trigger guard, freed the safety catch, and finally… finally began to breathe again, albeit shakily.
While from behind, almost in Garth’s ear: “Well, it appears I should grant you this much at least, ’prentice Slattery,” Ned Singer begrudgingly panted, his breath coming in short, shivery gasps. “For a mere pup you’ve learned fast!…Learned to save your shells and stay cool in a queer situation! If I’d been in front…why, it’s not at all unlikely there’d be rodent blood and…and bodies all over the floor! That’s a pat on the back for you ’prentice, but don’t you go bragging about it!”
Surprised, startled for a moment—until the truth sank in —Garth thought, So: more concerned for himself Ned failed to notice my error. Good, else for sure I’d be in for another dressing down! As for all his “pat on the back” waffle: that’s just so much empty flattery—a cover to hide or disguise his own fear—because he’s no less shaken than me! (Or perhaps not, butit salved Garth’s conscience to consider it so…)
Now that both Garth and Singer were directing their torch beams into the unquiet corner, the mess on the floor was more clearly revealed. Coughing his disgust, Singer called for Garry Maxwell to come forward with his dogs:
“Gangling Garry,” he growled, regaining complete control of himself so quickly it was almost as if he’d never lost it. “You can bring those mangy sniffers of yours up front again now, for there’s nothing much here to worry them. Upon a time maybe, but not any longer. Just a small pile of fly-by-night shit and leftovers, is all!”
However reluctantly, and almost dragging his dogs with him, Maxwell came cautiously around the rim of the ramp. Then, sensing nothing to fear, the animals gradually relaxed; their tails stayed down but they nevertheless advanced, sniffing and snuffling at the remains in the corner.
And “remains” was the right word for at least some of those leavings. That small, gleaming white mound, for instance:
“Bones!” Garry Maxwell gasped. “Dog bones, for God’s sake!”
His own hounds had arrived at the same conclusion; hot-eyed and whining, and showing their teeth, however uncertainly, they skittered off from the dog debris and huddled to their master’s legs. Going down on one knee, Maxwell hugged them and muttered, “Eh, what? Those bastard things eat dogs?” He looked up, frowning his disgust and dismay at his companions.
“Anything with meat and red blood,” Ned Singer nodded. “But with preference for the blood, of course! Is it any wonder that in my time I’ve seen entire packs of wild dogs running from the damn things? And look at that skull there: two sets of jaws! He was a mutant, that one, but all the teeth in the world couldn’t save him from these fucking monsters!”
“What of the mattresses?” Garth haltingly queried. “I mean, do they sleep, the fly-by-nights?”
“Can’t say,” said Singer with a shake of his head. “I suppose they might, but no one knows for sure. During daylight they hide in places such as this—hide from the sun, of course—so I’d reckon it likely they take their ease here, too. Why settle for a concrete floor when you can lie on a mattress, eh? Even a fly-by-night would surely have that much sense!” Which for once made perfect sense to Garth…
There sounded a whistle, causing all three and the dogs too to jump. Two long blasts, in fact, echoing down the ramp from regions up above. It was an “all clear,” and something a little more than that: a summons.
“They want us to see something,” Singer grunted, “something they’ve spotted from on high.” He turned to Maxwell. “Gangling Garry, there are people outside waiting to hear from us. Go let them know that it’s safe to come in now, will you? While me and the ’prentice boy here go up top and see what’s happening.”
While Maxwell went back the way they’d come, Garth and Singer used the
While from behind, almost in Garth’s ear: “Well, it appears I should grant you this much at least, ’prentice Slattery,” Ned Singer begrudgingly panted, his breath coming in short, shivery gasps. “For a mere pup you’ve learned fast!…Learned to save your shells and stay cool in a queer situation! If I’d been in front…why, it’s not at all unlikely there’d be rodent blood and…and bodies all over the floor! That’s a pat on the back for you ’prentice, but don’t you go bragging about it!”
Surprised, startled for a moment—until the truth sank in —Garth thought, So: more concerned for himself Ned failed to notice my error. Good, else for sure I’d be in for another dressing down! As for all his “pat on the back” waffle: that’s just so much empty flattery—a cover to hide or disguise his own fear—because he’s no less shaken than me! (Or perhaps not, butit salved Garth’s conscience to consider it so…)
Now that both Garth and Singer were directing their torch beams into the unquiet corner, the mess on the floor was more clearly revealed. Coughing his disgust, Singer called for Garry Maxwell to come forward with his dogs:
“Gangling Garry,” he growled, regaining complete control of himself so quickly it was almost as if he’d never lost it. “You can bring those mangy sniffers of yours up front again now, for there’s nothing much here to worry them. Upon a time maybe, but not any longer. Just a small pile of fly-by-night shit and leftovers, is all!”
However reluctantly, and almost dragging his dogs with him, Maxwell came cautiously around the rim of the ramp. Then, sensing nothing to fear, the animals gradually relaxed; their tails stayed down but they nevertheless advanced, sniffing and snuffling at the remains in the corner.
And “remains” was the right word for at least some of those leavings. That small, gleaming white mound, for instance:
“Bones!” Garry Maxwell gasped. “Dog bones, for God’s sake!”
His own hounds had arrived at the same conclusion; hot-eyed and whining, and showing their teeth, however uncertainly, they skittered off from the dog debris and huddled to their master’s legs. Going down on one knee, Maxwell hugged them and muttered, “Eh, what? Those bastard things eat dogs?” He looked up, frowning his disgust and dismay at his companions.
“Anything with meat and red blood,” Ned Singer nodded. “But with preference for the blood, of course! Is it any wonder that in my time I’ve seen entire packs of wild dogs running from the damn things? And look at that skull there: two sets of jaws! He was a mutant, that one, but all the teeth in the world couldn’t save him from these fucking monsters!”
“What of the mattresses?” Garth haltingly queried. “I mean, do they sleep, the fly-by-nights?”
“Can’t say,” said Singer with a shake of his head. “I suppose they might, but no one knows for sure. During daylight they hide in places such as this—hide from the sun, of course—so I’d reckon it likely they take their ease here, too. Why settle for a concrete floor when you can lie on a mattress, eh? Even a fly-by-night would surely have that much sense!” Which for once made perfect sense to Garth…
There sounded a whistle, causing all three and the dogs too to jump. Two long blasts, in fact, echoing down the ramp from regions up above. It was an “all clear,” and something a little more than that: a summons.
“They want us to see something,” Singer grunted, “something they’ve spotted from on high.” He turned to Maxwell. “Gangling Garry, there are people outside waiting to hear from us. Go let them know that it’s safe to come in now, will you? While me and the ’prentice boy here go up top and see what’s happening.”
While Maxwell went back the way they’d come, Garth and Singer used the
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