, they mainly used it to keep junk they no longer wanted in the house, but that was not the point.

  Jerry set his lunch box down on the wall at his side and walked over towards the shed and put his ear next to the metal of the door. He heard low growls, scuffling sounds, and the wet, slapping sounds that were undeniably something eating.

  ‘Hello?’ Jerry repeated. ‘Who’s in there?’

  A loud and aggressive growl came from within the shed as a reply. The sound made him jump away from the door in shock. He wasn’t sure what had made the sound, a fox maybe, possibly even a badger; more than likely, though, it was a wild dog. A voice at the back of his mind was screaming at him that it was the big cat everyone was talking about. Jerry did his best to suppress the voice, knowing that he was just being paranoid. Whatever it was in his shed, though, it sounded pissed off at his interruption. Badgers could be vicious little bastards when riled, and a fox could give a nasty nip when threatened, and a wild dog was capable of real damage. He was not going to face the trespassing creature unarmed, that was for sure.

  He quickly walked back to the house. He entered the farmhouse kitchen. Sue was baking and the warm sweet aromas hit him as he stepped through the door. Sue looked at him.

  ‘What did you forget?’ she said, smiling.

  ‘What?’ he asked, his mind preoccupied with the noises in the shed.

  ‘You just left,’ she said, she was regarding him with a look of concern. ‘Are you all right? Who was that you were talking to out there?’

  Jerry walked over to one of the kitchen drawers and began searching through its mass of contents, scissors, pens, nails, spanners and an abundance of keys. He was searching for one key in particular.

  ‘Jerry?’ Sue asked. ‘Who was that?’

  ‘Some bloke looking for his missing brother,’ Jerry snapped at her. ‘It’s not important at the minute.’

  He finally found the key he was looking for. He walked to the metal cabinet at the back of the kitchen and unlocked it. He pulled out his shotgun, and looked for cartridges. He rarely used the gun; he wasn’t the best shot in the world, but at close range he was good enough.

  ‘What are you doing with that?’ Sue yelled, panic in her voice. Jerry knew how much she hated the gun. She was always asking why he had to have it, and his answer had always been the same. Just in case.

  ‘There’s some bloody animal in the junk shed,’ Jerry said. ‘I think it might be a wild dog.’

  ‘And you’re going to shoot it?’ Sue asked.

  ‘Not if I don’t have to,’ Jerry said. ‘Hopefully if I fire the gun in the air the sound will scare it off, but if it comes at me then, yes, I’ll blow its bastard head off.’

  With that Jerry left the house and walked back over to the shed. He listened once more at the door. At first there was silence, and he wondered whether his shouts earlier had scared the animal off already. Then he heard that wet chewing sound again. The animal was still inside.

  He carefully opened the door. The smell inside was dank and fusty; there were old beds in the shed that were getting damp. There was also another smell, a sickly smell that Jerry knew, but could not quite place.

  The shed was windowless and the only light came from the door itself and few cracks in the corrugated iron roof.

  ‘All right,’ Jerry said. ‘I’m coming in and I’ve got my gun.’

  Though he was certain that the occupant was an animal, he thought that it was best to give some warning. He knew of a farmer who had shot a homeless man in one of his barns, believing him to be an animal. The farmer had been sent down for twelve years. Jerry was not prepared to run that risk.

  Jerry stepped into the shed and saw just how much crap they had accumulated in there. The shed itself was large, and high ceilinged, but over the years they had built up a rabbit warren of discarded furniture and broken machinery. Jerry felt nervous; there were a lot of places for the animal to hide.

  He walked a little further in, to the point where the light from the door stopped illuminating the floor. He wished he had brought a torch. He had remembered the gun, but Sue and all her bloody questions had made him forget to bring a torch. He waited on that spot for some time. Listening carefully, it seemed unnaturally quiet inside the shed. Gradually his eyes became more accustomed to the low level of light, and he began to make out the paths through the junk in more definition. He clutched the gun tight in his hand, his finger hovering above the first trigger.

  He set off down the first path he came to. The junk was stacked up well above
his head level. He heard scuffling in the distance; the animal was on the move. He tried to pinpoint the origin of the sound, but it was useless; the reverberation caused by the metal and size of the shed made it impossible. He kept moving, hoping he would scare the animal into leaving without confrontation. The animal was moving constantly. At first the sound was in front of Jerry, then behind, then to one side, and then to the other. Not only was he stalking the animal, it was also stalking him.

  His foot caught on something on the floor, and he fell down heavily. He suspected he would have broken his knees had they come into contact with the concrete floor; instead, though, they landed on something far softer and wetter. The area he was in was so crowded with junk on either side, and so far away from the door, that the floor was in total darkness. He reached a hand down and felt something smooth and covered in a tacky substance. He could not make out what it was; it was cold and felt almost like leather, only softer. His hand fumbled around feeling fabric, also sodden with the sticky stuff. He tried to discern the size, and shape of the object he was kneeling on, by moving his hands around it, trying to locate edges. Then he felt a firm, reasonably large lump, he squeezed it, was it some kind of cushion? Had they but part of an old sofa in here? His hand continued its search, and he discovered an almost identical lump next to the first.

  That was the moment that the true horror of the situation hit him. He was kneeling on a dead woman. The tacky substance was drying blood, and the lumps he had found were her breasts. He had just squeezed the tits of a corpse. He let out a little yelp, he wanted to scream but managed to restrain that. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his lighter, he did not want to see it, but at the same time he had to. He struck the wheel, lighting up the area around him, and plunging everything else back into total blackness.

  The woman, he now saw, was not a woman at all; she was just a girl, no older than eighteen at most. Her clothing was torn to shreds, deep scratches gouged into the flesh beneath. Her right arm was missing at the shoulder; all that remained was a stub of bone and tattered flesh and sinew. Her eyes, her dead eyes, were open and gazed directly at Jerry. He could contain the scream no longer. As he opened his mouth to expel his fear vocally it was silenced by a sudden flow of vomit.

  He stood up and became suddenly aware that he had dropped the gun when he fell. He bent down to pick it up and then heard breathing behind him. He dropped the lighter, and it went out. The darkness was merciful, for at least as the pain began, he was unable to see the thing that was clawing his chest as it bit out his windpipe. Death came swiftly for Jerry.

  Sue Sampson was standing looking out of the kitchen window, nervously chopping carrots, waiting for her husband’s return. She hated it whenever he took that bloody gun out, always terrified that he was going to accidentally shoot himself. The thought of having the gun in the house when their children were still so young filled her with a constant dread. What if one day Jerry forgot to lock the gun cabinet? Or somehow the children got hold of the key? The potential answers to either question didn’t bear thinking about. Jerry had always tried to tell her how careful he was with the gun and the cabinet, but this didn’t stop her worrying.

  She looked away from the window to glance at the clock across the room. It had been at least ten minutes since she had watched him enter the shed. What the hell was he playing at?

  She set down the knife she was using to chop the carrots and headed towards the back door. She stopped in her tracks and then went back for the knife. She had no idea why she wanted to take it with her, except that something here felt very wrong.

  She scurried across the courtyard, listening for any sound emanating from the shed Jerry had entered. There was none. In fact the whole farm seemed eerily quiet.

  ‘Jerry?’ she whispered loudly when she reached the shed door.

  She stood there, her ear pressed to cool, rusting metal, and waited. There was no reply.

  ‘Jerry?’ she called out louder. The time spent working with heavy farm machinery had left her husband more than a little hard of hearing, so it was plausible he just hadn’t heard her the first time.

  She waited, but still Jerry didn’t respond.

  ‘Jerry?’ she shouted. ‘I’m coming in, so put that bloody gun down!’

  Sue entered the shed and scanned the room for any sign of movement. This was impossible due to the way everything was stacked floor to ceiling. She had given up trying to persuade Jerry to sort this shit out, as he always had something better to do.

  She wandered slowly through the narrow passages in between the stacked up junk. Every sound was amplified in her mind, even her own shallow breaths. She heard movement, off to her right. It was the sound of something, like a sack of damp potatoes, being dragged across the concrete floor.

  ‘Jerry?’ she called out. ‘What are you doing back there?’

  When her husband failed to reply she followed the passage that led in that direction. A stillness fell on the room as the shuffling sound stopped. As she arrived at the spot from which she was sure the sound had been coming, there was nothing there. The area was lighter than other parts of the shed, due to a hole at the bottom of the corrugated wall. Sue assumed this was how the animals had been getting in.

  ‘Jerry?’ she called out once more.

  Now she was confused, where had he gone? As she looked at the floor she saw it was filthy, covered in thick, dark mud. What bothered her most, though, was the gun, it was just lying there on the floor, discarded without any concern for safety. When she did find him, one thing was for sure, Jerry Sampson was in big trouble.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Karl was disappointed as he drove away from the first farm. He knew it was a long shot, but had he had really hoped the farmer would tell him something of use. After his conversation with Inspector Pearce that morning, Karl had gathered that the police were not going to do that much to help find Phil. The reporter, Jason, had alluded to the fact the Pearce could be hiding something, though Karl knew neither man well enough to know if this was true. At least Jason had seemed friendly; Pearce had come across a little patronising.

  He was glad that the insurance company had delivered his mum the courtesy car, a little bit of paperwork and he was authorised to drive it. He needed to get out of the house, watching his mother’s misery was tiring. He needed some air, he needed to think. Jason had asked him to meet with him that afternoon, and Karl was curious to hear what the reporter had to say. For now, though, he wanted to conduct his own investigation. Even if it turned out to be a fruitless endeavour, he would at least feel like he had done something.

  The first farmer had at least known who his brother was, but had not seen him since last week. He drove to the next farm. This one was slightly further away from where the car had been found, but was still well within walking distance, or God forbid, staggering distance.

  As he drove down the dirt track, he saw instantly that this farm was not as neat as the first. The hedgerow that ran along the side of the track was overgrown, and he could hear it scratching the side of the car. There was a No Trespassing sign driven into the ground at the side of the lane. As he pulled into the farmyard, he saw an abundance of rusted old machinery, and mud, everywhere, mud. He wished he had worn some other shoes, but then remembered that these trainers were all he had brought back from London with him.

  He stepped out the car and heard the squelch as his foot sank into the thick layer of mud that covered the concrete. It had not rained heavily for some time, from what his mother had said, so the fact that this farmyard was in this state suggested the farmer had deliberately soaked the mud. He couldn’t think of a reasonable reason why anyone would do that, except to keep people out, maybe.

  He trudged through the mud, scanning the yard as he went, looking to see if anyone was out and about. When he saw no sign of life he headed for the front door of the farmhouse.

  There was no door bell, just an old fashioned brass knocker. He rapped it heavily against the door. T
here was the instant sound of barking from inside. Karl felt nervous, he had no fear of dogs as such, but you could never be too careful; these farmers kept dogs as security or ratters, not often as idle pets.

  ‘Shut up,’ came a gruff voice from inside. The dogs were instantly silent.

  The door opened just a crack. Karl could see that the farmer had the chain on the door. From what Karl could see of him, the farmer was in his mid-fifties, overweight, with a scruffy grey beard, and the swollen, discoloured nose of a mild alcoholic.

  ‘What you want?’ The farmer asked. Even through the crack in the door Karl could smell the whiskey on his breath.

  ‘Hello,’ Karl said. ‘My name is Karl Morgan...’

  ‘Whatever you’re selling I don’t want it,’ the farmer said, cutting him off mid-sentence.

  ‘No, I’m not selling anything. My brother went missing the other day. He sells farm insurance, I just wondered if maybe you had seen him.’ Karl handed the farmer the photograph, which he took begrudgingly. After a perfunctory glance he handed it back.

  ‘Nope,’ the farmer said. ‘Never seen him before.’

  ‘Well thank you for your...’ Karl started to say; this time, though, it was the door slamming in his face that cut him off.

  ‘That famous country hospitality,’ he said to himself, but loud enough for it to be heard the other side of the door. There was no retort from inside.

  He wondered how anyone could get through life being so bloody rude. Then he thought about life in London, where you never spoke to anyone. Millions of people around you at any given moment, and all of them strangers. Sure, Lincolnshire was bleak at times, and there were certain places where you could feel utterly isolated, but it was far worse in the city. Loneliness when you aare surrounded by people seems harder to bear.