Thinking the chairs would make excellent firewood, he picked one up and carried it with him to the rear gate. Although noise rang out around the village, the back alley sounded relatively quiet and he undid the latch on the gate and eased it open. He looked left, then right, and judging the coast clear, he hurried out and headed towards the road.
A sudden noise at his rear caused him to spin around, holding the chair out like a lion tamer. Running all the way behind the houses, the dark alley provided numerous hiding places and he narrowed his eyes to see more clearly. His heart thundered in his chest.
Unable to see anything, he was about to continue when a Fangtooth shuffled out from a side alley. Remnants of flesh and gore hung from its mouth. Its eyes, more accustomed to the dark from its time in the black abyss, fixed upon Zander, and it opened its mouth to display the sharp teeth, a walking mantrap.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Zander said. Keeping one hand on the chair to act as a shield, he hung the bag from one of the arms, removed the bottle of bleach, unscrewed the cap and pointed it towards the Fangtooth.
When it came close enough, he sprayed the solution at the creature’s eyes, causing it to cry out in anguish. Unable to quell the pain, the Fangtooth slashed out blindly, its claws scraping across the wall at Zander’s side.
Zander felt a small sense of satisfaction seeing the creature in torment, and he cracked the chair across its head, shattering the wood and leaving him holding two wooden legs. The creature slumped to the ground, unmoving.
The white spirits had fallen out of the bag in the melee, and he dropped one of the chair legs and bent to pick the bottle up when the creature slashed out, catching him unaware. Its claw raked through his ankle and Zander jumped in surprise and fell onto his bottom. The Fangtooth raked out again, slicing through the plastic bottle in Zander’s hand and spraying the white spirits across his chest. The pungent, sweet smell of the liquid filled his nose.
Angry, Zander dropped the bottle, lifted the wooden leg and slammed the jagged end through the Fangtooth’s eye. Liquid spurted around the sides of the wood and the creature writhed in torment. Zander twisted the stake in further, relishing in the creature’s death.
Eventually the creature stopped moving and Zander sat back, panting with exhaustion. Bursts of white-hot pain radiated from his ankle and he winced. He wiped his gore and blood-covered hands on his jeans. The spilt bottle of spirits lay on the ground. Zander picked it up and staggered to his feet. He looked at the spoonful of liquid left in the bottom of the container and his spirits flagged. There was more on his clothes than in the bottle, and realizing the best idea would be to take his sweater off and use it to ignite the furniture, he tugged it over his head and stuffed it under his arm.
When he reached the end of the alley, he peeked around the corner, looked left, then right. The Fangtooth still clawed at the entrance to Doris and Albert’s house, and large splinters of wood hung off the door. A couple of other Fangtooth scuttled around by the harbour where Bruce and the others battled to keep them away. More creatures were visible in the distance, along with small groups of people who had decided to fight. A few of them had guns, the reports from which echoed through the night. Ravaged bodies lay in the street, blood running along the gutter as though a gory shower had fallen upon the village.
The smoking remains of his boat jutted up from the harbour. The sight of it filled his heart with sadness. How could he ever make recompense for what he had done? Innocent men had lost their lives through his stupidity.
“So you decided to join me.”
Zander turned at the sound of Jim’s voice to see him crouched over a creature’s carcass. He had gutted it and pulled its innards out, leaving them in a steaming pile beside the corpse.
The sight made Zander wince. “Jim, we’ve got a plan. We’re going to build a bonfire big enough to shelter around, but we need to gather anything that will burn.”
Jim barked a short, sharp laugh. “You call that a plan?” He buried his hands in the creature’s innards and held them up. “What do you think, fry them with a little oil, add a few herbs. People would love it.”
Zander couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Get a grip, you stupid old fool.”
Jim pursed his lips, wrinkled his brow and glared at Zander. “You just want it all for yourself. You’ve always been a greedy bastard.”
“Think whatever you like, but I don’t want anything. You can’t sell these things. They’ve goddamn eaten people; you really think someone would pay to buy one.”
“’Course they would. Eat or be eaten, that could be the slogan. Catchy, ain’t it?” He mouthed the words silently, as though trying them on for size.
Zander had heard enough. He checked that the coast was clear, then hobbled across the road towards the armchair. Once he reached it, he crouched down. Despite having lit the whole box of matches, the material had failed to burn and only residual smoke drifted out from a blackened patch. He wondered whether the material was flameproof.
He grabbed the sweater from under his arm and threw it onto the chair. Then he pulled the lighter out of his pocket and ignited it when Jim shouted, “Look out, Skipper.”
Zander whirled around just in time to see a Fangtooth scampering towards him. Too late to move out of the way, he stumbled onto the armchair. He landed precariously, knocking the hand with the lighter underneath his other arm. The flame touched his spirit soaked bare arm and the hairs caught light like lamp bulb coils. The sudden heat was incredible. Flames roared along Zander’s arm until reaching the T-shirt. He slapped at the flames, struggled to pull the burning item of clothing off, but it was no good. The flesh on his fingers blistered as he struggled to get a grip. He opened his mouth and screamed. The flames ignited the hair on his head, turning him into a human torch. The heat seared his eyes, and one of his eyeballs actually felt as though it popped. For a moment, he thought that he could smell his own flesh cooking in the heat.
After a moment, Zander stopped struggling and settled back in the armchair.
He looked through his one good eye; saw Jim stabbing the beast that had charged towards him. Beyond Jim he saw the villagers, people he had known all his life. People he had grown up with. People he knew would blame him for the deaths of their loved ones on board Storm Bringer. He glanced at the furniture around him. Knew that for it to catch light it needed a source of flame.
Despite the torturous heat, he felt oddly at peace. He closed his eye as best he could and gritted his teeth against the searing pain.
It would never bring his crew back, but he hoped that his sacrifice would be his salvation. That through his death, others may live.
Chapter 44
Bruce stared across the road, shocked to see Zander engulfed by flames. He considered running across to help him, but he could tell that he was too far gone, his skin already charring. Strangely Zander didn’t struggle; actually seemed to accept his fate.
He didn’t understand what an armchair and a small cabinet were doing in the road in the first place, never mind what Zander was doing with them. The flames from Zander’s body ignited the armchair, and a yellow and orange conflagration danced above the furniture. Behind the fire, Bruce could see Jim battling with a Fangtooth.
“Jesus Christ. Did you see that?” Bruce said.
Erin nodded, her face pale. “Here comes another Fangtooth,” she said, pointing her knife in the creature’s direction.
“There are too many of them,” Jack said.
Bruce gulped. He didn’t know how much longer they could hold out. He glanced at the car, contemplated running towards it, then looked back at Zander and the burning furniture.