What Do Monsters Fear Page 17

  “There was no salt at breakfast?”

  “Not just that, think, Peter.”

  The idea hit so hard that Peter’s legs nearly buckled. “Walter’s ice cream ingredients. Rock salt.”

  “Correct.”

  Peter studied the illustration, a vast ocean, the waves depicted by black curving lines. A sun set on the horizon, the sky caked in thick clouds. The title above read: Mare, quae esta vitae fonnes.

  “Are you sure?” Peter asked. “Are you sure it will work? You think that thing can’t stand salt?”

  “I only know what you know. But from this chapter, even though I can’t understand the text, the illustration and Jerry’s reaction to the rock salt is the nearest thing to an answer that I can come up with. He knew it could repel Phobos, he knew it!”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Peter rubbed at his forehead. “There’s salt circling the fucking yard! A precaution! He’s stuck here!”

  “Until Dawson comes and breaks the seal,” Henry said. “In return for a favor, I’m guessing. Check and mate. We won’t give him the chance to leave.”

  “Where is it? The canister of salt?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “I saw it in a grocery bag, back when Andrew picked it up, but someone moved it. Most likely to the kitchen. Come on.”

  “That thing is out there.”

  “What other choice do we have, Henry? We have to make a break for it. You think you can do that?”

  “I’ll have to, won’t I?”

  Peter nodded. “Wait.”

  At fire place, Peter scooped the final two broken legs of the table. Splinters covered their business ends, perfect for stabbing.

  If it comes to that . . . Fuck, I wish I still had that damned crowbar . . . Or . . .

  Peter cursed. “There’s a damn shotgun in the hallway, Henry! The gun rack!”

  “We don’t have a key. And if we spent more than two second out there fiddling with a lock or trying to smash the thing open, that cat would be on us quicker than you could say shit. You know that.”

  “I’ll get it, somehow. Soon as I have the opportunity.” He took a deep breath. “Let’s go.”

  Racing from the living room, a single word whirled around Peter’s mind:

  Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . . .

  His skin prickled as they entered the hallway, and from the staircase, the creature mewled.

  “Come, on!”

  Peter elbowed open the dining-room door and slammed it shut behind them. A second later, the cat crashed against the door, its weight shaking Peter’s hands.

  “Fuck! The breakfast table, Henry! Pull it here!”

  The cat roared. Henry grabbed the sturdy piece of wood and dragged it across the floor, jarring it against the door just as a second crash hit. The table jittered, but Peter forced his weight against it, keeping it in place.

  “It’s not going to hold, we need something else.”

  Henry eyes darted frantically around the room.

  Everything but the kitchen sink, Peter thought, unable to resist the joke. Good Christ I need a drink.

  The thick wooden armchairs caught Peter’s attention. He ordered Henry to grab one and the old man slid it over, packing it against the far side of the table. They hoisted the other two on top, adding weight. Peter held an armchair while Henry continued throwing objects onto the barricade—an old fashioned television set, the television cabinet, a couch he slid from the far end of the room. The creature hissed from the other side of the door and smashing its mass into the frame, but the barricade filled the space between an outcrop of wall and the door, lodging it in place.

  “Oh thank Christ,” Henry said, wiping at his face. “Think it’ll hold?”

  “Not for long. Do you see it anywhere? The salt?”

  The creature hissed and cracked the door. A small split appeared in the wood.

  Henry cocked a thumb over his shoulder. “The kitchen. Hurry.”

  They pushed open the swing door, entering the small cooking quarters. Peter went straight to the cabinets above the ovens and sink, pulling them open and rummaging through the contents. His hands shook.

  Just one fucking drink would sort that out, he told himself. You’ve had these shakes a million times before, remember? Nothing a quick shot or smoke wouldn’t fix.

  “I don’t see it,” Henry called, his voice filled with panic. “The back door, Peter, the back door, we could try and make a break for it.”

  An image of the two scrambling through the dense snowfall came to Peter. The thick black feline would pounce through the powder, gaining with ease. They’d be lucky to make it halfway across the yard.

  “Useless, Henry. Come on, now, I need you to stay focused. We need to find—”

  Behind a half-used bag of floor and a can of coffee, the white and blue bag sat unopened.

  “I found it!” Peter pulled the bag free, his hands shaking. “How do we—”

  The dining room door cracked, echoing throughout the room like a gunshot. From the other side of the kitchen door, Phobos roared, the mutated sound making Peter’s stomach roil. One of the leather arm chairs tumbled from the barricade, then came the clatter of claws.

  Peter’s fingers fumbled with the plastic wrapping as he let out a frustrated yelp.

  “Hand me a knife, please! Quick!”

  Henry pulled open the nearest drawer, whipping out a butcher knife.

  “Here.”

  Peter worked the knife into the plastic, spilling salt to the floor. “Shit.”

  The granules looked thick and chunky.

  Enough to damage the sonofabitch.

  Claws bounded across the dining room. Peter wanted to vomit. Bracing himself, he clutched the bag in both hands and looked to Henry. “Get behind me.”

  The swing door crashed open as the giant cat fell inside the room, skidding on the tiles. Sores and broken bone jutted from wet and filthy fur. Roaring, it regained its balance and darted straight for the two men.

  Without aim, Peter flung the contents of the bag.

  The cat’s head rammed his stomach, smashing him against the back door and crushing Henry beneath him. The wind flew from Peter’s lungs, winding him. He grimaced and squeezed his eyes shut. Warm blood trickled down his leg, but Peter concentrated on something else- the fact the cat wasn’t ripping his guts out. The rotten odor of singed hair and rotting flesh attacked his nose.

  Peter opened his eyes and watched as the cat screeched and stumbled about the room. It knocked over pots and pans, jittering as if in the throes of a brain aneurism.

  “There you go, you fucker!” Peter yelled. “Have a taste of your own medicine!”

  The cat trashed about the room, tendrils of gray smoke trailing away from where the salt had connected. Peter’s eyes widened when he saw just where he’d hit. Directly in the bastard’s face.

  Peter sucked a deep breath, his lungs trying to refuse. He knew he had to relax, for his muscles to let up and his body to return to normal, but under the circumstances, relaxing felt out of the question. He tried pushing himself off the floor but his legs betrayed him, sending his ass back to the ground. He whipped his head from side to side, flinging the sweat that trailed down his face. He watched Henry scurry against the cupboards, avoiding the creature’s sharp nails as it blindly trashed.

  The old man screamed in terror, the sound lost in Phobos’ earsplitting roar. The alley cats Peter heard as a teenager paled beyond belief to what he heard now. If one sounded like this, the whole neighborhood would have shit themselves.

  Phobos’ tail whipped about, its head trashing from side to side. Then the mutated face began to bubble. Peter couldn’t help compare the sight to tarmac on a hot day. The cat’s eyes melted away like plastic, slopping down its furry face. Fangs as thick as Peter’s middle finger hung from the creature’s open mouth, the lips slithering away to nothing.

  Gripping the rock salt, Peter considered lobbing another load, but to do so he’d have to stand and get hal
fway across the room. And right now, moving didn’t seem possible. Warm blood soaked his leg, and Peter only now realized the damage Phobos had caused by barging into him. The monster had slashed his thigh, deep. Peter sucked air through his teeth and blinked away the hot tears filling his eyes. The skin was split from knee to foot. Blood saturated his jeans.

  Henry’s insistent calling finally cut through Phobos’ wailing. “Peter! Help me!”

  The large cat bellowed and slashed out in the direction of the old man’s voice. If Henry hadn’t moved his head just then, it would no longer be connected to his neck. But instead, the creature took a chunk from cupboard door. The wood spun across the floor, coming to rest at Peter’s boot.

  “Henry,” he called. “Get into the stairwell, under the sink! Hide!”

  Henry nodded and scrambled for the cupboard door. The cat seemed in too much pain to notice.

  Good, Peter thought. We’ve got the upper hand. For now.

  Henry threw open the cupboard door scrambled inside. He pulled it shut behind him, his frightened face visible through the now missing corner.

  Phobos regained itself with a brisk shake of the head. A head that made Peter want to scream. Muscles flexed beneath stretched skin. Mewling, Phobos worked its razor-like claws into the floorboards, sinking them to the paw.

  Stand, Peter. Get up . . .

  Peter pushed himself from the floor with a gasp, his legs quivering as if he’d been electrocuted from the waist down. He cried out, working his back up the door, turning his face up as he went. His pulse beat in his neck, the bones in his legs aching. A hissing sound caught his attention, and Peter frowned.

  The salt!

  Grains spilled to the ground like an upturned egg timer. Peter balked and righted the bag. How much had he lost? Half? Maybe more?

  Phobos’ mutated nose quivered as it sniffed the air, seeking Henry.

  Peter lurched across the floor, his feet straining to uphold him. Hot liquid dripped from his leg. He managed to get three steps before the pain became too much. Steadying himself, he called out. “Hey, you ugly bastard, you want some more?”

  A purr rose from the creature’s throat as the melted face swung in Peter’s direction. Eyes, like burned plastic, had hardened to a black tar-like substance. Its tail worked back and forth, back and forth.

  “Yeah, that’s right. You want some more, you fuck?”

  Phobos took a step towards the sound of Peter’s voice.

  Good boy, he thought. That’s it. Come to me.

  Phobos paused in the center of the kitchen, positioned between Peter and Henry. Behind its bulky frame, Peter watched Henry’s drained face stare back from the hole in the cupboard. He looked to be mouthing something, his lips trembling.

  Phobos sank its nails further the floorboards, gaining purchase. Blind or not, Peter knew the cat would leap at any moment. Beside its paws lay ten dents the size of bullet holes, left by its butcher knife nails.

  Peter put a shaking finger to his lips and stared Henry in the eye. Quiet, he tried to say. The old man nodded frantically, indicating he understood.

  If you understand, then stop breathing so loud, Henry. Please. I can hear you from here . . .

  Phobos kept its mutilated face pointed in Peter’s direction, its nostrils flaring as it sniffed the air. A low, mewling noise came from deep within its throat like an engine idling.

  It’s gonna pounce . . .

  When it did, Peter only hoped he’d be quick enough to react. He licked at his lips. They’d gone dry as ash. “Come on, baby . . . You wanna go, I’ll go . . .”

  Phobos slinked down, its haunches set. Thick muscles worked beneath the skin, rippling the tight flesh. The engine-like purr grew louder.

  Peter clasped a handful of salt and braced himself. “Let’s do it. Make your move.”

  Phobos didn’t pounce. Instead, its back leg kicked out—right into Henry’s face. Peter’s eyes strained from their sockets.

  “You fucking bastard! No!”

  Phobos had been listening for Henry’s breathing, all along. Peter rushed forward and chucked salt at the creature. Phobos screamed, making Peter wince. He thought his eardrums would blow. This time, the monster didn’t smoke or sizzle.

  This time it caught fire.

  The disfigured body of Alisa fell towards the swing door, its fur a raging blaze. It missed the door, head-butting the wall, then fell through into the dining-room.

  “Henry!”

  Peter lurched towards the cupboard. A splash of blood dribbled down the white paint. Throwing open the ruined door, Peter gasped. Henry lay at the bottom of the staircase in a ragged heap.

  “Henry? Can you hear me?”

  Peter strained his ears as the old man moaned an unintelligible response. From the dining-room came a dull thump. The cat had collapsed.

  “Henry, give me a second, okay?”

  Rushing to the swing door, Peter peered into the living room, confirming his suspicion. Unlike in the movies when a supernatural entity died, the cat didn’t dissipate into nothingness with a sizzle. Instead, it burned and burned, the smell of charred flesh and singed hair filling the space. Dark smoke packed the room. The fire alarm caught whiff and began screaming.

  At least the fuck’s without a body, Peter thought.

  Getting on all fours, Peter crawled to the cellar with the bag of rock salt secured inside his jeans belt. The weight pressed his pelvis, reassuring him he could reach it if something happened. He pushed on a little more confident. The sharp smell of burned flesh and hair blossomed in the air and Peter breathed through his mouth to keep from gagging. Visible breath streamed from his lips as the house filled with smoke, his eyes stinging. He’d need to get Henry out before they suffocated. Above in the kitchen, the fire alarm continued to scream.

  “Henry? Henry, get up.”

  The old man muttered and Peter hoisted him to his feet. With a gasp, Henry reached a shaking hand to his neck, clutching at the spot. Peter craned his neck to see better in the dim light and cursed. Blood glistened, coating Henry’s neck and chest. Peter’s stomach tightened.

  “Jesus Christ, Henry, I didn’t even have time to react, I’m so sorry.”

  “Hush up.” Henry spoke from the corner of his mouth, his voice strained. “No time for that. Seeing colors here. I need to get something to stop the flow, it’s bleeding badly, isn’t it? I can’t see it but I can feel it. It is, isn’t it?”

  “Here.” Peter pulled off his shirt and handed it to Henry. Dark stains covered the garment from their struggle with Fisher, but it would have to do. Henry thanked him and took the shirt, removing his slick hand from the wound. Peter’s eyes widened as he caught his first glimpse of the gash, a cut as sharp as a surgeon’s incision, running from the right side of Henry’s Adam’s apple to just below his ear. Thin, but very deep. Beside the slice, Henry’s jugular throbbed. Phobos had missed his target by mere inches.

  “Missed the mark,” Peter said, his voice breaking. “Aimed for an artery.”

  “Lucky me.” Henry winced as he patted the wound with the shirt then held it out for inspected. A black, ink-like stain soaked through the cotton in the dim light. “Hell . . . I’m leaking something fierce, kid.” Henry pressed the shirt back to his neck. “I need a hospital, or a medical professional. But somehow I just don’t think that’s going to happen.” He sighed. “We need get out of here at the very least. Try think of some way of getting attention drawn to this place.”

  Back in the kitchen, the fire alarm continued screeching. Orange light danced to the wailing on the wall, coming from the dining room. Smoke hung low to the floor, curling around the room as it packed the place to capacity. Peter’s lungs stung and he coughed, wiping at his eyes. He looked to Henry. “We blow this fucking place sky high.” It was a statement, not a question. “How’s that for attention?”

  From the cellar door below, a muffled thump rang out. Then another.

  Henry shot a glance to the kitchen cupboard. “What w
as that?”

  “You know exactly what that is. Phobos is desperate. Come on, we need to get out, man. The smoke’s getting too bad. Move.”

  The cellar door crashed open. Peter didn’t look back. The dense black smoke forced him to squint. He grabbed a handful of Henry’s shirt and broke for the dining room, pulling the old man behind. He held his breath as his pulse throbbed inside his neck and just behind his eyeballs.

  As the kitchen door swung shut, thick clouds of toxic smoke puffed from around its frame. Peter darted through, the air agitating his eyes. He blinked fast, fighting his way to the hallway and dragging Henry behind. His shin bumped something hard.

  A chair, Peter thought. The goddamn barricade. We’re going to choke to death in here!

  Closing his eyes, Peter kept one hand on Henry and felt about with the other. His palm connected with something solid and flat. The table. Clambering on top, Peter swung his legs down the other side and fell into the hallway. He sucked fresh air before turning to help Henry over, too. The old man’s hand grabbed at thin air before clasping Peter’s wrist. Peter pulled him through. Henry fell into the hallway, coughing and gagging as Peter wheezed down what little air he could.

  He gagged, his throat tightening. “Henry, come on, outside.”

  Still clutching the filthy shirt to his neck, Henry nodded and followed.

  Please make it, Peter thought. After all this, please make it.

  The sight of the old man’s waxy face made Peter want to cry out.

  This isn’t fair . . . Why Henry?

  Peter sidestepped the shattered grandfather clock as the old man’s hand clasped his shoulder. Ahead, the black rectangle of night and freedom beckoned.

  “What is it?”

  “Just wait . . .” Henry said.

  Peter stopped just shy of the door as outside, something moved.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Someone’s out there.”

  Snow crunched as something approached from out of sight. Peter’s head reeled with confusion, his body telling him to run. With only himself and Henry left, and the town too far away for anyone to reach them, that left a body hosting Phobos. Peter stepped back, knocking into Henry.