With the dog so close to me, hampering the movement of my shoulder, I couldn’t get a good swing in. The pain made it all too easy to imagine my shoulder was being pulverized, sent rays of pain shooting down my arm, until I wasn’t even sure I’d be able to hold on to the hatchet.
One small movement, a leap of faith. To release my deathgrip on June, shift my grip up-
I punched more than I swung, driving the metal head of the hatchet into the cur’s face. Once, twice-
Something bit my ear, hard.
More claws scrabbled at my scalp.
Mice. Rats. Something in that vein. I felt pain, and the pain intensified with further contact, joined by other sensations. Blood welling.
The fear I’d felt even before I’d entered this house, that had built up as I’d written the contract, it now took on a note of panic.
These things were diseased. Filthy.
Covered in fleas. Lice. Other things.
I ‘punched’ the dog again, hard, and it released its grip. Not because it had chosen to- the axe’s tip had cracked something in its jaw. It withdrew a fraction.
This time I swung, taking advantage of the animal’s retreat, the added distance, the fact that I could reach.
Blade met flesh, and the cur died.
More animals were collecting on me. Cat’s claws pricked through my slacks, and mice scampered across me, biting at flesh where my t-shirt and dress shirt had pulled up to reveal a strip of skin above my waistline.
I used my hand to knock them away, felt pain flare where I’d torn my own flesh, forcibly separating them.
I was halfway to climbing to my feet when the one-eyed cat pounced, scratching at the back of my neck. A small weight, but the footing was absolute shit, some literal, some just trash.
I struck it with June, a backwards swing, hitting with the blunt end.
Blood hit the sliding glass door behind me and froze on contact, frost curling out from the spatter.
I used my free hand to strike the mice from my scalp, shook my head for good measure.
“No,” Dowghty said. “My dog, no. Oh no, no.”
I very deliberately avoided looking at him.
“No, no, no. He was a good boy.”
If I could get through the sliding glass door… it was cracked open.
But the footing would be worse. The movement through the snow in the backyard slow. I’d still have to get past the fenced-in area, over the fence or through a gate.
I wasn’t sure I’d be in a better position.
The animals were closer now, shoulder to shoulder.
Hm.
Scratch that. There weren’t many positions worse than this.
I reached out, ready to push on the door, where it was cracked open.
Cue enough for the animals to attack.
I kicked at the largest ones. Cats, dogs. But that did nothing against the rest. Squirrels, mice, rabbits.
Teeth like inch-long blades, more, smaller teeth, half an inch, a quarter inch long. Biting. Scratching.
I did not know that rabbits had claws.
“No, the dog, no!” Dowght cried out.
I kicked swinging the hatchet to dislodge one of the larger rabbits and scare off a cat that was getting braver.
“No! Stop, you bastard!”
I could barely stand. I was one good bite away from losing all strength in my legs. My back against the glass door, I swung the hatchet at Dowght’s hands.
I’d expected him to recoil, to draw back or protect himself. He didn’t.
The hatchet’s blade clubbed its way through flesh more than it cut, forming more depth between the middle two fingers, and frost sealed the wound. The knife dropped, forgotten, and Dowght stumbled forward, raising his hands to flail blindly at me.
Reflexive, not wanting to be touched, my mind still lingering on ideas of disease as I saw his blood, I caught his injured hand with my free hand mid-swing. I could feel how cold the wound was, beneath my fingers.
With that alone, the pain of the wound being crushed in my grip, he crumpled. Strength had gone out of him.
The larger animals attacked him.
Biting the hand that feeds.
I batted away the smaller ones, shoved at the sliding door.
Accumulated snow and ice made it simply tilt to one side, the top moving while the bottom remained in place, rather than slide.
The door made a crunching sound as it settled back in its previous position.
With the noise, every animal looked up at me, going still. Some had their mouths on or teeth in Dowght, muzzles bloodied, as their focus moved to me. Whole clusters of them were on or immediately behind the table. The light from the window made their eyes seem brighter than they were.
Dowght, for his part, wasn’t even fighting in self defense.
I was panting, and each beat of my heart was soon followed by a throb of pain from the various cuts and bites across my body. The mauled shoulder was a different kind of pain. Not throbbing, not stabbing, but a dull, grating sensation, like something wasn’t working on a mechanical level. Shifting my posture made something mechanical go very wrong, and I was nearly blinded by the pain that followed.
Two or three dozen animals still staring up at me.
Angry, frustrated, scared, I dug into a deeper, animal part of myself.
I bellowed at them, arms spread, weapon in hand, looking big. As intimidating as I could manage.
They dogpiled me. All attacking, all at once.
I swung the hatchet, three, four times, hitting multiple animals with each swing. Their mass making every action harder, more tiring.
Animals I hit and injured recovered and rejoined the swarm.
One swing clipped a little too close to my leg, and I felt my shin freeze.
The animal smell, the weight of them, the lack of any personal space, to the point that I could scarcely breathe without risking that a mouse would find its way into my mouth, it all built up to one moment, the connections forming.
Not good connections, not a good moment. Only the sort of moment that made me turn down an offer like Alexis’. Like the moments where I turned down an offer for a hug from Joel, who I trusted as much as I trusted anyone.
I dug deeper, for something more primal, drawing from reserves I shouldn’t. Blind, furious swings. I threw them off, kicked, struggled, wasted far too much energy shaking off animals that weren’t even there.
In the midst of it, they backed off.
I didn’t stop. I fought to get rid of the littlest things that swarmed me, first, then swung the hatchet at the glass door, blunt back end first.
It bounced off.
Again.
“Fuck!” I swore, as if the heat and the ferocity of the utterance could somehow empower the hatchet to shatter the thick glass.
Why couldn’t glass break like it did in the movies?
A smaller dog was drawing closer, ready to take advantage of the distraction. I swung at it, knowing I’d miss. It backed away a step.
I panted, but I couldn’t breathe. The air was so filthy, it was like there was no oxygen left. My head swam, and I felt like I might throw up, from mingled revulsion, panic, and exhaustion.
So few of the animals were truly dead. I’d injured a great many, but their bloodthirst was apparently overpowering it.
I backed up until I stood in a corner, a large cabinet to my left, hatchet held out and ready.
I was shaking like Dowght had, holding the axe much like he had his knife. Except my left hand was injured, a scratch along the back that had only been interrupted by the locket. I couldn’t close the hand with enough force to hold onto the weapon. Instead, I used it to hold the weapon steady.