Black Hand Gang by Pat Kelleher

farmhouse near the edge of the grey-brown mud flat. Beyond that, some sort of long grass was flattened outwards as if by a shockwave. It wasn't ideal, but right now he didn't seem to have much choice. He selected his approach and cut the engine, gliding down towards the ground.
    He felt the wheels of the Sopwith 1½ Strutter hit with a bump and the machine bounced along. He adjusted the flaps and the biplane came down heavily again, this time trundling along to a stop, the thing juddering and shaking so much Tulliver feared it would fall apart before it stopped, but stop it did. He pushed up his goggles revealing piercing blue eyes amid the oil-splattered face. He climbed out of his cockpit and checked Hodgeson his observer. He was dead, sat slumped forward in the rear cockpit, blood filling his goggles. Damn shame. He'd only been out two weeks. He clambered down to the ground, took off his fur-lined gloves and boots, then walked round to inspect his machine, noting the holes across the fuselage that the Hun had given him. They could be repaired. All in all she was still in admirable condition.
    "Good show, old girl," he said gently. He looked round. About fifty yards away was the beginning of the mud patch. He strolled towards it with his usual insouciance, intending to report to the nearest officer, when he heard a scream. A female scream. It came from the bombed-out farmhouse teetering near the edge of the muddy escarpment. He ran towards it, pulling out his revolver, barely noticing the change of ground underfoot as he raced up the incline. The scream was suddenly drowned out by a frustrated growl.
    Nearing the house, he slowed down and edged forward cautiously. He could hear some animal, probably one of those beasts he saw earlier, padding around inside.
    From a boarded up window he heard the sound of sobbing, the murmur of prayer and an insistent, urgent whisper.
    "Well, we can't just sit here. There must be something we can do."
    "What on earth is it?"
    "It must have escaped from a zoo!"
    There was another roar from the beast, which could clearly hear and smell its prey but couldn't reach it.
    Tulliver edged along the wall until he came to a faded wooden doorjamb, its paint peeling and the door long since carted off for firewood. Cocking his pistol, he peered round the door. The huge beast was stood in the passage sniffing at the closed door within. Its great claws had slashed through the plaster to the side to reveal the fragile wooden slats beneath. It wouldn't be long before it got through that way.
    Tulliver withdrew. As quietly as possible he checked the chambers of his revolver. They were all full. He only hoped they'd be enough.
    He took several deep breaths. He wished whoever was screaming would shut up. It was really getting on his nerves. Apart from which he wanted to make sure the animal could hear him. As the screamer stopped to take a breath, he stepped round the doorway and whistled. The beast looked up and growled before bounding at him, claws skittering over the debris on the floor. Tulliver got off two shots then stepped aside, back against the wall beside the door as the beast came through, bringing half the doorjamb with it. He got off another two shots before the beast realised where he was and could turn. Its back legs skidded out from under it.
    It pounced. Tulliver let off the last two shots. One passed straight through its skull scattering its brains out through the exit wound. As he dropped and rolled aside, the beast crashed into the wall and collapsed to the ground, sending loose bricks tumbling down, prompting another round of screaming from inside.
    "Edith! Do be quiet. I shan't have to slap you again, shall I?"
    "Sister, please, no more violence!" said a man's voice.
    "Well, if she don't, I will," came a third female voice.
    "Hello?" called Tulliver as he walked slowly down the short passage and tried the door. It wouldn't budge. He tried knocking and was encouraged by the sound of scraping