Shaun Jeffrey: Fangtooth

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.