Weird Heroes, Book 1: Hairy Shanks Page 3

slab of beef the old heave-ho, so I can jolly well go free the hungry bear-ghost from his eternal torment? Ta," he said, turning towards the aperture.

  "And you expect me to just stand out here, while it gets a second chance to eat you then, you daft monger?" Gallowglass said. She shoved the meat into Stanhook's hands and drew her pistol. "Not bloody likely." She cracked the revolver open and checked its cylinder swiftly, as she followed him towards the aperture.

  "That cannon won't be of much use," he said, as she shoved past him.

  "Yeah, but it makes me feel better," she snapped. "Toss the meat, Stanhook."

  Stanhook looked at St. Cyprian who nodded and swept out a hand. "If you please, old thing," he said. Stanhook shook his head and sent the meat sailing through the aperture with a grunt. St. Cyprian heard it hit the ground with a wet sound. In the dark, something snuffled. Then, a long, low, groan, followed by the sound of teeth ripping into the meat.

  St. Cyprian gestured. "Après vous," he murmured. Gallowglass lifted her pistol and slid through the aperture, stepping quietly into the chamber. St. Cyprian followed her, moving as quickly as he dared.

  The meat lay where Stanhook had thrown it. It flopped and bent oddly, as if something tore at it, and St. Cyprian shivered. I guess he was hungry, after all, he thought. He moved to the chain and lifted the bolt-cutters, setting them to the link closest to the manacle. As he made to cut the link, however, the chain shifted and clattered.

  Something grunted softly. The meat fell to the floor. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as he felt the presence turn its attentions towards them. "Get ready to run," he murmured, glancing up at Gallowglass.

  "Bugger that for a game of soldiers," she hissed, aiming her pistol.

  "Yes, quite," he muttered. Her weapon wouldn't harm the thing, but that wouldn't stop her from trying, and perhaps getting killed in the process. Gallowglass was rather like a bull terrier; once she'd set her teeth in something, it was impossible to make her let go. He set his foot on the chain. He would have to be quick.

  The shadow-shape of the thing rose and spread, filling the chamber with the heat and smell of it. His head echoed with the grunting, snuffling sound, and things that might have been teeth or claws or even eyes shined in the dark. And then the link burst in a spray of rust, and he and Gallowglass were bowled over by a strong wind. The bricks burst outward, as if struck with concussive force, and the whole cellar seemed to shake with the passing of whatever force had been trapped there.

  Gallowglass looked around wildly. "What happened? Where did it go?"

  St. Cyprian laughed. "He's free!"

  "Yeah, but where did it go?"

  He flapped a hand as he rose to his feet. "Who knows? Out there, somewhere." He reached down and made to help her up, but she batted his hand away. They made their way out of the now silent chamber, and saw Stanhook picking himself up. He was covered in dust and grime, and his face was pale. "Did it work then?" he asked.

  "Just as I suspected," St. Cyprian said. "He was still bound by the chain and the stones. When the latter was broken, he woke up, but the chain still held him." He tapped the side of his head. "But once it was cut, old Hairy Shanks did what any animal would do." He smiled. "He made a run for freedom, even as he did all those many years ago. And this time, there was no stopping him."

  "Yeah, just luverly innit?" Gallowglass muttered, beating the dust off of her cap. She looked at Stanhook and rolled her eyes. He stifled a laugh and St. Cyprian pretended not to notice. He looked back at the well, and the scattered remains of its former inhabitant.

  "We'll need to gather those up," he said, plucking at his soiled vest. "Get them up out of the dank and into the light."

  "You can gather them up. I'm for a pint," Gallowglass said, holstering her pistol.

  "What will you do with them?" Stanhook asked, glancing at the bones.

  "Oh, we'll bury them, I think. The poor creature deserves that much. But someplace far from London...the Peak District, perhaps," St. Cyprian said.

  He smiled faintly. "Just in case."

  You have just finished reading

  HAIRY SHANKS

  by Josh Reynolds

  This story is part of the Single Shots Signature Series.

  Edited by Morgan McKay

  Editor in Chief, Pro Se Productions-Tommy Hancock

  Director of Corporate Operations-Morgan McKay

  Publisher & Pro Se Productions, LLC-Chief Executive Officer-Fuller Bumpers

  Cover Art by Jeff Hayes

  E-book Design by Russ Anderson

  Pro Se Productions, LLC

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