Fangtooth

Chapter 38

Bruce peered down the steps into the cellar. Something niggled at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t recall what.

He watched Graham descend, his body almost filling the narrow staircase. A single lamp glowed at the top of the stairs, and further light filtered up from below, throwing a corona around the proprietor. Bruce inhaled. The air smelled of a combination of mould and stale beer.

“You’ve barricaded my bar, lost me customers, the least you can do is help,” Graham called up the stairs when he realised Bruce hadn’t accompanied him.

“Don’t blow a gasket, I’m coming,” Bruce said.

Cracks ran through the walls of the white painted stairway, gashes large enough for Bruce to insert his hand inside.

The concrete steps seemed well maintained, and he jogged down to find himself in a large room full of alcoves stacked with crates, barrels and boxes. Pipes connected to the beer pumps upstairs snaked through the ceiling. The smell of stale beer seemed a lot stronger in the basement. He judged the room to be as wide as the bar upstairs, at least twenty feet, but it seemed a lot longer, although he couldn’t tell how long because the further reaches of the room basked in darkness.

The cold permeated Bruce’s bones. He shivered.

“Didn’t you think to put bulbs all the way through?” he asked.

Graham glanced at him. “No point. Everything we need is here at this end. Back there only gets used on the days when I have the barrels delivered, and then it’s daylight. Do you know how much it costs to run a bar? Every little bit helps.”

That’s when Bruce remembered seeing the barrels delivered a few days ago; remembered the hole in the pavement, an access to the bar.

He peered into the dark reaches, trying to decipher the strange shadows that lurked just out of the light.

“Graham,” he whispered.

Having squatted down to lift a barrel, the landlord looked up. “What?”

Bruce wished he wouldn’t speak so loud. “How many other entrances are there to the bar?”

“There’s the front door, the back door, a side door in the kitchen and the trapdoor over there in the corner.”

Bruce could see the cogs turning in Graham’s mind, his eye narrowed, mouth pursed as another revelation threatened to blow his mind.

“You think maybe—”

Something clattered in the shadows, cutting Graham off mid-sentence. He stood up with a start. “Shit,” he said, “You don’t think…”

Bruce didn’t know what to think. His chest constricted, felt as though someone had dropped a lump of lead between his ribs. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach, his intestines tied in a tight loop. Goose bumps raced down his arms and his fingers tingled.

He took a step back, eyes trained on the darkness.

Another clatter. This time closer. His cheeks prickled in response. He caught sight of movement. A cry caught in his throat. Something ran out of the shadows. Ran towards him. Something black, travelling close to the ground.

“Oscar,” Graham said. The black cat ran to Graham’s side and rubbed itself against his leg. Graham crouched down and stroked the cat behind the ear. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.” He looked up at Bruce. “Best damn mouser I ever had. Found him as a stray.”

Bruce exhaled slowly. His pulse still raced.

A sudden scream echoed down the stairs. Bruce jumped. The cat arched its back, hackles raised. It hissed loudly, sharp teeth bared, reminding Bruce of a miniature Fangtooth. He turned towards the door, couldn’t work out whether the scream was male or female.

Temples throbbing, he ran through the door and bounded up the steps, taking them two at a time in his haste.

The bar’s kitchen wasn’t large, but it looked clean and tidy. Erin gazed around the room, looking for anything to use as a weapon, something long and very sharp if they wanted to stand any chance of defending themselves.

A range ran along the back wall, above which a stainless steel extractor threw a warped reflection of the room. A worktable ran down the middle of the kitchen, laden with pots, pans, spices and utensils, none of which were suitable as a weapon. A rack to the left of the range held a row of knurled metal handled knives. She walked across and withdrew them, putting aside the paring knife, vegetable knife and bread knife to take a meat cleaver, a 20cm long bladed cook’s knife, a carving fork, a filleting knife and a large knife with a fluted blade.

“Jack, take this,” she said, handing him the meat cleaver. “Rocky, you have this.” She handed him the filleting knife, then passed Sara the carving fork and Jen the 20cm long bladed cook’s knife. She kept the blade with the fluted edge for herself. “Right, let’s see what else we can find.”

Duncan stood in the doorway. He still had the hook with the wooden handle; he stared at Erin, his face pinched, lips sucked in to create a thin gash where his mouth should be.

“You know this is pointless,” he said.

“If you’ve got nothing constructive to say, button it,” she replied, jabbing the air with the knife to punctuate her words.

“Yeah,” Rocky barked. “Or I’ll button it for ya.” He clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowed into slits.

Erin heard something moving outside, something that clicked across the ground at a fast pace. Next minute, the side door burst open and a Fangtooth scurried inside. It twisted its head left and right as though selecting its prey. Then it opened its mouth.

Sara screamed, almost deafening Erin at her side.

Erin held the knife out, the fluted blade wavering within her grasp. She thought of Kevin, remembered his body bitten in half. The memory made her nauseous. It also made her angry.

Another Fangtooth appeared in the doorway. She saw that to enable them to move quickly, the creatures ran on all fours, but when they moved in to attack, they raised themselves on two legs, which is what the lead Fangtooth did now.

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Jack usher the other teenagers towards the corner of the room where they had more protection. Erin meanwhile stood before the range, while the Fangtooth approached along either side of the worktable. She saw Duncan standing behind the door, a look of awe on his face.

Her mouth felt dry, tongue glued to her palate. Compared to the many teeth and claws at the Fangtooth’s disposal, her knife seemed ineffectual. She needed something better, and although she wouldn’t know how to use them, she wished for a shotgun, a machine gun, or a bazooka. Soldiers charging headlong through the door would also be a heartening sight. But she didn’t have any of those, only a knife and her wits.

Her gaze fell upon a can of spray polish on the worktable. She grabbed it, placed the knife on the edge of the table, then realised she didn’t have a light.

“Here.”

Erin looked across at the sound of Jack’s voice. As if he had read her mind, he threw her his lighter, which she caught in midair. Using her thumb, she flipped the lid off the can, sparked the lighter and pressed down on the plunger. The spray ignited with a satisfying whump. A wave of heat wafted over her and she aimed the yellow flame at the nearest Fangtooth. As she’d hoped, the universal fear of fire stilled the beast’s approach. It reared back, raking the air with its claws, teeth bared. A grumbling sound emanated from its throat, which sounded like anger and hunger combined. She tried not to think what might happen if the flame entered the pressurized can in her hand.

She let go of the plunger and the flame went out. She moved aside, placing herself between the teenagers and the creatures. She didn’t know how much gas remained in the can, but she hoped and prayed there was enough to allow them to escape.

“Follow me–slowly,” she said.

Although she felt like running, she knew she couldn’t. She let loose another blast of flame, warding the creatures away. She only hoped more monsters didn’t rush into the room.

The flame flickered and stuttered. Erin’s heart rose into her throat. She took her finger off the plunger and shook the can. It sounded nearly empty.

Zander appeared in the doorway leading to the bar. He surveyed the scene, jaw clenched. He had a large tumbler of whisky in his hand, which he threw over the nearest Fangtooth.

The Fangtooth turned and bared its teeth at him. “Torch that fucker,” Zander said.

Erin moved towards the creature, pressed the plunger and struck the lighter. A jet of flame shot out, igniting the whisky. A throaty roar echoed from the Fangtooth’s throat. Cloaked in a blanket of flame, it raked its claws in the air and crashed against the worktable, sending pots and pans flying. The second Fangtooth dropped to all fours and backed away. The pungent aroma of roasting fish filled the air. Burning scales flaked off the Fangtooth’s body and fell to the ground.

“Quick,” Erin said, “around the other side and through the door.”

Jack and the others moved where she indicated. She noticed Bruce appear in the doorway, his hand out to help pull them through.

“Come on,” he shouted.

Jack shook his head and ushered the others back. “We can’t get past.” He pointed at the Fangtooth barring the way.

The flames from the burning Fangtooth licked the ceiling, setting off the ear-piercing wail of the fire alarm. Erin could hardly hear herself think. She winced.

Seeing the predicament the teenagers were in, she slid around the table, wary of the burning Fangtooth. The second Fangtooth regarded her from its lower position. Its jaw hung open, the spines on its back bristling in anticipation. Erin raised the can, struck the lighter and pressed the plunger, only to find the can empty.

“Shit,” she said. She threw the can at the creature and stepped back. Her fingers brushed the tabletop, felt the cold handle of the fluted knife. She grabbed hold of it with both hands and, without thinking, she leaped at the Fangtooth and plunged the blade through its eye.

The blade met resistance as it sank through the eye socket. A clear liquid spurted out, struck her cheek, making her cringe. The creature bucked like a bronco, slashing with its claws. Erin kept it at arm’s length, the vicious spines along its back dangerously close to her eyes. She pushed with all her strength, her triceps aching with the strain. Blood seeped around her fingers, weakening her grip on the handle. She bit her lip, held on for dear life. The Fangtooth felt cold and dry; its sharp, rough scales sliced through her wrists with the same pain as a paper cut. Erin winced, tears blurred her vision.

The blade met further resistance. She pushed. Hard. Seconds later the tip of the blade punctured the Fangtooth’s palate, resembling another wicked tooth as it protruded through its mouth. She twisted the blade, gouging a hole, causing maximum damage. She felt the fluted edge grind against the creature’s eye socket, splintering tough bone. Next minute the Fangtooth shuddered and collapsed to the ground. Its jaw struck the tiles, forcing the knife back out.

Erin jumped to her feet. She turned towards the side door to confront Duncan, only he was no longer there.

Enraged, she ran across, slammed the door shut and leaned against it, breathing heavy. If he wanted to be fish food, so be it.