The Black Lung Captain - Chris Wooding [85]
“Uh-oh,” said Pinn gleefully. “He’s mad now.”
Harkins was struggling with the door, trying to slide it open. The fear was coming off him now, that familiar smell. Harkins was many times Slag’s size, but the cat would have attacked anything at this point, even the oily monster that lived in the hold. He was berserk with rage.
His whole life, he’d been at the top of the food chain. He’d had vicious fights with enormous rats, but he’d never been beaten and never backed down. And he’d certainly never been manhandled in such a way. What had been done to him was too much to bear. It demanded bloody revenge.
He launched himself at Harkins’s calf and sank his claws through his trousers. Harkins squealed in agony, swatting at him, but Slag clambered up his legs, arse and back, his claws cutting through cloth and hooking into flesh. Harkins was desperately trying to reach behind himself as he stumbled through the open door. His arms occupied with the cat, he tripped and went headfirst into the metal wall of the corridor beyond. Slag jumped free as his victim crumpled to the floor, wailing and clutching his head. Pinn was helpless with laughter in his bunk.
Harkins tried to scramble away, but Slag wasn’t about to let him. This wasn’t finished until his prey was no longer moving. He sprang at Harkins’s face. Harkins got his hands up in time to protect his eyes, but Slag sank yellow fangs into his fingers instead.
Harkins screamed, scrambling to his feet, desperately trying to shake off the cat. Slag was having none of that. He hung from Harkins’s hand by his teeth, scrabbling for purchase with his claws. Harkins trilled an operatic wail, eyes wide as he stared in horror at the black furry mass attached to him. Then his hand clamped around Slag’s belly and tore him away, along with a chunk of finger. Slag found himself lobbed down the corridor toward the engine room, the taste of blood in his mouth. A seasoned warrior, he flipped in the air, landed on his feet, and charged back for more.
Harkins was running away down the corridor, his wounded hand clutched to his chest. Just then the female, Jez, stepped out of her quarters, holding a pistol.
“Harkins! Hey, are you alright?”
Harkins let out an incoherent blubber of terror and pushed past her, heading for the cargo stairs. Slag skidded to a halt. The female was standing between him and his prey. He hated this one. She made him afraid. The mere sight of her was enough to get his hackles up. She was wrong. Not natural. Unknown.
“Will you quit tormenting him?” she snapped at Slag. Slag hissed at her. After a moment, she shrugged and went back into her quarters. “I give up. I’ve got my own problems.”
As soon as the door to her quarters was shut, Slag raced down into the cargo hold. Harkins had reached the lever that activated the ramp. As Slag came thumping down the steps, Harkins pulled it. Hydraulics whined as the ramp began to open. Harkins looked over his shoulder and saw the cat approaching.
“Stay away from me!” Harkins shrieked, pressing himself up against the bulkhead of the Ketty Jay as if he could melt through it. “Get … just get away!”
He bolted for the gap that was opening at the end of the cargo ramp. Slag ran to intercept, but at the last moment Harkins threw himself down and rolled sideways, slipping out through the gap. There was a short squeal and a heavy thump as he hit the ground.
Slag went to the edge of the ramp and looked down. Harkins was getting painfully to his feet a couple of meters below, staggering away across the grass. He went a short distance, stopped, and turned back.
The ramp bumped onto the ground. Beyond was tarmac. Slag sniffed it distrustfully, then recoiled a step. He glared at Harkins.
“Ah!” Harkins gloated, bloody but defiant. “Can’t come out, can you? Think you’re so special! Try and get me out here