Trumps of Doom Read Free

I called out.   “It’s me Merle.”
    Nothing.
    I knocked louder.
    Something fell with a crash.   I tried the doorknob.   Locked.
    I twisted and jerked and tore the doorknob, the lock plate, and the entire locking mechanism free.   I moved immediately to my left then, past the hinged edge of the door and the frame.   I extended my left hand and applied gentle pressure to the upper panel with my fingertips.
    I moved the door a few inches inward and paused.   No new sounds ensued, and nothing but a slice of wall and floor came into view, with narrow glimpses of a watercolor, the red sofa, the green rug.   I eased the door open a little farther.   More of the same.   And the odor was even stronger.
    I took a half step to my right and applied a steady pressure.
    Nothingnothingnothing .   .   .
    I snatched my hand away when she came into view.   Lying there.   Across the room.   Bloody .   .   .
    There was blood on tie floor, the rug, a bloody disarray near the corner off to my left.   Upset furniture, torn cushions .   .   .
    I suppressed an impulse to rush forward.
    I took one slow step and then another, all of my senses alert.   I crossed the threshold.   There was nothing else/no one else in the room.   Frakir tightened about my wrist.   I should have said something then, but my mind was elsewhere.
    I approached and knelt at her side.   I felt sick.   From the doorway I had not been able to see that half of her face and her right arm were missing.   She was not breathing and her carotid was silent.   She had on a torn and bloodied peach-colored robe; there was a blue pendant about her neck.
    The blood that had spilled beyond the rug onto the hardwood floor was smeared and tracked.   They were not human footprints, however, but large, elongated, three-toed things, well padded, clawed.
    A draft of which I had been only half-consciously aware- coming from the opened bedroom door at my back-was suddenly diminished, as the- odor intensified.   There came another quick pulsing at my wrist.   There was no sound, though.   It was absolutely silent, but I knew that it was there.
    I spun up out of my kneeling position into a crouch, turning I saw a large mouthful of big teeth, bloody lips curled back around them.   They lined the muzzle belonging to several hundred pounds of doglike creature covered with coarse, moldy-looking yellow fur.   Its ears were like clump of fungi, its yellow-orange eyes wide and feral.
    As I had no doubt whatever concerning its intentions I hurled the doorknob, which I had been clutching half consciously for the past minute.   It glanced off the bony ridge above its left eye without noticeable effect.
    Still soundlessly the thing sprang at me.
    Not even time for a word to Frakir .   .   .
    People who work in slaughterhouses know that there is a spot on an animal’s forehead to be found by drawing an imaginary line from the right ear to the left eye and another from the left ear to the right eye.   They aim the killing blow, an inch or two above the junction of this X.   My uncle taught me that.   He didn’t work in a slaughterhouse, though.   Ire just knew how to kill things.
    So I spun forward and to the side as it sprang, and I struck a hammer blow at the death spot: It moved even faster than I’d anticipated, however, and when my fist struck it, it was already rushing by Its neck muscles helped it to absorb the force of my blow.
    This drew the first sound from it, though-a yelp.   It shook its head and turned with great speed then, and it was at me again.   Now a low, rumbling growl came up from its chest and its leap was high.   I knew that I was not going to be able to sidestep this one.
    My uncle had also taught me how to grab a dog by the flesh on the sides of its neck and under the jaws.   You need a good grip if it’s a big one, and you’ve got to get it just right.   I had no real choice at the moment.   If I tried a kick and missed it would