The Mariner

So far, illumination had been supplied by the open door at the top of the stairs. Now, however, they saw light spilling out from underneath the portal they approached. Was he here? Would they be saved the trouble of luring him after all?

Schiff put his head to the door and inched it open to gaze inside.

A woman he vaguely recognised was inside, illuminated by a small lamp. At first he thought her an effeminate male for no hair grew upon her head, but the sight of scars covering her scalp and body gave the truth. She was one of Tetrazzini’s patients. Perhaps they were all in cahoots together?

She stood with a book open in her hands as if about to read aloud to an audience, but then with hasty movement tore the pages out. Once removed, each were scrunched up and thrown into a far corner. Schiff watched curiously whilst the others tugged and pulled at his coat, eager to observe for themselves,

With the book stripped, the woman knelt to retrieve a plastic bottle and as she poured the contents over the torn pages her motive became clear. She was going to set a fire. She aimed to do exactly as they did! The smell of paraffin hit his nose, forcing him to recoil. Perhaps they should get moving? There was a hunger in this woman’s eyes he did not like. Not one bit.

And suddenly a sound took him back beyond the Shattering, before this life of grime. Like the savoury smell of cinema popcorn or the soundtrack to a virginity painfully lost, his mind was transported to an earlier time by the soft patter of paws. They were not the paws of a large dog, certainly not the German shepherds that he’d most commonly trained. No, these were the tread of a smaller beast, a young springer spaniel or terrier.

Schiff smiled at the sound, a feeling of nobility swelling within. He remembered how happy the animals had been when given a treat, how proud he’d felt in return with each completed task. When news reached his ears that one of his pets had unearthed a set of dangerous explosives, he’d felt a part of a wide and honourable plan.

So strange that now, sometime later, everything he did felt grubby. The nostalgic smile faltered. What would those brown eyes say now?

Jeb began to scream. It was a brief emphatic yowl of surprise, cut short into harsh gurgles, but in the confines of the tight hallway it was all that was needed. Schiff bolted forward, pushing the door open, instinct driving him forward.

The bald woman jumped in surprise and bobbed her head, choking on something midway through swallowing. She closed her eyes into slits until the airway was forced clear, then let out a long-overdue scream of her own. But it was not the dishevelled Schiff, gruff and untoward, that held her gaze, but the dark aperture from where he’d come.

Unable to follow, his two companions remained in the shadows. Jeb had screamed, but his brother hadn’t had the chance. Small furry bodies scrabbled over each of them, biting and snapping, tearing flesh in large chunks. His brother lay motionless on the floor, but Jeb still fought back, albeit without a throat. One of the dogs had torn it out. An apron of blood coated his shirt, a grizzly sandwich-board advertising the passing of his life.

“What are they?” the bald woman cried, reaching for her lamp as if it were a weapon she might use to ward off the beasts.

“Dogs,” said Schiff as he pressed his back against the far wall. “My dogs have come for me!” He watched with growing despair as his gang-mate fell to the ground, a beast clinging to his back, gorging itself on his flesh.

The pyromaniac pushed closer to him. At first he thought she sought comfort and gladly welcomed the touch, but as she threw her lamp onto the pile of papers he realised too late that she was distancing herself from the bonfire she’d prepared.

The inferno erupted as the glass case shattered, fire meeting fuel.

“You stupid fucking bitch!” he screamed, scrabbling away, eyes flicking between the demons and the flames. As yet, the dogs were enthralled by their recent kills; that could theoretically last, but to escape the fire he would have to dash past them, risking their hungry consideration.

“Ohfuckohfuckohfuck!” he repeated under his breath. Already his eyes were beginning to sting. One of the devils looked up at him, its own beady black pearls seeming to glow in the firelight. It held him in its gaze whilst chewing on a stringy clump of Jeb’s muscle.

You’re not one of the good guys now, the eyes seemed to say. Far from it my old friend. Far from it.

Meeting the monster’s gaze weakened Schiff further and he closed his lids to blot out the horror. “I’m sorrysorrysorrySORRY!”

This was it: Hell. When the world had fallen apart and he’d found himself shipwrecked on this god-awful settlement he’d thought he’d found it. But McConnell was right: Sighisoara was not Hell. Hell was hot.