Part 33 (2/2)

'In,' sighed the creature, Baber's strong voice replaced by what sounded like the moan of winter winds. 'Let me in.'

Long arms of branch and bone extended into the kitchen, searching for human life. The nails on the hands were like bramble thorns. With a terrifying rending sound, the creature pulled itself through the small window, a s.p.a.ce through which no human could climb.

'We're trapped,' repeated Joanna Matson, the word a grim mantra. 'There's no escape from them.'

'The wine cellar!' exclaimed Steven Chen, running across the room to a trapdoor set into the floor. 'It's small, but it's our only chance.'

Ace looked at the wooden hatch with suspicion. 'Is that going to be any stronger than the doors?'

Steven Chen shrugged. 'I don't know. But I don't see we've got any choice.'

Chen's father had already struggled back on to his feet, wincing against the pain. 'It will delay their attack a little.

And time is always precious,' said the old man, his voice a harsh whisper.

'Yeah, but we'll be caged like rats,' persisted Ace. 'Once we're down there, there'll be nowhere else to go.'

Steven Chen had already pulled the hatch open. 'You can stay here and be butchered if you want,' he said.

Ace looked around the room again, and saw for the first time another window, high up on one wall, above the ovens.

'I'll try to get out. Get some help.' She gestured towards Steven's parents. 'You're right, you've got to try to protect them for as long as possible.'

Steven's father was wheezing as he made his way down the wooden stairs into the cellar.

Ace handed Steven the meat cleaver. 'Don't know if this'll come in handy, but...'

Steven took the implement, watching as Joanna Matson climbed through the hatch. 'I'll do what I can,' he said.

With a resigned shrug of the shoulders, Steven disappeared down into the artificial twilight of the cellar, pulling the trapdoor over his head.

The Baber scarecrow hit the floor with a thud. Its head moving almost sadly, it shuffled towards Ace, angular hands outstretched.

Ace leapt for the window.

The first barn was empty, but the second contained a weather-beaten tractor and a cluttered array of rusted equipment. The stone tiles were thick with grease and dust.

Towards the back the floor was cleaner, dominated by towering bales of hay.

Rebecca started pus.h.i.+ng through the clutter of old feed bags and plastic crates, looking for a can of fuel. 'I'll check up there,' announced Trevor, swiftly climbing a ladder to the hayloft.

A scream from Rebecca stopped him five rungs from the top.

He slid back down and ran across the barn. Denman and Rebecca were staring at the stickman form of a scarecrow, lying abandoned against the wall. Beside the scarecrow were the badly burnt remains of an old Guy Fawkes effigy. Its head, made from a football, was blackened and scarred from the flames of the previous year's bonfire. An old navy-blue woollen jumper covered a childlike body and limply splayed legs.

Trevor glanced back at the bulky form of the scarecrow. 'Is it...?' he began.

'Let's find out,' said Denman, pulling a pitchfork from the hay. He strode towards the scarecrow, his movements betraying the terror beneath his determination.

'Be careful,' warned Rebecca, backing away slowly.

Denman thrust the fork into the face of the scarecrow. The metal p.r.o.ngs sank into the rotting straw. He twisted the wooden handle, and most of the face staved in, releasing a sickly-sweet aroma. With a sigh of relief he removed the pitchfork and turned back to Trevor.

'No sweat,' he said. 'It's a real real one!' one!'

Denman laughed as he weighed the pitchfork in his hand, turning his attention to the Guy. 'I suppose I'd better deflate this little man, just in case,' he said with a wry grin, pus.h.i.+ng the fork p.r.o.ngs towards the football-shaped head.

The fork pushed through the perished rubber easily, but came to a jarring halt as it hit something hard beneath.

Denman half turned in surprise. 'Wha-?'

The doll-like creature knocked the pitchfork away, then flew at Denman's throat with talons outstretched.

The Doctor stepped into the pub through the open front door.

Things were quieter on the green now, as if the scarecrows had taken most of the easy targets in the vicinity, and were moving further afield - which was worrying enough in itself.

The Doctor imagined what was going on, elsewhere, as the stickmen burst into houses. He could almost hear the screams of terror. The sound of bones breaking, like bundles of twigs.

In the Academy, his always-active imagination had been one of his greatest gifts, the one attribute that drove him on to greatness and doomed him to mediocrity. Now it was a curse. The Doctor shook his head, looking around the public bar of the Green Man.

In a scene of quiet devastation, the b.u.t.terflies were little pockets of movement and light. His eyes wide in amazement, the Doctor approached the display cases. Within, the creatures had revived, despite the pins that kept them impaled on small squares of cork. Their legs flapped in anger at their new imprisonment, futile wings beating together.

'Jack kept you here,' whispered the Doctor. 'Now Jack is releasing you.'

Without warning, the ground shook.

The Doctor ran to a window, and saw that the green itself was... writhing. writhing. The ground squirmed and bucked as great threads of evil twisted beneath it. The ground squirmed and bucked as great threads of evil twisted beneath it.

The floor beneath the Doctor's feet shuddered again, and then became still. He returned to the cabinets, noticing a large split in one of the gla.s.s covers.

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