Fangtooth

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.

After a moment, Zander stopped struggling and settled back in the armchair.

He looked through his one good eye; saw Jim stabbing the beast that had charged towards him. Beyond Jim he saw the villagers, people he had known all his life. People he had grown up with. People he knew would blame him for the deaths of their loved ones on board Storm Bringer. He glanced at the furniture around him. Knew that for it to catch light it needed a source of flame.

Despite the torturous heat, he felt oddly at peace. He closed his eye as best he could and gritted his teeth against the searing pain.

It would never bring his crew back, but he hoped that his sacrifice would be his salvation. That through his death, others may live.