During previous visits Singer had not been so quiet; he had whistled a few low notes, so alerting Garth to his presence. On this occasion, however, the first the youth knew of it was when the man’s heavy hand fell on his shoulder as Singer got down on one knee beside him. And:
“Aha!” the bully grunted. “You might well start, ’prentice! But if you think I’m quiet, what of the fly-by-nights, eh? Why, they can come upon you out of the night like so many ghosts! So you need to be aware of what’s behind you as well as in front.”
And despite that oaths and cursing were not in Garth’s nature, “God damn!” he said, as he shrugged Singer’s hand from his shoulder. “Too true, I started! But I might just as easily have jerked off a shot! And at this hour—”
“—You’d look a right fool, waking everyone up in the dead of night, eh?” Singer chuckled unpleasantly…but was serious again in a moment. “Except for a fact I didn’t think I was that quiet! What, you didn’t hear my whistle?”
“I heard no whistle,” said Garth, knowing there had been no such warning. “I heard nothing, not this time.”
“Oh really?” said the other, as he got to his feet. “Now, I know you’re not deaf. So…a bit tired maybe? Not getting too much sleep just recently? Other things occupying your mind, eh? Too much to think about, er, down there under the covers, as it were? Too much to do? Need someone to give you a hand, maybe?”
Singer’s meaning was perfectly obvious and Garth’s reaction to it was exactly as the bully had suspected and hoped it might be. Resting his rifle in its niche on top of the makeshift wall and rising awkwardly from his uncomfortable position as fluidly as his cramped limbs would allow, Garth turned on the older man with his fists swinging. But of course Singer was ready for him. Swaying easily aside from Garth’s attack, he drove the hardwood butt of his heavy weapon into the youth’s stomach, and as Garth doubled over brought it up under his chin.
That last was a glancing blow that only scraped the side of Garth’s cheek in front of his left ear and sent him off-balance; but as he tripped, toppling sideways among scattered rubble and debris, Singer advanced to stand over him, the butt of his ugly gun poised to fall upon his face—which didn’t happen!
For in that precise moment as Garth came down on the broken bricks, so there sounded near-distant cries that carried on the still night air…and a split-second later shrill whistles…and finally gunshots, a great many of them!
Torn three ways—between revenge, duty, and personal survival—Singer stood like that, with his gun poised like a great hammer, before muttering: “Damn it to every hell!” And as Garth gathered his wits the bully turned away, a black blot of a silhouette that glanced back just once before disappearing into the greater darkness.
Dazed and furious, stumbling awkwardly to his feet, Garth’s initial thought was to go after his tormentor and pay him back. But the stutter of automatic gunfire was almost continuous, and in addition to the sharp crackle of single shots and the shrill whistle blasts that issued an increasingly frantic alarm, there now came the nerve-rending sound of human voices, some of which screamed!
Garth’s hair stood on end! Layla was back there, in the car park, not fifty yards away! She would be awake by now, huddling in their scant bedclothes, desperately afraid—for herself but also for Garth—and here he stood gazing out at nothing, listening to the gunfire, hoarse battle-cries and screams of men in dire straits!
What to do?
Like Ned Singer—but also unlike him, for Garth’s thoughts were least of all for his own safety—he was tempted to hurry off, run back to Layla. But no, for the attack could be on several fronts. It certainly sounded that way: a battle whose like Garth had never before experienced; an uproar of terror and confusion! And of course there was only one thing he could do: his duty to the clan. Why, just beyond his arc of vision, the night could even now be seething! And so, having turned from his position for just two or three seconds, he now turned back—
—Barely in time!
For as in Singer’s prophesy however inadvertent, they were coming, like so many gaunt ghosts floating out of the darkness. Four of them in fact, a quartet of fly-by-nights, their eyes as luminous as burning sulphur. And they were coming fast, surging through—or over, as it seemed to Garth—an ankle-deep ground mist which like themselves had sprung up as if from nowhere!
This time the safety catch on Garth’s weapon was in the off position, and despite that he was still a little dazed he aimed at the closest of the monsters and squeezed off a hurried shot. He was lucky; one flaring eye was snuffed as half of the creature’s head flew away like so much vile froth. The undead horror at once stumbled to a halt, threw up its arms and crumpled down into the mist and rubble.
The others were much closer now, far too close, and Garth’s mouth was dry as dust as he saw them separating, making targeting more difficult. Again he took aim, this time at the central apparition for that was how they appeared—like insubstantial revenants, wisp-like—despite that they were real and at least partially solid! But for all Garth’s terror he concentrated and stilled the trembling of his hand and trigger finger to squeeze off a second, far more measured shot.
Ah, but the fly-by-nights knew that he was here now and had begun to weave from side to side, shifting like blown smoke and rapidly closing the distance between themselves and their intended victim! Garth’s shot had struck its target in the shoulder, by no means a fatal injury. The creature’s shoulder slumped and its arm fell to its side, dangling there; but its other arm and incredibly long hand remained stretched out in front as before, with talon fingers crooked and grasping. And its face…!
But Garth mustn’t so much as look at its face…except to frame it in his rifle’s sights before pulling the trigger. This time he was dead on target, and the fly-by-night uttered a thin mewling sigh or cry—as if it knew that this was the end—in the instant before its face flew apart.
Garth’s yell, of triumph and horror combined, was a sandpapered rasp as he tried to lift his weapon from its niche in the brick barrier. But to his amazement, his disbelief, he no longer had the strength! Fear had not unmanned him, but it had drained him!
And the two remaining fly-by-nights were upon him, rags of clothing and long hair fluttering, eyes blazing, and salivating jaws chomping vacuously where the monsters flowed over his makeshift barrier almost as if they sailed upon the writhing ground mist! The closest of the things was directly in front of Garth, its breath foul in his face, its hands clutching broken masonry to find a measure of purchase and launch itself at him. He need only unfreeze, wake up from this hypnotic-seeming nightmare and squeeze his trigger…which he did, with scarcely a second to spare. And shooting the fly-by-night in its skinny neck he blew its head off!
But out the corner of his eye Garth saw the final member of the quartet in midair, shrilling in maniacal rage as it flew at him like the vengeful—or simply crazed?—wraith that it was. And the barrel of his rifle was trapped beneath the cadaver of the one he had just this second destroyed!
Garth gasped his dismay and jerked back his head as taloned fingers stabbed at his face—only to be snatched away from him as a deafening blast sounded nearby and his attacker was thrown back onto the tottering barrier like a bundle of rags. Then, as the fly-by-night hissed and screeched, trying to drag itself up onto its scrawny knees, there came a second blast that silenced it, hurling it back over the barrier and down out of sight.