Bruce waited for his eyes to adjust, then he said, “Everyone, help me stack tables against the windows.” He turned to Graham. “We need something heavy. Something to brace the tables with.”
Graham stroked his jaw. “The cellar’s full of barrels. Will that do?”
Bruce nodded.
“I’ll need a hand,” Graham said.
Bruce ran forwards. “I’ll come with you.”
Zander waved an arm. “Brad, Jim, help me with these tables.” The grease covered man seated at the bar jumped to his feet and ran across the room.
“Brad,” Zander said as the man reached his side, “grab that end.”
The man with the beard stood up. “The sooner we get back to fishing and make some money instead of messing about, the better,” he mumbled.
Bruce motioned towards Jack. “You and the others see if there’s anything we can use as weapons. We’ve got to hold out until someone comes to help us.”
“Try in the kitchen back there,” Graham said. “You’ll find some carving knives and the like.” He pointed towards a door to the left of the bar.
As Erin walked by, Bruce took hold of her gently by the arm. “Look after him for me. He’s all I’ve got left.”
She nodded. “He’s not the only one you’ve got, though.” She smiled, then she followed Jack and the other teenagers through the door.
Chapter 38
Bruce peered down the steps into the cellar. Something niggled at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t recall what.
He watched Graham descend, his body almost filling the narrow staircase. A single lamp glowed at the top of the stairs, and further light filtered up from below, throwing a corona around the proprietor. Bruce inhaled. The air smelled of a combination of mould and stale beer.
“You’ve barricaded my bar, lost me customers, the least you can do is help,” Graham called up the stairs when he realised Bruce hadn’t accompanied him.
“Don’t blow a gasket, I’m coming,” Bruce said.
Cracks ran through the walls of the white painted stairway, gashes large enough for Bruce to insert his hand inside.
The concrete steps seemed well maintained, and he jogged down to find himself in a large room full of alcoves stacked with crates, barrels and boxes. Pipes connected to the beer pumps upstairs snaked through the ceiling. The smell of stale beer seemed a lot stronger in the basement. He judged the room to be as wide as the bar upstairs, at least twenty feet, but it seemed a lot longer, although he couldn’t tell how long because the further reaches of the room basked in darkness.
The cold permeated Bruce’s bones. He shivered.
“Didn’t you think to put bulbs all the way through?” he asked.
Graham glanced at him. “No point. Everything we need is here at this end. Back there only gets used on the days when I have the barrels delivered, and then it’s daylight. Do you know how much it costs to run a bar? Every little bit helps.”
That’s when Bruce remembered seeing the barrels delivered a few days ago; remembered the hole in the pavement, an access to the bar.
He peered into the dark reaches, trying to decipher the strange shadows that lurked just out of the light.
“Graham,” he whispered.
Having squatted down to lift a barrel, the landlord looked up. “What?”
Bruce wished he wouldn’t speak so loud. “How many other entrances are there to the bar?”
“There’s the front door, the back door, a side door in the kitchen and the trapdoor over there in the corner.”
Bruce could see the cogs turning in Graham’s mind, his eye narrowed, mouth pursed as another revelation threatened to blow his mind.
“You think maybe—”
Something clattered in the shadows, cutting Graham off mid-sentence. He stood up with a start. “Shit,” he said, “You don’t think…”
Bruce didn’t know what to think. His chest constricted, felt as though someone had dropped a lump of lead between his ribs. He felt a knot tighten in his stomach, his intestines tied in a tight loop. Goose bumps raced down his arms and his fingers tingled.
He took a step back, eyes trained on the darkness.
Another clatter. This time closer. His cheeks prickled in response. He caught sight of movement. A cry caught in his throat. Something ran out of the shadows. Ran towards him. Something black, travelling close to the ground.
“Oscar,” Graham said. The black cat ran to Graham’s side and rubbed itself against his leg. Graham crouched down and stroked the cat behind the ear. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.” He looked up at Bruce. “Best damn mouser I ever had. Found him as a stray.”
Bruce exhaled slowly. His pulse still raced.
A sudden scream echoed down the stairs. Bruce jumped. The cat arched its back, hackles raised. It hissed loudly, sharp teeth bared, reminding Bruce of a miniature Fangtooth. He turned towards the door, couldn’t work out whether the scream was male or female.
Temples throbbing, he ran through the door and bounded up the steps, taking them two at a time in his haste.
The bar’s kitchen wasn’t large, but it looked clean and tidy. Erin gazed around the room, looking for anything to use as a weapon, something long and very sharp if they wanted to stand any chance of defending themselves.
A range ran along the back wall, above which a stainless steel extractor threw a warped reflection of the room. A worktable ran down the middle of the kitchen, laden with pots, pans, spices and utensils, none of which were suitable as a weapon. A rack to the left of the range held a row of knurled metal handled knives. She walked across and withdrew them, putting aside the paring knife, vegetable knife and bread knife to take a meat cleaver, a 20cm long bladed cook’s knife, a carving fork, a filleting knife and a large knife with a fluted blade.
“Jack, take this,” she said, handing him the meat cleaver. “Rocky, you have this.” She handed him the filleting knife, then passed Sara the carving fork and Jen the 20cm long bladed cook’s knife. She kept the blade with the fluted edge for herself. “Right, let’s see what else we can find.”
Duncan stood in the doorway. He still had the hook with the wooden handle; he stared at Erin, his face pinched, lips sucked in to create a thin gash where his mouth should be.
“You know this is pointless,” he said.
“If you’ve got nothing constructive to say, button it,” she replied, jabbing the air with the knife to punctuate her words.
“Yeah,” Rocky barked. “Or I’ll button it for ya.” He clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowed into slits.
Erin heard something moving outside, something that clicked across the ground at a fast pace. Next minute, the side door burst open and a Fangtooth scurried inside. It twisted its head left and right as though selecting its prey. Then it opened its mouth.
Sara screamed, almost deafening Erin at her side.
Erin held the knife out, the fluted blade wavering within her grasp. She thought of Kevin, remembered his body bitten in half. The memory made her nauseous. It also made her angry.
Another Fangtooth appeared in the doorway. She saw that to enable them to move quickly, the creatures ran on all fours, but when they moved in to attack, they raised themselves on two legs, which is what the lead Fangtooth did now.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed Jack usher the other teenagers towards the corner of the room where they had more protection. Erin meanwhile stood before the range, while the Fangtooth approached along either side of the worktable. She saw Duncan standing behind the door, a look of awe on his face.
Her mouth felt dry, tongue glued to her palate. Compared to the many teeth and claws at the Fangtooth’s disposal, her knife seemed ineffectual. She needed something better, and although she wouldn’t know how to use them, she wished for a shotgun, a machine gun, or a bazooka. Soldiers charging headlong through the door would also be a heartening sight. But she didn’t have any of those, only a knife and her wits.