Jack Strange - Zomcats!

The man next to the opening was wearing the sort of outfit that walkers wear. That was a good omen. Dross turned to the man, who happened to be Owen Blackhead.

“Do you know if this is the path to Stonker Edge?” He asked.

“It must be,” Owen replied. “It’s heading in the right direction and there aren’t any other paths going that way.”

Dross breathed a sigh of relief.

A few cameramen and sound men ran up to join him at the head of the line of people, as did a number of the CIA men.

What can possibly go wrong? Dross asked himself. It’s only a field and we’re only a short distance from the Edge and I’ve just been told by a walker that it’s the right path.

Nevertheless, he felt a stirring of disquiet in the pit of his stomach.

“This way,” he said cheerfully, in the most upbeat tone he could muster.

He’d gone twenty yards or so along the path when he noticed that the grass in the field was unusually long and full of thistles. He glanced around. All the fields on Stonker Edge Farm were full of long grass and weeds. That seemed somehow wrong to him. He felt another stirring of disquiet.

“Is something the matter, Dross?” It was the Mayor.

Dross felt more beads of perspiration forming on his forehead in spite of the chill wind that was blowing. He wiped it with the back of his hand.

“No, no. Everything’s just hunky-dory,” he replied.

They forged ahead, the cameramen and sound crews forming little groups around the line, mainly in the vicinity of the PM and the President. The CIA men fanned out. The police remained astride their bikes on Stonker lane.

Soon, the entire crocodile of men and women and equipment was in the field, either on the path, or to either side of it, with Dross and the mayor leading the way.

It occurred to Dross that there were no cows in the fields around Stonker Edge Farm. He wondered why. He’d noticed cows in the fields belonging to the neighbouring farms. He could see them in the distance. He’d even heard a mooing sound from far away. But there were no cows nearby.

The knot in his stomach tightened. His instincts were telling him that the lack of cows betokened something sinister. He told himself it was nothing to worry about, and that the farmer must have got rid of his cows for some reason; or that he must be keeping them in a shed somewhere. He forged ahead, face set.

Behind him, Owen watched as the column of people and equipment made their way across the field. It was a journey he’d been planning on making himself, but in the end, he hadn’t been able to pluck up the courage to. He’d been so worried about the possibility of being attacked by a were-cat in the fields surrounding Stonker Edge farm that all he’d been able to do was to keep watch, and so far, he hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary.

Dross saw something in the grass, something white, like a cage. He paused.

“Dross, what is it?” The Mayor asked.

Dross realised that what he’d seen was a cow’s ribcage. What could it mean?

“Nothing,” he said with false confidence. “This way.”

He started walking again, becoming aware now of faint movements in the grass, as if small animals were scuttling around in it.

Must be the wind, he thought, until he noticed that some of the movements seemed to be in the opposite direction to the wind. Then he thought: it could be badgers, if they have badgers around here.

Then he and the mayor heard a howl of pain.

Everybody turned their heads to see a CIA man at the edge of their column fall into the long grass and disappear from view. Two of his colleagues ran over to help him.

“Aaargh!”

“Aaaaargh!”

Then they were gone, too, unaccountably, as if the grass had somehow swallowed them up. The rest of the CIA team drew their guns and surrounded the President, forming a circle around him, all of them facing away from him, pointing their weapons into the grass.

“We’re going to escort you out of here, Mr President,” one of them said, “head back towards that hole in the wall we came in by.”

The motorcycle cops who’d been waiting by the cars heard the screams and saw the CIA men going down. They revved up their bikes and headed through the opening in the wall and set off like the cavalry in the grass at either side of the path.

Owen looked on, his heart beating rapidly. He was sure that this was a were-cat attack and that he was going to record it on video, and prove to the world, and, most importantly to his wife, that he wasn’t going mad.

As he looked on, one of the motorcyclists in the grass went down, seemingly acquiring some sort of furry coat just before he did. Owen took out his mobile phone. His hands were trembling with excitement. Or was it fear? Whatever it was, the mobile dropped from his grip. By the time he’d picked it up, three more of the motorcycle cops had gone down. He raised the mobile to begin filming and then he saw a movement in the grass a few yards away. He dropped the mobile and ran for it as fast as he could, past the long line of limousines parked by the side of the road, past the golf club, and even though he had dodgy knees, and even though running hadn’t been his thing for many years, he somehow kept going until he’d reached the comforting streets of Birkby far below Stonker Edge.

Behind him, events were taking an unplanned turn.

Doughnut turned around and walked back the way he’d come. His praetorian guard of CIA men barged the cameramen and sound crews who were filming them to one side in order to get through. A news reporter ran forward to get the President’s comments on the situation and was pushed aside to enable the President and his men to make quick progress.

At the head of the line, the Mayor turned to Dross. On the periphery of his vision he noticed a motorbike cop falling sideways into some thistles.

“You better not ’ave fucked things up for the town of ’Uddersfield, young man,” he said.

Dross felt his heart beating rapidly, and it wasn’t just because of the Mayor’s words. His instincts were telling him that he was facing the biggest threat of his life, but he had no idea what that threat might be. He spread out his arms.

“I haven’t,” he said. “I swear to God that I haven’t fucked things up. This has got nothing to do with me, whatever it is.”

The Mayor wagged a plump forefinger in Dross’ face.

“No lad, it ’asn’t got owt to do with you,” he said. “But you’re the one who thought of it and led us all up ’ere. And I ’ave this funny feeling that we’re all going to be fucked because of you.”

The Mayor looked around and noticed the same thing that Dross had noticed a couple of minutes earlier: that the grass seemed to be moving here and there, as if small animals were concealing themselves in it, and — the thought made him shudder — stalking them.

“I’m getting out of ’ere,” he said.

He turned and began walking back the way he’d come..

Camemblert, who had been a few yards behind the mayor and Dross, looked at his aide.

“What the devil is going on, Johnson?” he asked.

“I don’t know Prime Minister,” said Johnson, “But common sense would suggest that we ought to leave, quickly.”

They turned around, noting as they did so that the entire column of people that had been following them was doing the same, and in the process were colliding into each other. Some were falling over, mainly cameramen and sound men, who were disadvantaged by having things to carry, and being brutally pushed to one side by the CIA.

The CIA team soon got to what had formerly been the rear of the column, and was now the front, largely because two of them had gone to either side of the President and done their best to propel him along the path at speed. They were now only fifty yards or so from the exit back to Stonker Lane, and, following in their wake, there was a long line of people, including eight very pissed-off TV crews.