Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [30]
Jessica threw her weight against the door desperately trying to wedge it shut again.
But Scooter’s head remained jutting through the opening, lips bared over thick, yellow teeth. His wet muzzle strained, so near Jessica could smell it.
The dog’s hot foul breath fanned her face. She gave a moan of effort as she tried to drive the door shut, to crush that narrow skull, to force it back into the hallway.
Scooter made his own small grunt of effort and shook his lanky body with all his wiry strength. His long neck strained forward and suddenly his head was inside the bedroom.
Inside far enough to get his jaws open. As soon as Jessica saw that she jerked back, inadvertently loosening her hold on the door and Scooter managed to get his shoulders into the room. His front paws were still stuck outside, trapped against his belly, rigidly flexing as they strained to slash and rend.
With his shoulders through the door Scooter was almost inside. He strained at Jessica, yellow teeth flashing. Saliva sprayed in her face as he barked. Jessica was already off-balance. Now as she tried to avoid the snapping teeth she found herself falling.
She landed on her shoulder on the bedroom floor but somehow managed to keep one hand on the door, gripping the knob.
As soon as she went down, Scooter saw his chance. He reared back to get momentum for the kill. As soon as he drew back, Jessica tried to slam the door in his face.
Scooter was moving too fast for that. His muzzle came jabbing back through the opening.
But Jessica was slamming the door with all her strength.
The hard wooden edge of it chopped into Scooter like a guillotine, smashing against his teeth, grinding his head against the door-frame. There was an audible crunching sound and a moan as one of the strong yellow teeth came free of its socket.
Gelid ribbons of blood and saliva shivered down on Jessica’s face as Scooter desperately shook and twisted his muzzle, pulling it back to free it.
As soon as he pulled it back, Jessica slammed the door and latched it again.
Jessica got up and tried to wipe herself off. Her knees were trembling as she walked to the dressing-table to grab a handful of Kleenex. She sat there, shaking. She wiped her face. Some of the saliva had got on her face. In her eyes.
She prayed that Scooter wasn’t rabid.
But what else could explain the terrifying change in his behaviour?
In a minute, when she got her strength back, Jessica would go and sit on the bed in the moonlight.
Sit on the bed quietly like a good girl and wait for help to arrive. It had been crazy of her to try opening the door. It had been a mistake. Almost the last mistake she ever made.
Jessica stared at the bedroom door.
Beyond it the house was still and quiet.
Perhaps Scooter had gone downstairs.
Chapter 11
Creed’s house was located in Concroft Avenue, a long quiet street shaded by tall old trees. Broad green lawns swept back from the clean sidewalks to the expensive white homes of doctors, lawyers, software engineers.
And secret agents, thought Creed, pulling into his drive.
Crime-fighting secret agents. He smiled as he steered the Audi up the familiar gradient of his driveway. He coasted past Justine’s battered old station-wagon, into the cool welcome shadows of his garage.
He often wondered what his neighbours would think of him if they knew what he really did for a living. The official story was that Creed was a long-term forward-planning financial analyst under contract to the government. This was a useful cover story; his job sounded so boring that no one ever bothered to ask him about it.
So Creed sometimes wondered what they would say if they knew the truth. That he wasn’t just some number-crunching sadsack with a government sinecure. That he worked for the Agency. That he waged a secret war against crime.
What would they say then? What about that old