Ferine Apocalypse (Novella): 4 Hours by John F. Leonard Read Free Book Online Page B

mess.
    Bonnet scrunched and dented as if a meteor had landed on it.
    In some ways, that wasn’t too far from the truth, Pearcey thought. The windscreen was cracked. The front left wing had crumpled into a pillar box when he lost control of the wheel.
    The post box was one of the big old heavy ones.
    Oval with two posting slots for mail.
    Cast iron.
    Built to last.
    Certainly build to last longer than the Jag.
    A brick shit house in bright red metal.
    It was canted to one side slightly but, on the whole, Pearcey thought it had come out on top. Especially when he glanced back at the smoking bonnet of the car.
    Whatever his thoughts on old manufacturing methods and modern technology, they weren’t going anywhere in that car.
    Not now and, he suspected, not any time soon.
    If ever.
    Gallagher leaned back into the wrecked vehicle and retrieved his trusty steel bar. He’d gaffer taped one end into an improved grip. He held that in his right hand as his left swiped blood from his face.
    <><><>
    The thing was running.
    Coming fast.
    As it got nearer, Pearcey could hear it growling.
    The noise drifted towards him, insidious and chilling. An insane, inhuman sound that set his nerves on edge. Sent a shot of unadulterated fear down his spine.
    Behind the first creature, he saw another appear.
    The sound of the crash must be bringing them. That was the only thing that made sense. And if that was true, he and Gallagher didn’t have long.
    Who knew how many were heading their way. He weighed his options in those last seconds before the first mutant got to him.
    Made his decision and went with it.
    <><><>
    Pearcey’s knife flashed at the last moment. Caught a ray of the dying sun, sharp and beautiful, as it blurred through the air.
    He drove the blade up under its chin and into its brain.
    Managed to avoid its drooling teeth, but was still bowled over by its momentum. Felt his arm punctured by its talon and his back slammed into hard concrete.
    Ignored the injuries.
    Minor discomfort.
    Rolled clear of the repulsive thing as it thrashed and mewled on the ground.
    “You ugly fucker.”
    Breathed the words and dropped his weight onto it. Pinned its dreadful arms and grasped the handle of the knife in both hands.
    Waggled it, drove it deeper still. Up to the hilt so that syrupy blood spilled over his knuckles.
    Looked up to see the other one had moved uncannily fast. Closed the distance between them and was about to spring at him.
    Saw Gallagher spring first.
    Swinging the steel bar like the last batsman on earth.
    Pearcey could almost feel the vibrations in his own arms as it impacted with the thing’s skull. Splitting it, spraying more blood into the air.
    The blood black in the near dusk light.
    A sickening crunch.
    As the bar did its work.
    Gallagher was short but built like the pillar box.
    Broad shoulders and thick chest sitting on a low centre of gravity that gave him awesome strength. He didn’t know if the man was trained but, once or twice, it had crossed Pearcey’s mind that he wouldn’t want to get into a fight with Sonny Gallagher.
    And if he did, he’d perhaps want to be the one with the crow bar in his hands.
     
    “Come on Sonny, we have to go now, before any more of them pop up. If we get caught out in the open by a bunch of them, we don’t have a cat in hell’s chance.”
    Gallagher simply nodded.
    Pearcey scanned the street.
    There were cars.
    It was possible they might find keys, or that he’d be able to start one. But that would take time, and he didn’t think they had much of that.
    He motioned Gallagher and started off down the street.
    He wanted a store, a shop. Somewhere to hunker down and regroup. Get his thoughts in order and figure out a plan of action.
    He smiled.
    A plan?
    What a fucking joke.
    You couldn’t plan this shit.
    At the best of times, plans were a rough guide. When it got this surreal, plans were a fantasy.
    He still wanted one. Some vestige of organisation amidst all of the