The Dark Horde (2 page)

Tears welled in his eyes when he spotted his ‘baby’ ahead.

Panting, he ran to the door of his big orange Kingswood, fumbling for the keys in his pocket.

He had always been proud of his ‘73 Holden HQ Kingswood. He loved the way her big V8 engine gave a throaty roar when he plunged the accelerator pedal. He loved the adrenalin rush of sitting at the helm of this mighty beast, the speed and power she possessed and being her master. He took great pains to ensure that his baby was always running perfectly and hated to see her get dirty.

He flung open the car door and stumbled in. Cursing at his intoxicated state, he groped with key in hand for the ignition. His bleeding head ached as he fought to steady his aim. At last there was the satisfying grating of metal interfaces, as he stabbed the key into the keyhole. Praying for salvation, he turned the key and slammed the accelerator pedal. Tears of relief washed his cheeks as the engine stuttered into life and unleashed a rich roar of firing cylinders.

Then came the sound of galloping footsteps...

Suddenly the creature appeared. Frank watched in horror as it leapt a full ten or more metres onto the windscreen, smashing it on impact with its sharp talons. Frank’s lips parted to scream, as glass sprayed throughout the car. Then bloodstained hands like blades pierced his throat and tore it out.

Henry, crouching in the darkness of the liquor cellar, heard the Kingswood start, the sound of smashing glass and then nothing but the engine idling... He guessed the rest. An eerie chill passed over him, shaking off the vestiges of insobriety.

Now he heard the slow squeal of the trapdoor opening. The sickening anticipation of death washed over him like a choking wave. He was cold. He was scared. He was alone. But he was armed.

The beast had an acute sense of smell, enabling it to smell the raw terror in the sweat of its quarry. The smell of this human was strong, indulging its senses with delectable wafts. Hungry for the kill, it gripped the wooden handle of the trapdoor and slowly teased it open. The shrieking cry of its hinges rang out, enhancing the fear of the cornered prey. A sharp shaft of light bore its way down an inclined ladder into the dusty air of the cellar. It entered, scraping its clawed feet across each wooded step with calculated intent to terrify... Two down, one to go.

As it reached the earthen floor, it heard the strange sound of an airborne object spinning towards it. Confused, it turned and was struck in the face by a flaming bottle. Glass splinters and burning alcohol ravaged its flesh. It fell to its knees in agony.

Henry moved away so as not to be seen, already arming another makeshift Molotov cocktail, glad that he had a lighter in his pocket.

The beast wrestled the fire that had taken a hold, its mind consumed by the agony of its sizzling skin. At last the flames were stifled, but the white pain remained and with it, the beast’s hatred. Gashes from the burning impact of the bottle had been worn by its claws into strips of smoking flesh that hung from its bleeding, blackened face. The air was thick with the pungent stench of burnt hair and flesh, confounding its ‘fear smell’, but it could still see and hear. Livid with hate, it would taste this mortal’s life on its lips and feast on its torment. Thrills of desire swept through the beast, urging it to the kill.

In quick succession, another two of these fiery weapons whirled towards it. It now knew better than to face these attacks and instead it leapt aside, easily dodging the bottles. With a shriek of smashing glass, they struck the racks laden with bottles behind it and erupted in flames.

As the flames began to spread, it quickly moved to safety, its footsteps covered by the hiss and splatter of burning wet bottle-racks. It manoeuvred into the silent cellar darkness behind its target, as the other end of the cellar resounded with the crash of shattering bottles. Having found temporary refuge from the fire, it felt again the burning pain of its flesh, becoming burning hatred that would only be appeased by the sweet taste of this mortal kill.

Through the light and fumes of the fire, Henry saw that the beast had recovered, but he had anticipated this...

Another alien sound assailed the beast’s ears: gushing liquid. It realised it was the sound of large casks emptying. The potent liquid flowed across the floor, feeding the fire and carrying it throughout the cellar. Where the fire had started, entire racks were alight and rocked with explosions of glass, choking the air with dense smoke.

It detected rapid footsteps towards the ladder and acted swiftly.

Dizzy with fear and smoke, Henry dashed for the exit. Tripping onto the ladder in panic, he nearly completed his frantic ascent when the beast grabbed his ankle with such force that he heard a violent crack. He twisted on the rungs to slam his free foot into the mutilated face of the relentless demon and felt its snout crumble against his boot. Slipping on the wet floor, the creature fell backwards, but its grip remained on Henry’s ankle and he was wrenched from the ladder to the cellar floor with the beast. Together they crashed into a flaming rack in a rain of broken glass and burning wood.

Henry recovered to find himself under glowing beams searing the cotton jacket he wore. Adrenalin flooding his body, he scrambled free of the burning planks’ embrace to his feet, his ankle slipping out of the beast’s now-relaxed grip. The beast moved no more. The air stung with the fetor of burnt hair and flesh.

“Die, you fuck!” he spat at its blackened demonic visage.

Horrified, he saw its head turn to fix on him and unleash an unearthly scream to drown the fury of the surrounding flames. Henry bolted for the ladder, wincing at the shots of pain in his ankle. As he ascended the ladder once more, the scream transformed into a deafening guttural roar.

He dived into the lounge, now thick with smoke and slammed the trapdoor. As he dragged a couch over the trapdoor, the chilling sound of laughter began to emanate from below.

The floorboards of the lounge grew hot with the flames below and the thick smoke almost overpowering, but Henry stayed to pile whatever heavy items he could, onto the couch. This demon, this beast that had killed his friends, this abomination from hell, must die.

He toppled the bookcase onto the couch first, then threw on an oversized TV and was dragging over the scrabble table when the trapdoor burst open. With disbelieving dread, Henry watched the beast easily force aside the obstructions and arise from the cellar: a bleeding, burning and mutilated machine of merciless destruction.

Unstoppable.

Weary, Henry ran to the front doorway of the burning house, only to see that three more of them were advancing up the driveway, blocking his only exit...

Grinning.

Oh shit.

SUNDAY 7:42
AM

Reality staggered its way into consciousness and with it, a massive migraine. Brian groaned and rolled over to embrace Sasha, his sleeping girlfriend. Then the phone rang. He rolled away to the stand beside the bed, feeling a lurch of pain in his right temple.

He fumbled the phone and it fell beside the bed, rattling on its cord. On the other end a voice crackled, “Hello? Hello Sergeant Derwent?”

Struggling to grab the phone, Brian slipped and bashed his head against the bedside table. His headache became unbearable.

He dragged up the phone-cord and caught the receiver. “Yes, speaking. What is it?” he demanded.

The voice, whom he now recognised to be Constable Harrington, answered, “Sorry to wake you, sarge, but there’s been a situation down at the Weston farmhouse. I think you should come down and take a look.”

‘A situation’ was the vague sort of description a subordinate like Robert Harrington would use. Robert was a fresh recruit lacking any real experience. And probably trying to pass on responsibility in case shit hit the fan later on.

“What sort of situation?”

“There’s been a fire at the Weston farmhouse and we’ve discovered two fatalities.”

“Two fatalities? Is the area secure?”

“We’ve only just got here. It looks like they were murdered.”

Great. What a fucking great start to Sunday morning. A fucking murder job, which he had a clear obligation to investigate being the head of Howqua Hills Police Station. And neither the monster headache nor the monster erection he had, helped. He looked at his bedside clock and saw that it’d been a little over three hours since he’d been on duty.

“Right well, tape off the area and don’t touch anything until I get there.”

“Pity the fire crew are still all over everything. They’re still putting out spot fires.”

“Oh, that’s all we need is smokies going around fucking up evidence! As soon as they’ve declared the area safe, get them the fuck out of there.”

“We’re working on that.”

“How many officers are down there?”

“There’s four of us.”

“Okay well, isolate any witnesses and make sure no one except the smokies goes anywhere near the scene. So where is it?”

“Lot 31. Maple Creek Road. The property backs onto Oberon Grammar School grounds.”

“Right.” He sighed. “I’ll be there as quickly as I can.” He hung up.

Shit!

It was, in a word, a mess.

The Weston farmhouse was now nothing but a charred skeleton of a fire that had raged and then smouldered its way through the early morning hours.

Neighbours on adjoining properties noticed smoke rising from the farmhouse with the first rays of autumn dawn and quickly notified the Country Fire Authority who reached the scene before seven. Immediately upon arrival, they realised the greater horror – the farmhouse had been host to murder. And so whilst the fire was doused, the local Howqua Hills police were contacted and were to arrive soon after.

Sergeant Brian Derwent arrived shortly after eight in the morning, parking his 4WD patrol next to two others about a hundred metres down the driveway from the farmhouse that was flooded with water and foam. The fire crew nearby had finished their work and were packing up their equipment, whilst police were busy taping off the area. Constable Harrington came out to greet Brian.

“So what makes you think it was murder?” began Brian.

“Er... When you see the injuries on the bodies, I think you’ll agree it looks fairly obvious.”

“Have any witnesses been identified?”

“No, but no one’s come forward yet either.”

Fucking great... Why did this have to happen to me? On my turf? Pain stabbed his right temple like a knife.

“Have the CFA declared the area safe?”

“Well, they’ve put out the fire, but they’ve also advised us that the floor and what’s left of the walls aren’t safe.”

Brian saw that the farmhouse was reduced to burnt foundations with the occasional standing support beam. Piles of brick, ash and foam lay in the centre of the devastation, revealing the remnants of a cellar. He noted that the gardens surrounding the building seemed untouched by the fire, perhaps shielded by the light dusting of rain.

“Any ideas on how the fire started?”

“Not sure, but I was talking to the fire brigade OIC about it. He said that the cellar appeared to be where the seat of the fire was, but that identifying any accelerant used is virtually impossible due to the extent of the damage.”

“Right well, you can get me a detailed report from the fire brigade, including what their activities were and their opinion on the fire’s cause.” Brian rubbed his forehead. “But first, show me what you’ve found.”

Robert led Brian to an ash-covered orange Holden Kingswood nearby. Seated behind the smashed windscreen was the body of a man in his early twenties. Torn vertebrae poked forward through a gaping hole in his neck, his head hanging from his shoulders by flaps of muscle and skin. In death, his hands still gripped the wheel. Brian recognised it was Frank Weston. In a small community like Howqua Hills, roughly two-thousand, strangers outside the ski season were uncommon.

“The fucking media are going to
love
this!” said Brian. “Has the Coroner been informed yet?”

“Not yet. We were waiting until you got here and could make your assessment.”

“I see,” said Brian, thinking.

Robert pointed to the doorstep of the house. “There’s a second body without a head over there. Looks like it was torn off.”

Brian looked where Robert was pointing, at what appeared to be a blackened skeleton. Not far away, the other officers were securing the crime scene perimeter. White police tape now surrounded the remains of the house and extended around the smashed Holden.

Brian’s eyes returned to Robert. “We’ll have a close look at that body when forensics get here. In the meanwhile we’ll secure the scene and any witnesses we can get, and contact the relevant agencies.”

Brian started over towards the other officers with a display of urgency and importance. Robert followed.

Present were Sergeant Douglas McDougall, a complete arsehole you couldn’t trust not to chat-up your missus, Constable James Irving, smirking at some comment he’d just made to the others, a smug pretty-boy wanker that thought being in the force four years was a long time, and Constable Lisa Klopski, a thirty-something year-old woman with fake blonde hair, big tits and a nice arse.