by Gary Weston
Dave Rice had a different opinion of the animal when he had returned home from doing a job of work. He hated possums as much as most New Zealanders. He'd threatened to kill it there and then. Jenny, who had just turned five at that time, pleaded with him and eventually she won him over.
With her mother's help, she cared for Moppet, feeding it, cleaning out its cage, and Moppet became as tame as any puppy. Now eighteen months had passed and things were different.
Dave said, 'Jenny. There might be some kind of virus about, turning all possums dangerous and crazy. We can't take that chance.'
With all the noise, Moppet woke up and came out of his sleeping box. He looked at the Rice's, yawned, stretched, comically scratched himself, as if to ask, “What's the big deal?” then he picked up half an apple. He watched the humans as he ate.
Claire said, 'Moppet still looks harmless enough, Dave.'
Moppet finished eating and decided it was far too early for so much activity. Abandoning the apple core, he yawned and went back into his sleeping box. They could hear the rustling of straw as Moppet got comfortable and settled down to sleep.
Claire said, 'Let's wait and see what the evening news says, okay?'
Dave knew he was beaten. 'Okay. But if the news on the television is bad, then he has to go, right?'
'Thanks, Daddy,' said Jenny, relieved Moppet had won a stay of execution. 'Moppet isn't a bad possum.'
'I hope you're right,' said Dave. He grinned at the two of them. 'Women,' he grunted. They left Moppet in peace for the time being.
Chapter 48
Gwen Trubshaw stared at the transgressor with a look that would turn knees to jelly in an instant. Toby knew what was coming and trembled from nose to tail. The big-eyed innocent act wasn't fooling Gwen for one second. The rolled up newspaper struck the Jack Russel sharply on the backside, and the little dog ran for cover before the next blow connected. He hid behind the sofa, peering out with the most miserable expression. The whack from the paper was more noise than anything, but it put the fear of Gwen into Toby.
'You're a bad boy, Toby,' said Gwen with finger wagging sincerity. 'You're the one who leaves little puddles everywhere. Micky doesn't do naughty things like you.'
Micky, a little black and white bitsa, was watching the proceedings with obvious ear-cocking amusement. Nevertheless, he did so from the safety of his basket in the corner of the lounge. Micky, so called because of his similarity to the cartoon mouse, was a year older than nine month old Toby. He had nothing in common with Gwen's late husband, blessed with the same name.
A few whacks with the dreaded Whanganui Chronicle and Micky had soon learnt that frequent use of the flap in the back door was the way to an easy life with plenty of treats. Toby couldn't still equate peeing on the carpet with any punishment handed out.
Gwen knew it would sink in eventually. She had rubbed Toby's nose in the offending yellow stain, but that was only half the job.
'Now, outside, the pair of you.'
Micky gave a little “woof” and headed for the back door. Toby, seeing this as an escape plan, quickly followed and they bounded through the flap into the back garden. Gwen smiled at the two characters, but at seventy two, couldn't help wondering if she had made a mistake taking in the two dogs.
They would most likely outlive her, and then what would happen to them? Still, the alternative for them at the SPCA pound hadn't looked too promising. At least they had a loving home for as long as she could take care of them.
Gwen was glad of their company in her two bedroomed home set on a quarter acre plot outside Wilderdown. Her daughters had given up asking her to move to Palmerston North to be closer to them, because the answer she gave was always the same.
'I'll move when I'm good and ready. As long as I can drive to the shops to get my bits and pieces, I'll stay here, thank you very much.'
The idea of living in a city like Palmerston North, the hub of the Manawatu region, didn't appeal to Gwen one bit. The semi rural lifestyle she lived suited her, the village life, her friends, and yet enough shops to satisfy her needs.
They visited often enough, Elaine and Elizabeth, but they had families of their own to take care of and Palmerston North was nearly a three hour round trip. Gwen loved their visits with the grandchildren, but was always glad when they all went home and it was peaceful again.
The lowest point after her husband's death was when she had to give up golf. That had only been a few months ago, due to an arthritic hip. She was determined that after her surgery in a few weeks time she would put all she had into getting fit and swinging back into action on the course. You can't keep a good woman down, she had told them at the club. She still occasionally socialised with the old gang, even if she couldn't play. They all knew she'd be back, too.
For now she was ready for her nip of bourbon in her tea, or some tea in her bourbon as Elaine would say. Elaine wasn't worried about the bourbon she drank. Good luck to her. But she shouldn't be washing down her medication with it. It wasn't very sensible.
'Phooy!' Gwen would answer. It was her stock reply to anything that sounded remotely like she was being told off. So now she popped her painkillers with her bourbon and tea and sat down with the paper.
Although getting the Chronicle from the local petrol station earlier in the afternoon as she always did, she never actually read it until it was time for bed. That and the bourbon was enough to ensure a good night's sleep. The huge headlines said, Whanganui man killed by possums?
The question mark was a bit of journalistic fence sitting. Being a freebie weekly, it was also old news. Not being much of a television watcher, she had heard something about it on the radio, but hadn't made the local connection.
There was a picture of Alex Gordon before he died, smiling with his family. The article said the remains were too gory to reveal.
'That poor man,' said Gwen. The article told how he used to go hunting in the bush to help feed his family. A sudden chill shot through Gwen's spine. Her lonely home was on the outskirts of Wilderdown, the largest of the three Patch Creek villages. There were just a couple of farms between her home and the village and she didn't live that many miles from where that poor man died.
Her rear garden backed onto farmland on one side and the start of the bush beyond that. Possums were as much a part of local life as cattle and sheep. It wasn't unusual to have a possum bounce onto her roof from the fig tree in her garden. They didn't bother her and it was unusual to see more than one at a time.
But if those pesky possums could do that to a man with a gun, what about her two little dogs running outside in the dark?
Grabbing her hefty walking stick, Gwen hobbled painfully to the door. She was about to open it then remembered the Chronicles description of the hunters remains and thought better of it. Instead she turned on the powerful outside security lights that lit up most of the rear of the property.
Peering through the meshed window in the door, she tried to see the two dogs. She heard them first; Micky barking madly and the squeaky yapping of Toby. Gwen could see several dark shapes climbing over the back fence, dropping into her garden. There was a yelp of pain from Micky that made Gwen's heart leap into her mouth. Then she could see the dogs running for the safety of the flap with the possums in hot pursuit.
Micky hit the flap first, and Gwen could see a nasty gash on his side. The dog raced past her, and Toby flew through the flap next, almost nose to tail with Micky. Through the window, Gwen could see the possums running across the lawn like a wild pack, following the dogs to the flap. She tried to bend down to close off the flap with the little metal catch, but a possum was already trying to climb through. Gwen whacked it on the head with her walking stick and it retreated.
Locking the flap she straightened up again, and she could feel her heart hammering. Outside in her garden, she could see more possums than she could count, a churning sea of fur and teeth, all staring right back at her.
Gwen frantically tried to think if everywhere
was locked up, doors and windows. She was sure it was. There came a crash at the bottom of the door where a determined possum had charged full pelt at the flap. The crash where its head connected with the door was so loud, it made her jump backwards, but the flap held. Just.
Another possum tried the same tactic and with such force, the plastic flap cracked. A third possum tried to use its head as a battering ram and the crack in the flap opened up slightly.
Gwen had the idea to get the dogs and herself into her bedroom where there was a telephone, so she could shut the door securely and call for help. She had just made it to the living room when there was another smash at the flap. She turned expecting possums to be pouring into her kitchen, but still the flap held.
'Toby. Micky.'
The dogs were cowering out of sight. She decided to get to her bedroom and the telephone, with or without the dogs. Then she saw her golf clubs in the hall. She pulled out her trusty nine iron, the solid weight of it reassuring in her hands.
Before she reached the bedroom door, she heard the final assault on the flap. Micky and Toby appeared from behind her, and stood growling and snapping standing side by side, ready to defend Gwen.
One at a time, the possums wriggled through the flap. Once inside, they regrouped, paused, and stared at Gwen. Gwen snarled back, dropped her stick, and in the restricted room of the hallway, got her nine iron ready to tee off.
'Come and get it, you bastards.' she yelled.
The first possum shot at her like a canon ball with a tail, vicious teeth bared and ready to rip into human flesh. It was still airborne, when considering the confines of the hallway and the pain in her arthritic hip, Gwen managed a perfect stroke onto the animal's head. The result was one eyeball hanging from a bloody tendril and a severely cracked skull. It fell pole-axed to to the polished rimu wood floor.
The second possum dived onto a table from which Gwen dislocated its jaw with an impressive back swing. Screaming, it fell in a heap on the floor, where Micky took it by the tail and shook it like a rag doll.
Pup Toby, uncertain what to do, stood his ground and pretended to be a proper dog. When a possum jumped on Toby's back, Micky dived in to defend his little pall, sinking his teeth into the intruders back, and the three fought savagely at Gwen's feet.
The battling granny kicked out at the possum with her bare feet, so hard it was sent flying into a wall. The dogs took the advantage and played tug of war with the dazed possum.
Three more possums hurled themselves through the air at Gwen. One died in mid flight from a perfectly timed smash with the nine iron. Of the other two, one struck her hard in the chest and the other bit deeply into her thigh and Gwen went heavily down.
Gwen was far from throwing in the towel and she grabbed the nearest possum around the throat. It was close to her face, sharp claws trying to shred her flesh, aiming for her eyes. She could feel its hot breath on her cheeks and there was something unholy about the creature's wild eyes.
With her false teeth gritted in grim determination, Gwen held the possum down with one hand and stuck the thumb of the other hand as hard as she could deep into an eye socket, right up to the knuckle. There was a disgusting popping noise and the thick sticky goo ran down her arm. With an unbelievable shriek, it wriggled away from her, running around in tight agonized circles.
The possum trying to eat Gwen's leg was set upon by Toby and Micky. The possum defended itself, biting hard into Toby's neck, wounding him fatally. As Toby lay dying, enraged Micky jumped on the possum's back and ripped off an ear.
Gwen could see the half open door of her bedroom, barely an arms length away. She knew that if she could crawl through that, she might be able to close the door and call for help.
There were at least a dozen possums in the hallway, taking turns to attack her, biting deeply into her frail body. With the nine iron still in her hand she continued to strike back at the same time as she dragged herself along.
Gwen managed to get a grip on the door-jamb and pulled hard. She could see into the room and just a few tantalising few feet away was the telephone, Just one press of a speed-dial button would get her daughter Elaine.
With grim determination, Gwen made a few precious inches of progress, and then one large possum jumped ahead of her, and sat right in front of her face.
Gwen swung her golf club as hard as she could and caught the possum with a glancing blow to its back. It flinched away from her, assessing her vulnerable points. Gwen could no longer hear her dogs and assumed the worse. Her head swam and and she could feel the weight of several possums on top of her.
Gwen was fading fast but she found one final burst of strength to strike out at the possum in front of her as it lunged for her throat. With her nine iron, she caught it on the side of its head. She hit it again and heard the satisfying crunch as its skull split open, showering her face with a mix of blood and brains. It rolled over on its back, jerked convulsively and died.
'Got you, you little bastard.' It was the last thing she would ever say.
Chapter 49
'You got nothing to worry about,' said Bill Prickle. 'It's all out in the open.'
Pritchard and Prickle had put themselves on curfew patrol, and had growled through the car's windows loud enough to send people scurrying indoors.
'I'd like to think that were true. But this thing is going up like November the fifth. I saw two men sent to shut me up, eaten alive. The only thing that's changed is the actual day of reckoning. The worse this thing gets, the more certain people will want to distance themselves from it. The only way to ensure that is to silence me forever.'
Prickle didn't like Pritchards' thinking. 'Care to finish this shift alone?'
'If it would keep you and Pam safe, yes.'
'It was a rhetorical question.'
'It wasn't a rhetorical answer.'
Prickle was becoming tired of just driving around shouting at people, when his phone went.
'Okay. We'll check it out.'
'Now what?'
'A woman from Palmerston North is concerned about her elderly mother. Tried to phone her but got no answer. Keeps getting the engaged tone. We need to check it out.'
Five minutes later, Prickle pulled up on the driveway of a house covered in the pungent smell of death. The front door was locked and he got no response when he knocked on it.
Pritchard was looking through a window. 'Bill. There's a body on the floor. Blood everywhere.' Pritchard smashed the window and opened it up and climbed inside, then he opened the front door for Bill to enter.
'Oh, hell,' said Bill, 'Poor woman.'
There was the stench of death, with much of the flesh gone from Gwen Trubshaw and her two brave little dogs. The dead possums hadn't gone to waste, either. Injured or dead possums were merely another source of food.
Blood and guts had been sprayed all over the place. But the saddest sight the policemen had seen in many a year was that of the old lady, who had dragged herself along the floor, leaving a trail of her blood, the telephone in her hand as she had tried to call for her daughters to save her.
'Shit,' said Prickle, dreading being the one to call her relatives and give them the bad news.
'Just look at the mess, Bill. These creatures not only did what they had to to do to eat. They enjoyed doing it. The gloves are off.'
'Sorry. I wasn't really listening. I have a call to make.'
* * *
Once Gwen Trubshaw's body had been bagged up by the ambulance team and taken away, Prickle took it upon himself to dig a hole in the back garden and bury the dogs. He stuck the spade in the grave to mark it.
'We should have done more to check up on people living alone.'
'We did all we could, mate. We can't be everywhere. At least the army will be here soon. That'll help.'
'Yeah. Somehow, it doesn't make me feel any better. Let's get out of here.'
The convoy of army trucks arrived that evening, and stopped when they saw the police patrol car. An army officer
got out of the first truck and Prickle and Pritchard got out of the car to meet him.
'Captain Gary Dawes,' said the captain, extending a hand.
'I'm Senior Sergeant Mick Pritchard and this is Sergeant Bill Prickle.'
'You two look knackered. You can go home and get some shuteye. We'll keep an eye on things through the night. Any incidents I should know about?'
'Sadly, yes,' said Bill. 'There's been an attack on an old lady and her dogs. They fought hard, but were overrun. Along the highway down that way. Number one seven five.'
'I'm sorry to hear that,' said Dawes. 'At least we might get some idea where the buggers are holed up. I'll inform the major so he can organise a search of the surrounding area. Who'd have thought possums, eh?'
'Yeah,' said Bill. 'We'll leave you to it. We'll catch up with you in the morning. Here's my number if you need us.'
'Thanks. Here's my number.'
Dawes went back to the truck and got in and the convoy rolled on.
Chapter 50
Jenny Rice couldn't sleep. She was worried for Moppet. She had been watching the evening news as she had eaten her dinner with her parents. It wouldn't take much more to happen for her father to make the decision to kill Moppet. The news had only been about possums, but nothing new had happened. That was at least encouraging. When she said her prayers, she asked God not to let more people be eaten and please don't let Daddy shoot Moppet.
Jenny had to get up to go to the toilet, which meant passing the lounge door, which was ajar. Glancing in, she could see her parents watching the news on the television. She could hear what the lady on the television was saying.
'...found by police officers earlier this evening. The bodies of the elderly lady and her two dogs had been savagely killed by possums. A press release is urging extra vigilance and to obey the curfew law. The three villages around the Patch Creek area now have army patrols....'
