Reign of Evil

CHAPTER 10

Jonathan Fitzhugh considered himself a good worker. Not a great worker and not a bad worker, but a good worker. He got to work on time most mornings, at least those when he hadn’t gotten too deep in his cups the night before. He was conscientious every evening, ensuring the groundskeeping equipment was clean and put away. And he was polite to the club members, always remembering to call them sir and their lady friends, whether they be an obvious tramp or an overweight wife, ma’am. So the idea that he had to go see the club manager today at noon was infuriating. They hadn’t even explained what it was about, but by the tone of the note attached to seat of the riding lawn mower it was clear that they weren’t happy.

There was no way they could have known he’d pawned three sets of golf clubs this year. Not only was there no one around when he took them, but the fact that their owners had left them behind demonstrated that they didn’t really want or need them in the first place also. Plus, he’d taken each to a different pawnbroker in Bath. No, there was no way they could have known about those.

The morning fog did little to deter the first foursome of the day. He recognized them as they approached the first tee. The tall one in the middle was Nisam Kazmi, a Pakistani businessman who’d been in the papers. The owner of five car dealerships, he was also interested in the fair treatment of immigrants and was a vocal opponent of any law or policy that inhibited his rights. The other three were his usual partners, two Pakistanis and one Afghan.

Fitzhugh kept one eye on them as he checked the oil level of his lawn mower. There were those down at the pub who’d call them disparaging names, such as ragheads, but then that was just stupid. The real ragheads were the Sikhs, who actually wore turbans on their heads. No, Fitzhugh wasn’t one to call the Pakis names. As long as they were good upstanding citizens, why shouldn’t they be able to come to the club and play a round of golf?

But Fitzhugh couldn’t help but think what if… what if they were planning something terrible while they played golf? What if they were arranging for an attack on the Queen or parliament or perhaps something worse involving nerve gas or explosives? He smiled grimly and briefly flashed to an image of him in the newspaper with the headline GROUNDSKEEPER FOILS PLOT TO KILL QUEEN.

He held on to that as he started the tractor and headed toward the third hole where ducks had recently been crapping on the green. The last thing he needed this day was for the Pakis to complain to his boss about a crap-filled green.

The fog wasn’t burning off like it usually did. If anything, it was getting thicker as he headed toward the small pond near the green for the third hole. He knew there was a scientific reason for it, but he really didn’t know what ten-quid words to use, nor would he have understood their meanings. Plus, this time of December and so close to Christmas, the club was lucky the weather was holding as it was. It might as well be spring.

Sure enough, during the night the ducks had crapped all over the green. He grabbed a flat shovel from the back of the tractor and scooped up all but the smallest pieces and dumped them in the water. He searched for one of the ducks to curse, but they’d made themselves absent. Good thing; he might have found a rock and had something for dinner if he’d been able to find one.

He next grabbed a bucket. Then he was on his hands and knees picking up the smaller piece because god fucking forbid one of those little white balls goes off course because it struck a microscopic piece of duck crap. He’d be bottled for sure.

Fitzhugh wasn’t positive how long he’d been on his hands and knees when he heard some yelling. He glanced up and saw the Paki foursome halfway down the fairway waving at him. Had he been there that long? A wave of fog passed between them and him obscuring them for a moment.

Where the hell was that fog coming from?

He stood, wincing as his bum left knee reminded him that he was old, drank too much, and could do with losing a bit of weight.

They yelled again. “Fore!”

Of course.

They wanted him to move out of the way.

He glanced down and checked to see if he’d gotten all of the duck crap, then limped back to his tractor. He decided to wait until they finished before he started it up. No use having them complain about the noise when they were trying to hit their bloody damned balls.

He could just make out Mr. Kazmi lining up to hit his ball. It looked like a five-iron shot would do the job, but the damn Paki was using a fairway wood. Fitzhugh moved behind the tractor. If the man was going to overshoot the hole, he’d be damned if he’d be hit.

Kazmi swung, and as his club made it to the apex of his backswing a gigantic creature came from his right and hit him square in the chest, ripping out his throat. Part human, part beast, it was terrible to see. Its front two legs were human arms, but bent in the way of an animal’s legs. The back legs were those of a dog or a wolf. It had a gray hairless body like an armadillo’s and the face of a long-nosed baboon.

Five more beasts loped out of the fog and took down the three other golfers. They went for the soft places like the jugular, the stomach, and the crotch, ripping and chewing. Their human hands gripping the bodies as they fed and tore flesh free.

Fitzhugh felt warmth flood his own crotch as urine evacuated down his leg. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t move. He managed to get down on his trembling knees and then onto the ground, where he watched the men being eaten from his view beneath his tractor.

Then a giant white stag appeared with a man on his back.

The beasts howled and the man laughed.

He looked like a king, regal and broad shouldered. Not at all like that big-eared Prince Charles with the small chin and smaller shoulders. No, this was a true man. Fitzhugh knew without knowing how he knew that if asked he’d follow the figure and do whatever he was told.

The man glanced his way as did the beasts, their heads turning to stare at his hiding place at the exact same time. Fitzhugh felt like puking. They knew he was there. He closed his eyes. If this was the end and they were going to rip out his guts, he didn’t want to see it happen.

He counted to fifty.

Then he started over and counted to a hundred.

Then he counted to a hundred again.

He opened one eye but didn’t see a thing. He slowly turned his gaze behind him but saw nothing there but the pond. After what seemed like ten minutes, he finally got to his feet. At first he couldn’t stop shaking, but the more time passed, the more it seemed that he’d been spared.

He climbed on his tractor well aware that they could be playing with him, but as the fog began to dissipate and he saw more and more of the course he felt increasingly certain that he would make it. He started the tractor and began to head for the clubhouse. He had to tell someone what had happened.

But he paused. He turned in his seat and saw the four sets of golf clubs still on the ground. Of the golfers there was nary a trace.

Then he remembered the note to see the manager. What was he going to tell him? That a king riding a white stag brought some monstrous hounds who ate the golfers? No way. No how. No. He was already in trouble. Four club members being eaten on the third hole would somehow become his fault too. He turned the tractor around and grabbed the golf clubs. Just in case, he’d wait two weeks for his trip to Wales, then he’d find a pawnbroker.

He felt an ache in his back from picking up all of the duck poop. Damn but he was a good worker. When were they going to realize that?