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.44 Saint Tidbits

Here's a tidbit of .44 Saint, a scene in which our hero is neck-deep in trouble out in a remote farmhouse.


My whole body hurt, but I could move. I could walk without limping. That was all that mattered. That and not giving in to the fear that churned my guts, the fear that wanted me to take off running and get as far away from here as I could. That didn’t seem wise.

I couldn’t distinguish the bark of a dog from a wolf from an anything, but I could tell the bark of a smaller dog from a large breed. Whatever was barking wasn’t small. And it wasn’t on its own.

I went into the outer room, where the remains of the front door lay scattered across the floor. Torchlight flickered across the open threshold, and I could see well into the clearing. The barks and low yowls sounded vivid enough from there, but I wanted to see these dogs. Common sense told me I was on a farm, or what had been a farm until recently, so surely dogs weren’t unnatural. Even if they were feral. I had no reason to dread, I told myself. No reason to think about Gaspar Caumartin’s half-eaten, rotting body.

With slow and quiet steps I moved to the door. My finger kept tightening on the trigger and I forced myself to press against the guard instead. It wouldn’t help anything if I fired off a round, my nerves least of all.

I moved exactly two paces away from the front door. The sounds were clearer now, yips and growls coming from my right. The torches left a shimmer of changing light across the branches and leaves, but outside of those orange phantoms the wood loomed like an impenetrable black void. The dogs were out there. They didn’t sound that close together, either. If I faced them straight-on, some sounded like they were more to my right, others more to my left. Five of them? More?

Part of me wanted to argue that I was fretting over nothing. A pack of feral dogs would flee if I shot at them. Another part of me wanted to find a nice solid door and lock myself on the other side of it.

Two black shapes slipped out of the wood, big and quiet and coming fast. I might have flinched, and then one of them was darting through the torchlight, gray fur rippling over cording muscle, tongue lolling out of its open muzzle, black streaks staining the fur beneath its eyes. I ran inside, hearing paws shredding grass. A howl split the air, shoving ice up between my shoulder blades. I sped into the inner room and shoved the door closed. Paws skittered on planks and dirt, and a growl carried through the wood. I took a step away from the door, staring at it, hearing the thing slavering on the other side of it, then the wood shuddered as weight heaved against it. I grabbed the nearest piece of furniture, some small kind of table, and flipped it over and jammed it against the door.

Howls and snarls and yips threatened to split my ears. So much dirt scrabbled and so much weight bounced around that it sounded like half a dozen manic dogs had poured into the hall. Then more howls pealed outside, much too close, to my left, to my right. They were directly on the other side of the walls, surrounding me. What? Eight, ten, a dozen? I couldn’t tell; they were all running, howling, the noise of one churning into another. A maelstrom of howls and fury pressed against the walls, trying to break through, to get in, to get to me.

I squeezed my rosary. I had my gun. I tried to think. They couldn’t get in. The door was shut and barricaded, and they were dogs. Dogs tainted by some nameless and evil corruption, sure, but dogs nonetheless.
Corruption didn’t make critters grow thumbs. I was safe. Safe until daybreak. I could wait until daybreak. Daybreak would make things better, wouldn’t it? Wasn’t that how it worked?

Some of the scrabbling sounded awfully purposeful. It wasn’t just the frustrated spinning and pacing of a stymied predator. It was paws working, rhythmic and quick. But at what? I couldn’t make sense of it.
I backed a few paces away and tripped on the corpse. I cursed and steadied myself, and cursed again. I noticed the blood had soaked into the dirt, and in the light of the fireplace the wet granules flickered.

Dirt floor.

Shit.

I looked at the wall, on the other side of which the dogs were digging. Their heavy panting sounded clear, much too clear.

They were digging underneath the wall.

A window opened on the left wall, and all of my instinct screamed for me to climb up and squeeze through and run for it, before the rest of me told me why that was such a stupid idea. It sounded like there were just as many dogs outside as there were in the hall. I turned on my heels, looking from one side of the room to another. Looking for what, I didn’t know. A way out. A miracle. All I found was old furniture and musty wood.

A snarl drew me back to the wall, and I turned to see a wriggling dog head sticking out of the floor. It struggled back and forth, kicking up dirt and straining to wedge its hairy bulk beneath the planks of the wall.

I cocked the hammer, aimed, and fired. The crack of gunfire sounded so loud in that room; one of the planks next to the dog’s head popped, and the dog kept inching forward, slavering. The rough bottoms of the planks gouged into its fur, and it didn’t care. It kept working itself through, growling. Its head was as big around as my thigh.

I took three steps forward, aimed squarely at its face, and cocked the hammer. The dog struggled; it was trying to get through, and it made it hard to aim at its bobbing head. Its thick neck wasn’t moving so much, though. I aimed at its neck from straight on. I held my breath and squeezed the trigger. My Laudner cracked, the dog yelped, wriggled, then its throaty growl drowned in a peal of bubbling sounds. It lowered its head and it seemed like it was trying to back out, but it was stuck. Then it stopped. Its head stayed low in the hole. I couldn’t see where I’d shot it, but once I realized that I had shot it and it was dead, a rush of glorious relief coursed through me.

Praise Jesus! My bullets actually killed them!

Vicious barking shattered my moment of gratitude, and I saw another dog had worked its way through. This one’s head was still low in its hole, wedged between its working paws. A little less terrified, I moved towards it, lowered my Laudner and aimed at the top of its broad skull. From three feet away even I was confident. I squeezed the trigger and the gun cracked and the dog didn’t make a sound. It just stopped moving. The haze of gunpowder stung my eyes and filled my nose, and for once I liked the smell of it.

Another of the mindless creatures was coming through to my left, and I hurried over and took aim again. Just like the last one, this one would be easily done. A careful aim, a steady hand, and I was about to squeeze when the dog snarled and snapped its jaws at me and I startled, and my gun cracked, hitting the far side of the room. I cursed, steadied myself, and aimed for its snapping mouth. It choked when I shot it, and a spill of wet blackness poured over the dirt.

I backed away, taking a breath. I told myself I could do this. So long as they kept coming through one at a time like this, I could do it.

I knew I’d fired five times, so I opened the cylinder and tapped out the spent cartridges. I opened my satchel and searched for my spare bullets. I wondered a moment, trying to remember how many extra bullets I’d packed. I’d lost the box I’d bought them in, so the bullets were just in a side pouch. I unbuttoned the flap and fingered the cartridges, counting them.

Eleven bullets.

I heard the barking in the hall, the other dogs outside.

Eleven bullets weren’t enough. I froze. Then another dog was coming in under the wall. I couldn’t think about it. I began to reload. A second dog started coming in. One only had its head wiggling in the dirt, but the other was through past its shoulders, snarling and working closer. The bullets kept hitting the cylinder, not wanting to slide into their chambers. I realized my hand was shaking. All I could see was that thing working its bulk through, snapping its huge square muzzle. It was past its shoulders. It was coming through, and I only had three bullets loaded. I didn’t have time.

I shoved the cylinder closed and pointed, and the dog heaved up out of the hole, two of the wall planks popping out above its shoulders. I pulled the hammer and fired, and the Laudner just clicked.

Empty cylinder.

The dog scrabbled out of the dirt and sped towards me, legs pumping, mouth wide, baying. I didn’t move my thumb off the grip; I slapped the hammer with my left hand and pulled the trigger, and nothing but a click, and the dog was jumping at me but I slapped the hammer and pulled the trigger and my gun kicked and cracked and smoked, and the top of that dog’s head popped open and the rest of it slid to the dirt in front of me.

The second dog was through, and I didn’t remember hitting the ground, but I was aiming at it level with its head, and I slapped the hammer and fired, and I knew the first shot missed but the next didn’t because I saw what sprayed the wall behind its head, thick and dripping, and the dog went down.

I was hunched on the dirt, heart screaming in my chest, ribs on fire, knuckles white, gun empty.

Barking all around. I didn’t think. Didn’t think how scared I was. I opened the cylinder and dumped the spent shells and reloaded. I reloaded all five. Five in the Laudner. Three in my satchel. It wasn’t enough.

The dog leaking its brains at my feet was huge. It looked like a mastiff. Through the patchy gray fur I could see its skin, raw and blistered. Swathes of fur on its belly were gone, and the flesh looked peeled away, and I could see the cords of its muscle, like it didn’t have skin there at all. It looked ravaged by the worst sort of disease, but that did nothing to damage the power of its physique. Streaks stained the fur around its eyes, like it had been weeping black ichor. Black gums were stretched tight around yellowed, pointed teeth. The stink that came off it was not a stink a natural creature should have made. Like old meat left in the sun.

There was too much growling in the hall. I didn’t know how many dead dogs were wedged beneath the wall, but the others were digging around them. They’d be through, and I didn’t have enough bullets. I could use my mace, but if I was close enough to hit one, then one could dig in by my feet and get its teeth on me. Or if one came in while I was fighting another, that would be it. I couldn’t do it with my mace.

I ran for the window. It didn’t have glass, just shutters, and I pushed them open and looked outside. I couldn’t see any dogs, but I did see a big building across a stretch of open grass. Barking pealed behind me, and I looked, and three dogs were coming through, one of them already squirming past its shoulders. I turned to the window. I didn’t see any dogs outside. I didn’t see much choice, either. I grabbed the lintel and pulled myself up, stuck my legs through, and slid out. I hit the grass on my feet, tapped my hands against the dirt, shoved off, and was running.

I heard them. Thirty feet of open grass between me and that building. It looked like a barn, and I didn’t know what might be inside but I was running towards it as fast as I could. Some of the dogs had to have still been outside because I could hear them on the grass behind me. How far back? I didn’t turn to look. I ran. My satchel slammed against my hip and the gun was cold in my hand and I couldn’t get enough air and there wasn’t a part of me that didn’t hurt, and I ran.

I flew into the barn and had to slow down because I couldn’t see anything. The open doors didn’t let in enough light; everything around me and above me was black. I turned and saw two dogs tearing across the grass, heads low, bodies streamlined, coming straight at me. I aimed and wanted to fire and fire until they had to stop, but I couldn’t panic. I had to aim carefully and make these shots count, because they would be on me in three seconds and if I missed I was dead. So I clenched my jaw and screamed in my head and held my breath and aimed. And fired.

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Author
San Cidolfus
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