"Demon of the Mires" by Jackie D. Ozorio

Keith yanked the pickup onto the side of the muddy road, breathing hard and wiping rain off his face. Angrily he slammed the leak in the roof, simply resulting in greater leakage. He looked across at McCullen, whose face was ashen and muddied. The rifle sat between them, carrying the last two cartridges they had.

‘We’ve gotta stop,’ Keith rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of a gloved hand. ‘I can’t see where I’m goin’.’

‘We ‘ave t’get t’the village, understand?’ McCullen hissed. ‘We canna stay out on the mires. We canna.’

‘Don’t ye think I bloody well know that?’

McCullen opened his mouth when the pickup creaked, rocking gently. Both men froze, heartbeats climbing into their throats. ‘Damn,’ Keith choked. ‘Damn it.’

‘Keep yer head, Keith. We killed it once, we’ll do it again.’

McCullen seized the rifle and vanished into the torrential downpour. Keith scrambled for the slippery handle and dropped to the squelching mud track. His boots sunk and he slipped as he tried to get around to the back. McCullen was standing on the tail, his rifle trained on the dark shape in the back, flashlight bathing it in an eerie, greenish light.

Keith was already soaked through. The wind howled in his ears. He couldn’t see more than a few metres in front of him. The fog was pressing all around them, lacing everything with ghosts.

The pickup carried a couple of tubs of gasoline, some rope and some tools. There was a flashlight in there somewhere, buried under the tarps.

One tarp lay stretched over a lump. They’d pinned it down with bricks and stones, but they would be damned if that would hold it down.

There was another bundle in the pickup. This one they knew wouldn’t be getting up.

‘It ain’t movin’, ‘Cullen,’ Keith said loudly, to be heard above the downpour. ‘It ain’t getting up.’

There was a heavy, wet silence as the two shivered in the freezing water, the aim of the rifle wavering with McCullen’s nerves. The only light they had was from the dim headlights of the van, and the single small flashlight McCullen gripped. The light cast horrible shadows on the pickup, showed the dull colours of the tarp. It was grey-green, but in places it was almost black. Black with spilled blood.

‘There, look,’ McCullen whispered, gesturing with his flashlight. At the edge of the tarp, half curled and still, was a hand.

‘Aye, but don’t let it fool ye, lad,’ McCullen almost spat. ‘Smooth and innocent, them hands, when they want ‘em t’be. That same hand felled young Willem.’

Keith shuddered, this time not from the chilling, biting weather. He blinked, and fell clear off the back of the truck as the hand slid back under the tarp, dirty nails dragging across the metal of the pickup.

The heavy rain muffled the boom of the rifle. The tarp rustled as the thing beneath it jerked with the impact. McCullen bared his teeth. ‘Wretch! Unholy thing! Ye’ll find yer peace soon enough!’

It lay still once more, but for how long?

McCullen turned wide, terrified eyes to Keith, who was scrambling to his feet. ‘Fog or no fog. We’ve got to get t’the village.’

Keith nodded, and took one last horrified glance at the pile. He thought he saw it stirring, but it could have been the wind.

God, if only it were the wind.

The small inn on the outskirts of town was lit with oil lamps. It was dark and close inside, but the atmosphere was comfortable, if a little dreary. The fog was up against the windows, leaving nothing but a misty grey blanket, and the rain drummed and fell through the cracks in the roof, pinging into the strategically placed buckets.

The inn wasn’t particularly full, but nor was it empty.

A group of three nestled away in a dark corner. Four sat at the bar. One loner sat hunched over a middle table, gazing down into his mug. The barmaid had a rag, but she had cleaned everything, and leaned against the counter with her own mug, talking with the four barflies.

They didn’t hear the truck approaching. When Keith McBride burst in, rivulets of water creating lakes around his feet, everyone turned to see. He was a mess – mud caked his clothing, his hair was matted, and there was blood on his hands. A nasty gash down the side of his face, its gory blackness contrasting against the frightened white of his eyes. He held a tremulous rifle in one hand.

‘Maggie-’ he gasped, nearly losing his balance. ‘It’s killed McCullen. I need help!’

Then he vanished, back into the rain, shouting incoherently, his fingers shaking around the trigger. His hand convulsed and a shot rang out, sending him collapsing in fright. He scrambled up, grabbed the edge of the pickup.

And realised his mistake.

The only real thing was the cold. It was there, the base from which everything else arose. No matter where she turned, the cold was there. On most occasions, she liked the cold.

But there was pain, this time. So much pain. It blossomed in her chest, her stomach and arm, like burning rocks wedged in her body. Her limbs shook with it, trying to cope with it. And cope it would, but there would be compensations. Some of them lethal.

She didn’t know her name.

She didn’t know anything but the pain, and the anger.

Oh, it was anger enough to cancel out the agony. Savage fury at being subject to such torture. Hatred for everything that moved.

She had swiped her deadly paw once. It was a distant memory. She remembered the feel of contact, of her claws curving to do the most damage, the smell of blood.

It was everywhere, the blood. Clouding her senses. She could see it, taste it, smell it. She could even hear it, when she lashed out against the one with the weapon, hear it spatter like all that rain against the muddy window.

More pain. Bright lights behind her eyes…

A gunshot, and her base instincts flared. The time to heal would come when she was safe. She felt herself rising, like a distant automaton. Her body knew what it had to do to make itself safe.

Annihilate the danger.

The hand curled over the edge of her pathetic prison. Her paw struck out, slicing in, hooking into the man’s wrist. She tugged with so much power, and he fell against her, screaming like a rabbit. The gun went off, but no more pain bloomed in her body.

She slithered from the truck, weak but unstoppable.

She could scent the warmth of a sanctuary, almost feel the comfort of the open fire. Danger inside.

Remove the danger, make yourself safe.

As if her agony wasn’t enough, yet more was inflicted. Sharp glass shattered over her soaked and matted fur, sliced her flesh. Another gunshot, and her leg buckled.

The pain was secondary. Survival came first.

Her leg obeyed her, even in shaking torment. Her body would obey her no matter what the damage. Obey her until it physically couldn’t. That would be the day she died.

At last she could stop. She could drag herself, bleeding profusely, amongst the glistening, blood-slicked bodies. Drag herself to the angry fire, feel the steam begin to rise from her coat, the blood begin to dry.

She recognised the need to remove the burning lead and shattered glass from herself. It was gruelling, but necessary. Her body obeyed without question, and the pain went unnoticed.

And only then could she sleep.