Doc Martin bundled herself up like it was the middle of January.
Heavy winter jacket, hood up over her head, scarf across her face, thick gloves, pants tucked into boots tied tight to keep things from crawling inside; she was ready for the swarm of insect and animal life that would most certainly try to prevent her from getting to Clara’s car.
“Turn around and let me take a look,” Clara ordered from her chair.
Doc Martin was already sweating bullets, but she turned for the old lady.
“Can’t be too careful,” Clara said. “Those buggies can find their way into the smallest cracks.”
“Don’t talk about my cracks,” Doc Martin joked, catching Burrell’s exasperated eye roll from across the room. “Feeling any better?” she asked.
“What if I said yes?” Burwell countered. He’d moved to the sofa, and the trash bag Clara had made him lie on crinkled as he carefully shifted his weight.
“Then I’d be taking this getup off, and you’d be going to find Isaac.”
“You better get goin’ before you pass out,” Clara said, interrupting their banter. She grabbed hold of the arms of her chair and slowly pushed herself to her feet. “I’ll help you to the door.” She staggered to one side, caught herself, and then continued on to the kitchen. “Got the gun?”
Doc Martin felt the hard lump in the pocket of her coat through gloved hands. “Yes I do.”
“Good,” Clara said, entering the kitchen.
Doc Martin saw her glance briefly at the dog bed before heading over to the kitchen door covered by a heavy tarp that had been nailed to the frame. Clara grabbed a hammer from the nearby counter and began to remove the nails that held the tarp in place.
“Let me help with that,” Doc Martin said as she tried to take the hammer from the old woman.
“I can do it,” Clara said, pulling the hammer away from the veterinarian.
“I was just going to help,” Doc Martin said, throwing up her hands and backing off.
“You help by getting out there, finding your friend, and stopping this bullshit from getting any worse,” Clara said, pulling the nails from the wood with a squeaking groan.
The tarp came down. “It’s a straight shot to the garage from the steps,” the old woman said as she struggled to pull the tarp away from the door. “Don’t slow down for nothing.”
“I won’t,” Doc Martin said, feeling her heart rate begin to quicken and the blood rush through her veins. She would have loved a cigarette right then.
“And it would be great if you could bring the car back in one piece,” Clara continued as she carefully pulled back the multiple dead bolts locking the door. “Good luck,” she said, finally pulling open the door.
Doc Martin recognized Benny immediately. He was once a beautiful, gunmetal-gray Great Dane with a gentle and loving disposition. Now she wasn’t sure what he was, but he stood at the bottom of the concrete steps, staring, and it stopped her cold, filling her heart with a sickening dread.
Large patches of the dog’s fur were missing; appendages that looked like the limbs of some large and frightening insect protruded from the mottled flesh. And its right eye . . . its terrible, silver-coated right eye.
“Close the door!” Doc Martin barked as Benny silently lunged forward.
But Clara wasn’t fast enough or strong enough. “Shit!” she screamed as the dog wedged its horselike head between the door and the jamb, knocking her backward to the floor.
Doc Martin rushed forward and slammed her full weight against the door, pinning the dog before it could get completely in. Silently the beast struggled to wriggle its muscular, misshapen body into the room.
“Son of a bitch,” Clara growled, rolling onto her hands and knees and crawling toward the counter.
The dog-thing thrashed, its mottled skin tearing and dripping on the linoleum floor. It pushed one of its insectlike limbs through the narrow opening, digging deeply into the floor in an attempt to drag itself into the kitchen.
Doc Martin managed to turn and braced her back against the door, putting her full weight into it, but she knew it wouldn’t be enough to keep the twisted animal-thing out.
“What the hell is going on out there?” she heard Burwell yell from the living room.
“Could use some help!” Doc Martin screamed. Her words were punctuated by a crash from the other room, and she knew Burwell was likely trying to make his way to the kitchen. She also knew he wouldn’t be in time.
The thing that used to be Benny was slowly, steadily pulling itself through the doorway. Doc Martin could feel her feet moving forward even as she tried to press her back harder against the door. Clara had managed to haul herself to her feet and was leaning against the counter, muttering and swearing, but she wouldn’t be much help against this monster.
And then Doc Martin remembered the gun in her pocket. She ripped the thick glove off and jammed her hand into her coat pocket, closing it around the gun. She yanked it out, the dog far enough inside that it could turn its head directly toward her. She looked into its eyes, focusing on the silvery orb, almost mesmerized by its pulsating lens.
She raised the gun, aimed at that horrible, metallic eye, and was about to pull the trigger when—
A serpentine tongue erupted from the dog’s open mouth. It wrapped around her wrist, squeezing with incredible force. Doc Martin tried to twist her arm. Her finger tightened upon the trigger and she fired, but the shot went wild, burying itself in a nearby wall.
She was losing her fight with the door. The dog was almost completely in the room, only its hind legs pinned against the jamb. Another insect limb clawed at the air, snagging the shoulder of her winter coat, pulling tufts of white insulation from the tear.
“Gah!” Doc Martin cried, trying to pull away, but the muscular tongue just squeezed her hand and wrist all the tighter, slowly drawing her closer.
Suddenly Clara was beside her, raising a silver meat cleaver high over her head. “Watch it!” the old woman roared, bringing the blade down and severing the thick tongue in one swift move.
The dog silently reared back, retracting the bleeding stump of its tongue and giving Doc Martin the opportunity to aim her weapon and fire. The first shot struck the dog-thing in the lower chest, but the second went exactly where she wanted it to, blowing out the silvery eye and the back of the poor dog’s head. Finally, it collapsed to the kitchen floor in a lifeless heap.
“What the hell?” Burwell exclaimed, and Doc Martin turned to see him leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, the bandage on his leg once again saturated with blood.
“Couldn’t have said it better,” Clara muttered as she held up the creature’s severed tongue and stared at it. “Never saw anything like this before.”
“It’s the thing on the island,” Doc Martin explained. “From what I understand, it can alter animals. . . . It puts them in a kind of cocoon and mixes various characteristics together.”
Clara just stared in disbelief, as Doc Martin moved to help Burwell back to the sofa in the living room. She settled him once again on the trash bag and quickly rewrapped his leg before heading back into the kitchen.
She retrieved her glove and her gun, then grabbed Benny’s twisted corpse and dragged it outside the back door, pushing it off the top of the concrete steps. When she turned back to the door, Clara was standing there, hammer in one hand, tarp in the other.
“Hopefully, I’ll be back,” Doc Martin said.
“What if you’re not?” Clara asked.
“Don’t even want to think that far in advance,” Doc Martin said. She pulled the door closed and could already hear the sound of Clara’s hammer as she took a deep breath and began her journey across the backyard toward the garage.
As a multitude of insects and vermin converged upon her.