by Kolin Wood
Claws scraped down the flesh of his stomach again as the dog found purchase on the floor. With its feet on solid ground, it was now fully astride of him, and in a far superior position. The growling intensified as the dog bore down. Yet still John fought on, unwilling to give in, crying out as lactic acid burned hot in his forearms. It was almost certainly pure adrenaline that was fuelling his fight and he knew that when his stores depleted, there would be nothing left.
Then, just as he thought that he could no longer go on, something strange happened. There was a loud thumping sound and something white flashed in the darkness above. John felt the pressure on his chest suddenly increase as the dog dropped down into a full body slam on top of him. The force of the action was too much. His arms buckled at the elbows. Suddenly, the dog’s eyes were right in front of his own, staring into his soul and he could feel the cold wetness of its nose on the warm skin of his cheek. He looked back, desperate to plead, to communicate with the animal, but the eyes were not the same yellow, wolf-eyes from before. They were brighter and he recognised them.
Murphy!
With the back of the black dog’s neck now firmly in its jaws, Murphy began to shake his head violently, much like the hell hound had done when trying to dislodge the stick from John’s grasp. Suddenly on the defensive, the far larger dog began to yelp in pain. Its claws scrabbled weakly on the tiled floor as it tried to back away, writhing like a snake in an attempt to throw the attacker from its back. But Murphy clung on, snarling with utter hatred; a sound that John had never heard him make before.
Worried that the beast’s claws might rake across his front again, John curled his legs around the animal and squeezed as tightly as he could manage. Hot blood sprayed his face. He was now completely unable to draw a breath and his lungs burned with the lack of oxygen, but he would not let it escape. He closed his eyes and gripped the wriggling body tight until he felt bones crunch and tendons pop between his thighs. And then finally, with nothing left to give, he collapsed to the floor.
The growling continued above for a few seconds more.
Suddenly, the weight on his chest subsided then something warm and wet licked his face.
John sucked in a breath, just in time to ward off the creeping blackness. Pain stung him all the way down his front.
A dog whined and then barked loudly.
He opened his eyes and looked up. Murphy’s shaggy head looked down at him, his fur black with blood and glistening all around his muzzle. Red stained teeth showed in his mouth which was open in a pant, and the hot, coppery tinge of blood lay heavy on his breath.
John had never been so happy to see anybody in his whole life. He made to laugh, but the pain from his chest and stomach soon rid him of the urge.
“Murph! You saved me! Where’d you come from, huh?”
Murphy cocked his head and then thrust his blood-covered nose in towards John’s face again, running his tongue up his chin. John coughed.
“Okay, okay, mate!” he said, aware of the unusual stickiness inherent in the dog’s mouth. “Enough.”
That was when John heard the screaming again. Gunshots fired continually now, popping in repetitive bursts from somewhere not far away. The noise brought sudden clarity and helped to clear the mist of his almost fatal exertion.
Becca. The girl was still somewhere in the house—at least he hoped she was—and he had to find her.
Ignoring the pain that emanated from almost every part of him, John pushed Murphy away and rolled onto his side. His arms and legs shook badly as he forced himself up to his feet using the damp, brick wall for support. Behind him, the open door showed the heaviness of the encroaching shadows and the onset of night. But now, with his eyes more adjusted and Murphy by his side, the house seemed far less scary.
He glanced down at his front. The once-blue jumper was shredded and dark with blood. He had no way of knowing to whom the blood belonged but, judging by the pain he was now feeling, he was sure that most of it was his. However, instead of his head swooning or his brain paralysing itself with fear, for once John felt something different; sharper and more focused than ever. He bent down and picked up the gnarled stick, turning it over in his hands before tossing it aside. He then rustled the tangled mop of hair on Murphy’s head.
“C’mon, boy, let’s go find Becca and get the hell out of here.”
20
John and Murphy scoured the house for any signs of Becca. In a small lounge downstairs, red coals burned in a fire place surrounded by blankets and cushions. But the room, and all of the others that they checked, were empty. At the bottom of the staircase, the front door sat ajar. John poked his head out to look in the direction of the compound gate, which too was open. Outside, the chaos continued. Flashes of light lit up the angular arches of the roof of the huge barn which was only just visible above the high fence. Hopefully, he would be able to see over it from upstairs and get a better idea of what the hell was going on.
He closed the door and pulled across the large bolt at the top. If nothing else, it would help stop anybody uninvited from joining him in the house; who knew how many other big dogs were prowling the grounds?
With a new found urgency, John took the stairs two at a time. At the top, a corridor consisting of many doors stretched in both directions. He ran over and tried the handle to the door directly opposite him, unsurprised to find it locked.
“Becca!” John shouted. “Becca! Are you up here?” His voice rebounded from the walls of the undecorated house but the noise from the fire fight outside drowned out any other sound.
“Becca!”
Murphy sniffed under the door and then took off down the corridor, stopping at each one in turn. At the fourth, he stopped, sniffed again, and barked loudly.
John ran over to him and set his ear against the cold wood.
“John! I’m in here!” The voice was muted, but he recognised it as hers immediately.
Relief washed through him. He pulled down on the handle but it was locked as well.
“Becca. Step back!”
He cocked his leg and aimed a kick squarely at the middle of the door. The force sent the thin wood crunching inward, and he followed behind it. Inside, the room was dark like the rest of the house, but he was able to make out a bed and somebody standing next to it. Murphy barked and bounded forwards, jumping onto the bed in one leap.
Becca’s eyes creased into a smile as she saw him. She looked drawn and tired. She rushed forward and threw her arms around his neck.
“You came back!” she said, squeezing so tight that he almost lost his balance. “I can’t believe you came back for me!”
John wrapped his arms around her slender waist. He could feel her shaking in his grasp and he held on tightly.
After a while, they broke apart but she continued to hold John by his arms.
“I’m sorry,” she said, dropping her eyes to the floor. “I wanted so much to believe him. He was—”
John shook his head and raised his hand to silence her. He did not need an explanation. He already knew the reason for her behaviour. Right now he was just happy to see her.
“Bec, don’t,” he said, smiling reassuringly. “There’s no need, honestly. I get it.”
Becca looked up and seeing him, returned the smile with a nod. “Thanks.”
For a moment, neither of them said anything. John felt the hairs on his arms begin to prickle.
Suddenly red-faced, Becca was the first to let go. She turned toward the window. “What is happening out there?” she asked. “I can’t see anything but the forest from this side of the building. They were shooting and laughing and then suddenly there was screaming. I was told to wait in here. He locked me in.”
John watched her closely as she began to fidget.
“I don’t know,” he said, wondering who ‘he’ was. “But it ain’t good. My guess would be that somebody is attacking the farm.”
When he looked back into her face, he saw fear there. “Are you okay?”
Becca paused for a second, considering the question before she said, “Yes, I’m okay. But you were right… about the men… the girls.”
John frowned. “You said ‘he’ locked you in. Who?”
Becca looked uncomfortable. “It doesn’t matter. They’re gone.”
John nodded. “Are there any others? Girls?”
This time she looked sad. She shook her head. “There was… one… until today.”
John considered the implications of what she was saying for a moment. One. He thought back to the whimpering that he had heard in the guard hut at the gate.
A sudden, toe-curling scream sounded above the din of gunfire somewhere outside. Becca’s face fell.
“We need to get to the front of the house,” John said, “Find a window… so that we can see what is going on.”
Becca nodded. “Follow me.”
She grabbed his hand and together they ran from the room. Once outside the room, the corridor seemed even darker than before. John turned towards the staircase, but a strong tug on his arm pulled him in the opposite direction.
“This way.”
They ran, their boots thumping loudly on the bare, wooden floorboards. Murphy, still sticky with blood, lumbered behind them, tail wagging, unaware of the implications. A short way down, Becca skidded to a stop outside of an open door. A rank odour immediately hit John and once again he raised up the sleeve of his jumper to cover his nose and mouth. It was a bathroom, well, it had once been a bathroom. The toilet seat was missing and inside the bowl was a black mess. A bucket lay amongst the shards of broken tile and mirror, upended next to the dark, splattered bathtub. A large window set in the far wall was partially broken out. The smell that emanated from the room was rank with foul water, faeces, and urine.
Becca did not hesitate. She walked over to the window. John grimaced and followed, aware of the splash of water under his feet. Murphy, however, whined and sat down outside the door.
A gentle breeze pushed in through the broken window, adding the subtle yet welcome aroma of fire, smoke, and spent gunpowder to the intense, sickening mix. The glass was murky and green, and John broke through one of the panes with his elbow to allow him a better view.
“Jesus Christ,” he said, as he cast his eyes upon the scene.
The vantage point provided a clear, unhindered view of the entire compound. Huge, bright flames licked up the wall of the barn closest to them, turning the metal-clad sheeting black with carbon. Thick clouds billowed from under the edges of the roof, forcing a twisting plume of grey smoke high into the clear, purple night sky. Flashes of light strobed from the small windows at the front as guns fired rounds indiscriminately into the murk below.
“Who would have done this?” Becca asked over the chorus of gunfire and screaming that echoed loudly from inside the farm building.
Bodies—many of them invisible in form and reduced to shadow—ran to and fro in the thick smoke that hovered over the entire area like a sea fog. Just then a man, wearing only a vest top, sprinted away from the farm building in the direction of the far gate. He was only a few metres from safety when another, much larger person tore after him from the mist, covering the same ground in only a fraction of the time. His run was odd and lumbering but nonetheless effective and he launched himself through the air like an athlete, landing with both arms and legs astride his target, sending them both to the ground with a painful slam of tangled limbs.
John felt bile rise in his throat as he watched the attacker lean in and take a bite from the open, side-splayed face of his victim.
“Urgh,” he said, unable to form words.
Beside him, Becca simply nodded. “Crazies,” she said, matter-of-factly. “They’ve found the farm.”
John could no longer watch. He thought about his pursuers in the woods, wondering if it was a coincidence that the crazies were here at the farm or if they had followed them down here from the north. Perhaps this was simply something that they dealt with every night; the armoury and sentries would certainly suggest as much.
“Why wouldn’t they just lock it down? Surely the crazies don’t think enough to launch a fully planned attack…”
He was interrupted as another silhouette suddenly burst through the open gate closest to the house and ran into the garden directly below them. They watched confused as the man ran in a full circle, moving as a blur, stumbling every few steps. His arms flailed wildly and he was screaming as if he were on fire even though there was no sign of any flames. He stumbled again before falling forward heavily onto his face.
John winced. “What in the hell is wrong with him?”
The man’s body spasmed violently. Occasional thrusts sent it up into the air and back down again, jumping it around like a man possessed, all the while emitting a blood-chilling, horror-filled scream.
“Oh god,” Becca said, putting her hand up to her face.
John squinted his eyes against the sting of the smoke in an attempt to gauge what Becca was seeing. “What?”
“It’s not just the crazies… it’s the rats,” she said with shaky voice.
For a few seconds, the statement did not filter through. John watched the man as he bucked and rolled on the ground, his movements turning less jerky and erratic with every passing second.
The rats?
His whole body suddenly turned cold.
The rats.
“But that’s… they…” he muttered, totally exacerbated. “That’s impossible.”
For a few seconds, Becca did not answer. From below, a single, blood-covered hand shot up and began to claw weakly at the sky.
“It’s the nest. It… It must have moved… or grown,” she said finally.
The news worked itself into his consciousness just as his eyes made sense of what they was seeing.
The gate remained open. Inside the compound, roaring flames continued to consume one side of the barn, casting an ocherous light onto the floor which now appeared to be moving like water. An ocean of orange and red, it rippled and ebbed in waves; beyond it, people started to run in the direction of the house, wading through the mire in an attempt to escape the barn. Some of the people were on fire, and they appeared to make it the farthest. Most of them only made it a few steps inside the gate before they either fell beneath the surface or were thrown on their backs by rabid crazies then dragged under the mass.
Tight fingers gripped hold of his arm as Becca pointed in the direction of the gate. “Look!”
John could do nothing but watch, horrified as the rolling floor continued to pour in through the open gate like a dam loose of its water.
“Holy shit,” he said, still barely able to believe his own eyes. “They are coming this way.” He glanced back to look at the first man but by now his entire body was lost under a seething blanket of fur and skin.
The rats kept pouring in, the pack growing in size until the entire area around the fence was black like the surface of an oil slick. Soon, they would be in the house.
Frantically, John considered his options. They could try to make a dash for the woods, but there was a high chance that there would be no time for them all to make it downstairs and out of the house before they were swarmed by the pack. Plus, who knew how many more of them were already in the woods, waiting in the dark. No, they needed to find somewhere safe to hide, and fast.
“There’s an attic,” Becca said, as though reading his mind. “I heard people moving around up there, earlier today. When they came and took me, I looked up from outside. I saw windows in the roof.”
An attic. Climbing to higher ground sounded like a good idea. Maybe they could even barricade it somehow.
John nodded and together they turned then made their way back out into the corridor, happy to be out of the pungent smelling bathroom.
“Which way?” he asked.
Becca looked in both directions before choosing one. “I’m sure the noise mainly came from this end of the house. If I had to guess, I’d say this way.”
John looked at her, slightly aghast. “Guess?”
She frowned but said nothing as she shrugged and took off down the corridor away from the main staircase, heading deeper into the house in the direction that she had pointed. She did not wait for an agreement.
John watched her go. His brain whirred. If she was wrong, then the strong likelihood was that they would be trapped. And if the rats should make it inside the house…?
“John! Come on!”
The shout rang out from the gloom. Murphy took a few steps in the direction of the sound, and then stopped to look back at John, who was still stationary. He gave a small half-bark.
There was no time to deliberate. Becca had made the choice for them both. He nodded to Murphy and took off after him at a fast run, now even more aware of the clattering of his boots on the floorboards. Right or wrong decision, they were in this together.
21
By the time John caught up with Becca, she was standing at the bottom of a thin, pull-down staircase, the slightest hint of a smile curling the corner of her mouth. He stopped next to her and gave a nod to say that he appreciated her guessing right. The whole of the front of his body felt like somebody had thrown acid on him, each scrape and gouge from the dog claws now united to create a stinging apron of pain. His shirt was a shredded mess of blood and dirt.
Noticing his discomfort, Becca asked, “John, what’s wrong? What happened to your shirt?”
John shook his head, unwilling to waste time dealing with something that was already done. “It’s nothing,” he lied, motioning to the staircase. “Quick, if we can pull the hatch up behind us, maybe we can keep them out.”
Becca nodded and looked down at Murphy.
“I’ll bring him,” John said. “Just go!”
Becca did not need telling twice. She moved quickly and with cat-like prowess up the steep staircase. John followed, awkwardly holding onto Murphy who felt like a dead weight in his already exhausted arms.
