Tooth & Claw Part 3
Thad Griffin hit the tarpaper roof hard, and pressed his body down as flat as he could get it. In front of him was a waist-high wall of wood that acted as the store's main sign. The wood was thin and well chewed by termites that had plenty of time and no problem with heights; it wouldn't do much to stop the .45 calibre bullets from Nick West's Thompson. Despite this, there was a question nagging Griffin.
"Why did West tell us to get down?" asked Griffin.
"I know," replied Beaumont, "it does seem a tad odd. And why is it getting so windy."
Something hard hit Griffin's side; he could feel something pull on his jacket and the material parting as if sliced by a razor. Griffin rolled over, and caught a flash of something narrow and sharp lunging at him. Someone started shooting, and in the dim light Griffin saw bullets hit whatever the hell that thing was and it recoiled away from him. Pieces of something hit his face; it felt leathery, wet, and warm. That thing howled, loud, and unearthly and Griffin expected his ears to start bleeding. He raised his rifle, aimed somewhere in the region of its chest, and pulled the trigger.
Griffin made out the strange misshapen creature stagger backwards, howling madly, and it fell off the roof, to fall on the muddy ground with splash.
"Beaumont!" called Griffin as he sat up. He saw two legs pointing out the door to the stairs.
"I'm all right," said Beaumont as he sat up. "What the hell happened, something came out of nowhere and hit me like a damn truck?"
"It's over there," said Griffin.
"Are you still alive?" called out Nick West from across the street.
"Yeah," said Griffin as he rose up.
"Listen," said West, "we have some talking to do. So I suggest a truce."
"Do you really think you can negotiate with the FBI?"
"I don't see anyone coming to help you," said West, "so why don't we stop yelling across the dang street and talk like civilized men."
"Oh my god," said Beaumont, he was on the edge of the roof, looking down. For some reason the idea of an armed wanted criminal across the street didn't seem as important anymore. "What the hell is that?"
Griffin walked over to the edge of the roof. Light from one of the town's five streetlights cast a blade of sickly yellow light through the darkness. Half submerged in the muddy water was something that can only come from a nightmare. It had wide black wings, leathery like a bat, with a narrow head, pointed at the top and ending in a long narrow beak, its tip sharp as a needle.
"I remember reading about something like that in college," said Beaumont, "but it was extinct, I'm talking millions of years ago, it shouldn't be here."
"What was it called?" asked Griffin.
"Holy shit," said Nick West as his shadow appeared in the blade of light. "It's some kind of bird-lizard-bat kind of thing."
"That's as close as I can remember," said Beaumont.
"You're under arrest," said Griffin, aiming his BAR at West.
"Put that fool thing away," said West. "None of us are going anywhere as long as this town's in the middle of a river, and look up."
"I'm not an idiot," replied Griffin, "put your hands up."
"No really," said Beaumont, touching Griffin's arm. "Look up."
Griffin looked up. Lights flickered from a distant hill, and cast against that light were the shadows of at least a dozen more of that thing lying in the mud. They were slowly circling, but he could see that they're circles were widening. It wouldn't be long before they found Pentecost, and not long after that before they found out that it was full of prey.
"Oh hell," muttered Griffin.
#
"Oh hell," growled Ned for about the hundredth time. "Can't you avoid a pothole for once?"
"The whole road's a pothole," snapped Betty, "and under about six inches of water. Is Prosper still breathing?"
"Still drooling too," said Ned pointing to the lights in the distance. "Look, the lights are back on in town."
"There's the Ogilvy place," said Betty, nodding to a small two story clapboard affair on the edge of town. "Let's hope their phone is working."
"There's somebody there," said Ned, pointing to a man on the back step. He was too tall, and too well dressed to be Bert Ogilvy. He just stood there, the collar of his long coat covering the lower half of his face, his fedora the top half, waving casually with one hand, and keeping the other one behind his back.
Ned's truck rolled to a stop.
"Howdy," said the stranger, the words sounding odd with a New York accent.
"Hi," said Ned as he got out of the truck, "we need Bert's phone. Tell him the old man from Preacher Hill is hurt."
"I'll tell him," said the stranger, keeping his collar up, but his green eyes seemed to glow in the shadow under his hat, "but I don't think he'll be able to call anyone. Is Preacher Hill where all those weird lights coming from?"
"Yeah," said Ned as he helped Betty climb out of the truck.
"Must be something odd happening up there," said the stranger not moving except to put his other hand behind his back.
"I guess," said Betty. "Are those gunshots?" Betty could have sworn she heard someone shooting, and something howling, and it was coming from the middle of town.
"It could be," said the stranger, "but I know for certain that this is."
His hands came out, an automatic pistol in each. To Betty they sounded like a firecracker going off in a little room. Ned convulsed, and fell against the hood of the truck, made a croaking sound and fell face first in the muddy water.
Betty turned to run, but found a powerful arm clamp around her throat. A gloved hand turned her face around to look at her attacker. She wanted to scream, but what she saw kept it from coming out.
It was a lean face, skeletal, with deep set eyes, and a thin nose, sharp as an axe blade. But those weren't what kept her scream in hiding his mouth did that. Scar shot upward on the sides of his mouth, forming a grotesque permanent smile.
"Get the car ready boys," called out the stranger.
"What about West and Griffin?" said a voice from the house.
"They're not going anywhere," said the stranger. "We've got time to figure out what's going on in this weird little town. And maybe we're going to have enough time to have a little fun. Please allow me to introduce myself, my name's O'Rourke, but my friends call me the Smiler."
"Why did West tell us to get down?" asked Griffin.
"I know," replied Beaumont, "it does seem a tad odd. And why is it getting so windy."
Something hard hit Griffin's side; he could feel something pull on his jacket and the material parting as if sliced by a razor. Griffin rolled over, and caught a flash of something narrow and sharp lunging at him. Someone started shooting, and in the dim light Griffin saw bullets hit whatever the hell that thing was and it recoiled away from him. Pieces of something hit his face; it felt leathery, wet, and warm. That thing howled, loud, and unearthly and Griffin expected his ears to start bleeding. He raised his rifle, aimed somewhere in the region of its chest, and pulled the trigger.
Griffin made out the strange misshapen creature stagger backwards, howling madly, and it fell off the roof, to fall on the muddy ground with splash.
"Beaumont!" called Griffin as he sat up. He saw two legs pointing out the door to the stairs.
"I'm all right," said Beaumont as he sat up. "What the hell happened, something came out of nowhere and hit me like a damn truck?"
"It's over there," said Griffin.
"Are you still alive?" called out Nick West from across the street.
"Yeah," said Griffin as he rose up.
"Listen," said West, "we have some talking to do. So I suggest a truce."
"Do you really think you can negotiate with the FBI?"
"I don't see anyone coming to help you," said West, "so why don't we stop yelling across the dang street and talk like civilized men."
"Oh my god," said Beaumont, he was on the edge of the roof, looking down. For some reason the idea of an armed wanted criminal across the street didn't seem as important anymore. "What the hell is that?"
Griffin walked over to the edge of the roof. Light from one of the town's five streetlights cast a blade of sickly yellow light through the darkness. Half submerged in the muddy water was something that can only come from a nightmare. It had wide black wings, leathery like a bat, with a narrow head, pointed at the top and ending in a long narrow beak, its tip sharp as a needle.
"I remember reading about something like that in college," said Beaumont, "but it was extinct, I'm talking millions of years ago, it shouldn't be here."
"What was it called?" asked Griffin.
"Holy shit," said Nick West as his shadow appeared in the blade of light. "It's some kind of bird-lizard-bat kind of thing."
"That's as close as I can remember," said Beaumont.
"You're under arrest," said Griffin, aiming his BAR at West.
"Put that fool thing away," said West. "None of us are going anywhere as long as this town's in the middle of a river, and look up."
"I'm not an idiot," replied Griffin, "put your hands up."
"No really," said Beaumont, touching Griffin's arm. "Look up."
Griffin looked up. Lights flickered from a distant hill, and cast against that light were the shadows of at least a dozen more of that thing lying in the mud. They were slowly circling, but he could see that they're circles were widening. It wouldn't be long before they found Pentecost, and not long after that before they found out that it was full of prey.
"Oh hell," muttered Griffin.
#
"Oh hell," growled Ned for about the hundredth time. "Can't you avoid a pothole for once?"
"The whole road's a pothole," snapped Betty, "and under about six inches of water. Is Prosper still breathing?"
"Still drooling too," said Ned pointing to the lights in the distance. "Look, the lights are back on in town."
"There's the Ogilvy place," said Betty, nodding to a small two story clapboard affair on the edge of town. "Let's hope their phone is working."
"There's somebody there," said Ned, pointing to a man on the back step. He was too tall, and too well dressed to be Bert Ogilvy. He just stood there, the collar of his long coat covering the lower half of his face, his fedora the top half, waving casually with one hand, and keeping the other one behind his back.
Ned's truck rolled to a stop.
"Howdy," said the stranger, the words sounding odd with a New York accent.
"Hi," said Ned as he got out of the truck, "we need Bert's phone. Tell him the old man from Preacher Hill is hurt."
"I'll tell him," said the stranger, keeping his collar up, but his green eyes seemed to glow in the shadow under his hat, "but I don't think he'll be able to call anyone. Is Preacher Hill where all those weird lights coming from?"
"Yeah," said Ned as he helped Betty climb out of the truck.
"Must be something odd happening up there," said the stranger not moving except to put his other hand behind his back.
"I guess," said Betty. "Are those gunshots?" Betty could have sworn she heard someone shooting, and something howling, and it was coming from the middle of town.
"It could be," said the stranger, "but I know for certain that this is."
His hands came out, an automatic pistol in each. To Betty they sounded like a firecracker going off in a little room. Ned convulsed, and fell against the hood of the truck, made a croaking sound and fell face first in the muddy water.
Betty turned to run, but found a powerful arm clamp around her throat. A gloved hand turned her face around to look at her attacker. She wanted to scream, but what she saw kept it from coming out.
It was a lean face, skeletal, with deep set eyes, and a thin nose, sharp as an axe blade. But those weren't what kept her scream in hiding his mouth did that. Scar shot upward on the sides of his mouth, forming a grotesque permanent smile.
"Get the car ready boys," called out the stranger.
"What about West and Griffin?" said a voice from the house.
"They're not going anywhere," said the stranger. "We've got time to figure out what's going on in this weird little town. And maybe we're going to have enough time to have a little fun. Please allow me to introduce myself, my name's O'Rourke, but my friends call me the Smiler."
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