Fangtooth (22 page)

Chapter 43

Zander looked across at the settee where
Doris tended to Albert’s wound. Blood soaked through the bandages, turning them
into a sodden mess. The old man gritted his teeth.

“It hurts,” he said.

“Shush,” Doris said. “I’ve phoned an
ambulance.”

Zander turned and peered through the
window. He wondered how an ambulance would ever manage to get through, but
decided not to comment.

The old-fashioned living room smelled
faintly of mildew. Probably white once, the flowery wallpaper had yellowed with
age. Apart from the settee, the room held an armchair, a small brown cabinet
and a glass fronted display case filled with a selection of mismatched
ornaments, probably gifts from when their children were young. A newspaper sat
on the arm of the chair, along with a pipe and an ashtray. Above the coal
fireplace, an oval mirror cast a reflection of the room. Orange curtains had
been drawn against the night and all it harboured.

“We can’t sit here doing nothing,” Brad
said.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Zander
replied.

Brad waved the knife he had
acquisitioned from the kitchen. “I’ve never run from a fight before.”

Zander rolled his eyes. “This isn’t a
fight. It’s a massacre. We’re staying here.”

Jim scratched his beard. “You may be the
skipper at sea, but on land it’s every man for himself. There’s money out there
and I intend to take my share so you won’t stop me from going out.”

“Jim, listen to yourself. The only
things out there are monsters.”

Jim harrumphed loudly. “I’ve seen
worse.”

Zander rubbed his
brow. “No, you haven’t. Those things, they’re eating people. Look at Albert,
he’s lost his fucking hand.”
And you’ve lost
your fucking mind!

Jim cast a quick glance in the old man’s
direction. “He was careless.”

“He was attacked.”

Doris tutted loudly. “Can you not talk
about my Albert as though he’s not here.”

Jim snorted. “I can look after myself.”

“No offense, Jim, but you couldn’t look
after jack shit.”

“I ain’t gonna stand here and listen to
this. Brad, out of my way.” Brad looked at Zander and the skipper nodded. As
much as he wanted to, he couldn’t hold Jim against his will. They had enough
problems without trying to restrain a cantankerous old man hell-bent on getting
himself killed.

“If you want to go, the door’s there,”
Zander said.

Without another word, Jim walked towards
the door, opened it and stepped outside.

“Jim’s right,” Brad said as Zander
closed the door. “We can’t just hole up here waiting for the cavalry to arrive.
Those things are going to get inside.”

“So what would you suggest we do?”

Brad sucked his gums. “Well, we know
they’re afraid of fire, so what about making a huge bonfire? Get everyone to
gather as much burnable material as they can, and then use it to keep us safe
until we can get out of here.”

Zander tapped his fingers against the
windowsill. He saw the logic in Brad’s idea, but there were problems. “We would
need one hell of a lot of fuel.”

“Then let’s find it. Houses are full of
furniture. I don’t think anyone’s going to cry over an old settee if it could
help save their life, do you?”

“Then what are we waiting for? Doris, I
know this isn’t the best time to ask, but have you got something we can use to
start the fire? You know, furniture you don’t mind losing.”

Doris looked up at him, her wrinkled
face a mask of sorrow. “You’re asking for my furniture … Albert’s lying here
with his hand bitten off, and you want to take my furniture.”

Albert grabbed Doris’ hand. “Let them
take whatever they want,” he said through gritted teeth. “If it’s the only
chance we’ve got to live through this nightmare, they can take it all.”

Doris looked at her husband and said,
“Hush, dear. Don’t get upset. The ambulance is on its way.” She turned towards
Zander. “Take whatever you want, just please, don’t let Albert die.”

Although he knew it was ridiculous,
Zander felt somehow responsible for what had happened, and his head bowed under
the immense weight of guilt he carried.

“Brad, help me with this chair.”

With Brad on the other side, Zander
lifted the brown faded armchair and carried it towards the front door. He
quickly checked that the coast was clear, then opened the door and hurried
across the road with it. They then ran back to the house and picked up a small
cabinet. Doris emptied it before they carried it out, pawing over the assembled
contents of letters, cards and accumulated knickknacks collected over a
lifetime, which she was probably loathe to throw out.

As they deposited the cabinet next to
the armchair, Zander noticed they had attracted the attention of a Fangtooth.
The creature raised its head as though sniffing the air, then it started to
advance, its claws scraping the ground.

“Quick, light the fucking furniture,”
Brad said.

Zander crouched down and hacked at the
chair with his knife, pulling out stuffing and shredding the fabric. Then he
struck a match and held the flame to one of the strands, but the sea breeze
extinguished the flame before it had a chance to ignite the furniture.

“Shit,” he mumbled, striking another
match.

“You’d better be quick,” Brad said.

The second match blew out too. Now
desperate, Zander stuffed the box of matches into one of the rips in the
fabric, half opened the box, withdrew a match, struck it and ignited the box’s
contents. A yellow flare erupted, the caustic smell from which stung his
nostrils.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” he
said as he stood up and headed back towards the house. He only hoped the fabric
would catch light.

When they reached the house, they ran
inside and slammed the door shut. Seconds later, the Fangtooth arrived at the
step and started clawing at the door.

“Now you’ve brought one here,” Doris
screamed.

Brad leaned against the door. “Don’t you
worry Doris, it’ll not get in here.”

Zander peeked through the curtains.
Across the street, a flicker of flame started to dance on the armchair. Come
on, he urged, burn, you son of a bitch.

Despite what fire precaution
advertisements showed, the armchair seemed in no rush to burst into flames.

“Doris, have you got any white spirits,
anything like that?” Zander asked.

“There might be something under the sink
in the kitchen.”

“Brad, you just make sure that creature
doesn’t get inside. I’m going out the back. I’ll distract the creature and get
the fire going. Then shout the devil down and get everyone to pile the fire
high.”

Brad nodded. “You be careful, Skipper.”

“Always am, my friend. I always am.”

Zander dashed through the house,
noticing how neat and tidy the place was. Like the living room, the decoration
in the kitchen was old-fashioned. Fine china crockery and plates hung on the
walls.

He crouched down, opened the sink and
sorted through the bottles of cleaning fluid, candles, batteries, and pots and
pans until he found some white spirits. Spotting a lighter, he shoved it in his
pocket. He also grabbed a bottle of cleaning bleach, which he dropped into a
plastic carrier bag with the spirits.

Bag in hand, he opened the back door,
stepped outside and closed it behind him.

He found himself in a small backyard
bordered by a high wall, in the cracks of which weeds had seeded themselves.
The only additions to the yard were a couple of wooden chairs.

Thinking the chairs would make excellent
firewood, he picked one up and carried it with him to the rear gate. Although
noise rang out around the village, the back alley sounded relatively quiet and
he undid the latch on the gate and eased it open. He looked left, then right,
and judging the coast clear, he hurried out and headed towards the road.

A sudden noise at his rear caused him to
spin around, holding the chair out like a lion tamer. Running all the way
behind the houses, the dark alley provided numerous hiding places and he
narrowed his eyes to see more clearly. His heart thundered in his chest.

Unable to see anything, he was about to
continue when a Fangtooth shuffled out from a side alley. Remnants of flesh and
gore hung from its mouth. Its eyes, more accustomed to the dark from its time
in the black abyss, fixed upon Zander, and it opened its mouth to display the
sharp teeth, a walking mantrap.

“Son-of-a-bitch,” Zander said. Keeping
one hand on the chair to act as a shield, he hung the bag from one of the arms,
removed the bottle of bleach, unscrewed the cap and pointed it towards the
Fangtooth.

When it came close enough, he sprayed
the solution at the creature’s eyes, causing it to cry out in anguish. Unable
to quell the pain, the Fangtooth slashed out blindly, its claws scraping across
the wall at Zander’s side.

Zander felt a small sense of
satisfaction seeing the creature in torment, and he cracked the chair across
its head, shattering the wood and leaving him holding two wooden legs. The
creature slumped to the ground, unmoving.

The white spirits had fallen out of the
bag in the melee, and he dropped one of the chair legs and bent to pick the
bottle up when the creature slashed out, catching him unaware. Its claw raked
through his ankle and Zander jumped in surprise and fell onto his bottom. The
Fangtooth raked out again, slicing through the plastic bottle in Zander’s hand
and spraying the white spirits across his chest. The pungent, sweet smell of
the liquid filled his nose.

Angry, Zander dropped the bottle, lifted
the wooden leg and slammed the jagged end through the Fangtooth’s eye. Liquid
spurted around the sides of the wood and the creature writhed in torment.
Zander twisted the stake in further, relishing in the creature’s death.

Eventually the creature stopped moving
and Zander sat back, panting with exhaustion. Bursts of white-hot pain radiated
from his ankle and he winced. He wiped his gore and blood-covered hands on his
jeans. The spilt bottle of spirits lay on the ground. Zander picked it up and
staggered to his feet. He looked at the spoonful of liquid left in the bottom
of the container and his spirits flagged. There was more on his clothes than in
the bottle, and realizing the best idea would be to take his sweater off and
use it to ignite the furniture, he tugged it over his head and stuffed it under
his arm.

When he reached the end of the alley, he
peeked around the corner, looked left, then right. The Fangtooth still clawed
at the entrance to Doris and Albert’s house, and large splinters of wood hung
off the door. A couple of other Fangtooth scuttled around by the harbour where
Bruce and the others battled to keep them away. More creatures were visible in
the distance, along with small groups of people who had decided to fight. A few
of them had guns, the reports from which echoed through the night. Ravaged
bodies lay in the street, blood running along the gutter as though a gory
shower had fallen upon the village.

The smoking remains of his boat jutted
up from the harbour. The sight of it filled his heart with sadness. How could
he ever make recompense for what he had done? Innocent men had lost their lives
through his stupidity.

“So you decided to join me.”

Zander turned at the sound of Jim’s
voice to see him crouched over a creature’s carcass. He had gutted it and
pulled its innards out, leaving them in a steaming pile beside the corpse.

The sight made Zander wince. “Jim, we’ve
got a plan. We’re going to build a bonfire big enough to shelter around, but we
need to gather anything that will burn.”

Jim barked a short, sharp laugh. “You
call that a plan?” He buried his hands in the creature’s innards and held them
up. “What do you think, fry them with a little oil, add a few herbs. People
would love it.”

Zander couldn’t believe what he was
hearing. “Get a grip, you stupid old fool.”

Jim pursed his lips, wrinkled his brow
and glared at Zander. “You just want it all for yourself. You’ve always been a
greedy bastard.”

“Think whatever you like, but I don’t
want anything. You can’t sell these things. They’ve goddamn eaten people; you
really think someone would pay to buy one.”

“’Course they would. Eat or be eaten,
that could be the slogan. Catchy, ain’t it?” He mouthed the words silently, as
though trying them on for size.

Zander had heard enough. He checked that
the coast was clear, then hobbled across the road towards the armchair. Once he
reached it, he crouched down. Despite having lit the whole box of matches, the
material had failed to burn and only residual smoke drifted out from a
blackened patch. He wondered whether the material was flameproof.

He grabbed the sweater from under his
arm and threw it onto the chair. Then he pulled the lighter out of his pocket
and ignited it when Jim shouted, “Look out, Skipper.”

Zander whirled around just in time to
see a Fangtooth scampering towards him. Too late to move out of the way, he
stumbled onto the armchair. He landed precariously, knocking the hand with the
lighter underneath his other arm. The flame touched his spirit soaked bare arm
and the hairs caught light like lamp bulb coils. The sudden heat was
incredible. Flames roared along Zander’s arm until reaching the T-shirt. He slapped
at the flames, struggled to pull the burning item of clothing off, but it was
no good. The flesh on his fingers blistered as he struggled to get a grip. He
opened his mouth and screamed. The flames ignited the hair on his head, turning
him into a human torch. The heat seared his eyes, and one of his eyeballs
actually felt as though it popped. For a moment, he thought that he could smell
his own flesh cooking in the heat.