The Collector Book One: Mana Leak (28 page)

The thought sent gooseflesh prickling up his arms.

With a shaky hand, he drew back the deadbolts of the door. He transferred the knife to his free hand and tucked it into the back of his borrowed jeans. The metal was cold against his right buttock. Gripping the brush in his left hand, he turned the key and carefully swung the door open.

The air outside, surprisingly cold, swept away the smell of coffee from around the Harpers’ back door. Joe enjoyed a long, refreshing breath before poking his head around the side. Too many dark places kept Joe’s nerves on edge. The shed seemed a fair distance away, lurking underneath the canopy of the tree.

Joe listened, but the garden was silent.

Satisfied he remained alone, he took a tentative step outside. He grabbed the brush with both hands, ready to take a swing at anything that moved.

He left the door open behind him. The thought of things creeping inside worried him, but the idea of retreating and finding the back door closed was worse.

Better to take it slow
, he thought,
slow and quiet. Nothing can sneak in if I’m on my guard.

He crept deeper into the garden. The grass of the lawn was springy beneath his trainers, silencing each step.

He squinted, searching out a clear path to the shed. He saw no obstacles so pressed on, the brush held out before him.

Joe arrived at the shed without incident and rested the brush against his shoulder. He reached for the handle. The hairs on the back of his hand quivered the moment he touched the metal. Startled, he fought the urge to dash back. He closed his eyes and after a long breath in through his nose, tried to relax his quickened heartbeat.

It’s just a little static
, his mind shouted in a bid to overcome the body’s instinct.
Deal with it.

Gritting his teeth, he tugged the door open a few inches and peeked inside.

The faint lunar glow neglected the gloom inside.

Joe considered fleeing once again. The shed was pitch-black and smelled like rotten meat.

He gazed back to the house. The bathroom light was on, and a blurry shadow moved behind the distorted glass. Probably Jenny, still trying to scrub the remains of her son from her skin.

Poor woman
, thought Joe,
imagine having to do that…

But then Anne could be in there, or one of the kids, even Grandma.

And The Collector and his freak show could be in there at any time
, he thought, trying to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat.

He snaked his hand through the open door, his fingers feeling the wood around the inside.

“Please…” he whispered, concentrating on feeling for the light switch he hoped lay there. Some sheds had lights, others didn’t. He prayed Frank demanded such a luxury.

Joe gasped with relief, fingers sliding over a cool, plastic square with the bump of a switch at the centre. Gripping the brush hard, his torn hand burning in complaint, he flicked the switch.

He stood and listened at the door for a moment, whipping his hand back out. Satisfied nothing moved inside, he pulled the door open all the way, surveying the carnage within.

The smell of rancid meat didn’t do it justice.

He remembered seeing a photograph of a suicide bomber in a magazine, and the shed brought back that image with stark reality. Blood, buckets of it, had formed a puddle that reached the walls, also splashed with dark crimson. Flecks of blood covered the ceiling and light bulb, showing the height of the spurts as the dog was attacked. Scraps of fur and the odd bone lay in the pool.

Jesus
, thought Joe,
what could have the power to do so much damage?

The memory of Montgomery and its dozens of mouths sprang to mind. Joe shivered.

Raising a hand to his nose to block out the heavy stench, Joe scanned the shed for a tool box.

Gardening tools hung from hooks on the walls: a spade, rake, pair of shears and a few more that Joe recognised.

He kicked some paint cans—their colours hidden, now all red—aside. Something swollen and purple lay on the floor, veins criss-crossed on its surface. Joe retched and covered his mouth, quickly looking away.

He stepped further inside.

Joe searched, shifting things out of his way, heading deeper and deeper towards the back. Repulsed by the blood, he picked things up by the corner, using the tips of his thumb and forefinger. He reached the back wall of the shed. No tool box.

He cursed himself for making such a foolish mistake, placing himself in danger over asking Frank a simple question.

Don’t be stupid twice. Get back to the house before you attract attention.

He turned around.

On the floor, just inside the door sat a metal box with a thick, rusted handle.

“You idiot,” Joe hissed and precariously crept back to the door. He crouched and flicked open the catch on the box. Its lid lifted with a squeak of hinges.

The light from the bulb glinted on the shiny metal of screwdrivers and spanners of various sizes. A large hammer lay at the bottom, beside a clear plastic box containing an assortment of screws and nails.

“Jackpot,” Joe whispered, closing the box and lifting it by the handle.

He left the light on, reluctant to return to the darkness that had greeted him, and fled to the house.

2.

Frank glared up from his cup of coffee as the back door swung open. Joe walked in, clutching a brush in one hand and the toolbox in the other.

“Why the hell did you shut the door? You nearly gave me a heart attack,” Joe moaned, propping the brush against the wall and pulling the knife from the back of his jeans. He dropped it on the drainer. It clattered on the metal surface.

Frank blew a wisp of steam from above his mug and sipped the hot drink.

“You left it open,” he said. “Anything could have walked in. Lucky I came down when I did, I mean, if you’re going to be sloppy-”

Joe cut him off by dropping the toolbox onto the table with a loud bang.

“I wasn’t risking being left out there, and don’t accuse me of being sloppy. I was keeping an eye on the door at all times.”

“Bullshit,” snorted Frank, placing his mug down. “You didn’t come running when I closed it!”

Joe turned away, slid the deadbolts on the door closed and turned the key protruding from the lock.

“What did you get this for?” asked Frank, tapping a thin finger on the lid of the toolbox. It made a hollow metallic ring with each strike.

“Well, I can’t fix the window with my bare hands now, can I?” snarled Joe, turning to face him.

“Who said anything about you fixing the window?”

“Well, upstairs…”

“It’s
my
window,
I’ll
fix it,” said Frank, picking up his mug and tipping back the remnants of his coffee. With a satisfied smile, he returned the mug to the table top, then grabbed the handle of the toolbox. He slid it towards him. Releasing the cold metal, Frank looked down and grimacing, wiped the flecks of Betsy’s blood from his hand onto his shirt.

“I said earlier that I’d do it,” argued Joe. “I risked my arse going outside to get this. Just leave me alone to get on with it.”

He reached out and took the box himself, sliding it back across the table.

“Just remember whose house you’re in, you ungrateful-”

The kitchen door opened and Anne staggered inside.

“Anne?” said Joe. “Are you okay? Should you really be walking about?”

Anne closed her eyes and waved a dismissive hand in his direction.

“I’m fine…really.”

Frank slid the toolbox back.

“You feeling better, hon?” he asked, grasping the handle tightly should Joe make another attempt to seize it.

“Seriously, I’m okay. Just a little groggy still. Feels like my hen night all over again.”

With her head hanging low, eyelids lulling, she slowly made her way around the table towards the sink.

“My head hurts.” She yawned. “Some aspirin should shift it.”

“You…er…you need any help there, Anne?”

“It’s okay, Joe,” she smiled warily, “don’t worry yourself.”

“Yeah,” said Frank, opening the toolbox and rummaging inside. “She’s a tough one. Always wants to do everything herself, that’s my Anne.” He lifted the hammer and laid it on the table. “Where are the kids?”

“We moved them into Charlie’s room. They’re staying in bed.”

“Well, what are you doing down here? You should be up there with them!”

“Calm down, Frank,” she sighed. “Jenny’s there. I think it’s all sinking in, and she’s having trouble coping.”

“Surprise me,” Frank mumbled, lining up three inch nails alongside the hammer.

“Jake and your grandmother,” she nodded to Joe, “are taking the mattress from Bronwyn’s room and putting it on the floor for Jenny to have a lie down. He’s doing the moving while Eleanor gets some blankets and things.”

“Good,” said Frank, “means I can board up the window while the room’s empty. How’s Charlie? Any better?”

“He went to sleep as soon as we got him out of the room. Bronwyn’s getting drowsy too. Adrenaline must’ve burned them both out. They…they…”

Anne pressed her hand to her head and toppled forwards.

Joe stepped forwards with his arms out, ready to catch her.

She regained her balance and leaned against the sink.

“It’s okay,” she said, “just went a little dizzy.”

Joe lowered his arms.

Frank glared at him from over the toolbox.

“So have we decided what we’re going to do?” asked Anne, selecting a tumbler from the drainer and filling it with water from the tap. “We can’t just sit around waiting, but I don’t think going out for help is such a great idea either. I just don’t know what to do.”

“We can’t do anything for now,” said Joe. “All I can suggest is that we batten down the hatches, get through the night. We’ll have a better understanding of what’s out there by daylight.” He turned to Frank. “Have you got any more tools inside the house? At least another hammer?”

“Why? I’ve got this one and that’s all I need to board up a single window.”

“That’s the problem. We need to board up
all
the windows. We need to secure the house.”

“The house is secure!” forced Frank.

“That thing could burst through any of the other windows at any time, and I don’t want to be standing there when it does. And those spider creatures, those things he calls Prowlers, there are probably hundreds of ways they could crawl inside. We need to get our heads together and work out every possible entrance. Pipes, ventilation, the attic, whatever else.”

“You might have noticed that this is my house,” said Frank with a smug grin. “Leaving out the fact you want to demolish my family’s home and convert it into some kind of fortress, where are you planning on getting all this wood from? I don’t conveniently have a timber yard out back, just an apple tree. If you’re intending on going outside to scavenge, then you’re on your own.”

“Doors,” said Joe quickly. “The interior doors seem strong enough and will do for the windows. And that table. If we find ourselves running out…”

“This table,” said Frank, banging his fist on the surface, “is five hundred pounds worth of finest dark pine, made by master craftsmen in Scandinavia. It’s going nowhere.”

“I don’t care if it was carved by Jesus from the bow of the Ark,” said Joe. “If it helps keep us alive, we’ll use it!”

“How dare you,” shouted Frank, standing. “Why don’t you go back to your grandmother’s house and get some of her damned hippy carvings to use, eh? Or maybe your car? I’m sure if you rip off the front bumper, it would make a handy barricade.”

Anne stepped in between the two men.

“I think he’s right, Frank. No one can leave the house. Joe took a big risk just going out to the shed. We can use anything that comes to hand here, they’re only possessions, they can be replaced.”

“Taking his side, I see,” Frank hissed.

“I’m not taking anyone’s side. There are no sides to take! We’re all in this together and we need to keep safe until morning. We couldn’t stop that thing before and if it gets in again…”

“Are you arguing with me?”

She blinked and stepped back, away from him. “What?”

“I asked you a simple question. I know you heard me.”

Anne lowered her eyes.

“I’m not arguing, Frank. It’s just that under the circumstances, I think the best course of action would be…”

Frank grabbed her hand before she had chance to move. His fingers squeezed tight.

“I think we should discuss this in private,” said Frank. His cheeks burned, and his rugged breathing flared his nostrils. “Come on.”

He gave her a firm pull, almost tugging her off her feet. She toppled forwards. Joe leapt in and held her around the waist.

“Frank,” she cried. “I don’t want to! Let me go.”

“You’ll do as you’re told!”

“There’s no need for this,” shouted Joe from over Anne’s shoulder. “If she doesn’t want to go, she doesn’t have to.”

“Stay out of this, McGuire!”

Anne pulled her sweaty hand free of Frank’s grip and fell back into Joe’s arms.

“You need to learn when to keep your nose out, McGuire,” Frank snarled. His stare moved to the table, onto the hammer still lying beside the row of nails. He licked his lips. “No respect, no one has any respect…”

He reached towards the heavy tool.

“Frank,” gasped Anne. “What are you doing?”

He stopped at the sound of approaching, rapid footsteps.

Jake burst in, out of breath. His feet skidded on the shiny linoleum as he brought himself to a sudden halt.

“Outside,” he panted. “Quickly…something…outside…”

He turned and fled back out of the room.

“What now?” moaned Frank, snatching up the hammer from the table and storming out.

Joe relaxed his arms from around Anne’s waist and, happy that she was steady enough, inched away from her.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “I’m sorry about that. He has trouble controlling his temper, as you’ve probably guessed.”