Shaun Hutson: Death Day

He took a hefty swing and smacked his lips, 'Stuff your soup,' he said, 'I'll stick to this.'

From where he sat, ignoring the dampness which was seeping through the seat of his trousers, Mackenzie could see the church clock. Its metal hands were at three-twenty. He glanced down at his own watch once more. Despite winding, it still wasn't working. Bloody Russian crap. Next time he'd get a Timex.

Squatting on the dark earth, Steve looked around. They were well across the clearing, almost halfway. The high grass and weeds had been cut down behind them; tomorrow they would cut down the remaining vegetation and, after that, dig it all into the soil.

'We'll go as far as that tree stump today,' said Mackenzie, pointing to a gnarled knob of wood which jutted out of the climbing grass like a beacon. It stood about two feet high but was nearly that width across the neatly cut base. Someone, many years ago, had chopped it down and, what was more, they had done it with amazing precision. The severed trunk was as smooth as formica on its darkened diameter. It reminded Steve of a table, as if it had grown in that shape for some purpose.

'That's going to take some shifting,' said Mackenzie, taking another pull from his hip flask, 'I bet the bloody roots go down for yards.' Steve looked around the clearing: the darkened area of earth strewn with chopped down grass, and that which lay beyond, rampant with clotted outcrops of weed. Not a wild flower in sight.

'I wonder why they wanted it cleared?' he said.

'Well,' said Mackenzie, 'it is a bloody eyesore. Christ, I shouldn't think it's been seen to since the fucking cemetery was opened.'

Steve wasn't satisfied. 'But it's out of sight of the rest of the place, you can't even see it from the driveway.'

Mackenzie turned on him irritably, 'What the bloody hell does it matter why they want it cleared? Perhaps they're expecting lots of people to peg out and they want somewhere to put them. How the bleeding hell should I know why they want it cleared?'

'All right, keep your shirt on. I was just curious.'

Mackenzie grunted. 'Why bother about it? As long as we get paid for doing it I couldn't give a bugger what they want it for.' He drained the last drops of brandy from his flask. He shook the flask and dropped it back into his pocket.

'I'll tell you what,' he said, 'it's getting colder. I reckon we'll have a frost tonight.'

'It is bloody cold,' said Steve, softly, almost to himself.

He threw what was left of his soup onto the ground and pushed his thermos into his lunchbox.

Grumbling, they returned to cutting down the sea of weeds and grass. Mackenzie straightened up sporadically and massaged the small of his back, groaning with the ache that had settled there. He drove his spade down hard and felt it connect with something solid. He pawed away the earth and saw a root as thick as his arm. And the tree stump was more than three feet away. He groaned inwardly. Shifting it was going to be harder than he'd anticipated. He lifted the spade above his head and brought it crashing down on the root, severing it with a powerful blow.

'Steve.'

The youngster turned.

'There's a couple of hatchets in the work bag. Go and get them. We'll chop the bloody thing free.'

Steve nodded and headed off to fetch the tools. Then he heard Mackenzie call again. 'And bring the crow bars too.'

He returned a moment later with the tools to find Mackenzie leaning on the tree stump. He took an axe from Steve and set to work, hacking through the thick roots until the sweat began to soak into his coat. But neither of them removed their jackets because it was getting so cold. Mackenzie could feel the biting iciness catching in his throat and he half expected to see his laboured breath frosting before him in the freezing air. Steve too, slashed away at the tentacles of root, watching as sap oozed, bloodlike, into the earth.

It took them nearly half an hour to free the stump.

Panting, Mackenzie picked up the crow bar and motioned for Steve to do the same. They slid the clawed prongs under two sides of the stump and, at a given signal, pressed down on the iron levers as hard as they could. Their faces turned bright red with the effort and veins stood out angrily on both men's foreheads.

'Hold it a minute,' gasped Mackenzie.

Steve was fit to drop. He had never known exertion like this in his life and, if he had his way, he'd never have it again. They tried again but the stump remained stuck fast as if driven into the soil with some gigantic steam hammer. It was like trying to pull a masonry nail from a wall with your fingers.

'Couldn't we both try it from the same side at once?' offered Steve, not really caring now whether they moved the bloody thing or not. He didn't know why they just couldn't have gone round it.

Side by side, they prized the crow bars deep beneath the stump, Mackenzie eventually shouting in angry frustration.

'Fuck the bloody thing.' He threw his bar to the ground and stood, hands on hips, staring at the recalcitrant stump which seemed to grin back at him as much to say, you might as well forget it.

'Does it matter that much?' Steve asked timidly.

Mackenzie exploded, 'Of course it matters, you stupid little bastard. How the hell are they supposed to turn it into a fucking burial plot with that stuck in the middle?'

He retrieved his bar.

'Come on,' he snarled and they set to Work again. To Mackenzie, it had become a matter of pride; he intended moving that stump if he had to stay there all night and do it.

There was a slight creak and it lifted an inch. They pressed down harder and it lifted a little more.

'It's moving,' shouted Mackenzie, triumphantly.

Inch by agonizing inch, the tree stump rose, bringing with it more thick roots which hung like hardened veins from its dirt encrusted base.

It lifted a foot. Then eighteen inches, a great sucking sound filling the air as it began to come free.

Then they noticed the smell. A fetid, choking stench which smelt like excrement and made them gag. Steve felt his muscles contract, the hot bile clawing its way up from his stomach.

'Keep pushing,' shouted Mackenzie, tearing the lump of wood from its earthy home until the many-rooted base was at a ninety degree angle to the ground. Both men put their shoulders to it, preparing to push it over.

It was then that they looked down into the hole.

Mackenzie opened his mouth to scream but no sound would escape. The cry caught in his throat and rasped away. His eyes, riveted to the sight below him, bulged madly, the blood vessels in the whites threatening to burst. Steve made no attempt to stop himself and vomited violently, not quite daring to believe what he saw.

Lying in the hole, its body coated in thick slime, was a slug the size of small dog. Its body was a sickly greyish white colour, covered from head to tail with thick slime. As the horrified men stood transfixed, its twin antennae slowly grew towards them, lengthening like car aerials, until they had reached their full height. The bulbous eyes waved gently at the end of the antenna and the abomination slithered forward.

With a scream of sheer horrified revulsion, Mackenzie snatched up the crowbar and struck the creature. It made a hideous gurgling noise, the antenna retracting swiftly. Mackenzie struck again but, seeing that the blows were having little effect, he grabbed the axe, lying discarded by the tree stump and brought it down with terrifying force on the monstrous thing.

His blow split it in half and, a shower of virulent pus-like blood spouted into the air, some of it spattering him. Screaming like a maniac he brought the axe down again, this time splitting the thing lengthways. A reeking porridge of blackened entrails spilled onto the ground, the stench nearly making Mackenzie faint. Sobbing now, he brought the axe down once more, this time slicing off one of the antenna. He sank to his knees, the slimey mixture of yellow blood and dark viscera covering him. He gripped the axe and screamed.