The Dark Master of Dogs

by Chris Ward

  ‘Kelly’s sleeping upstairs,’ he said. ‘I administered her medicine. She’s much better, but the wound still needs care.’

  ‘Thank you for everything,’ Suzanne said, feeling tears spring to her eyes. ‘I know we screwed everything up.’

  Frank shrugged. ‘Dill Hedgers is a hard man, but despite what he says, he’s on your side. He profits from it, but there are easier ways to make money, if you know what I mean.’

  Suzanne felt her knees getting heavier. Frank caught her as she slumped forward, but she pushed him away. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I need to ask something else.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘We found him. We found that … the person who took that harpoon. He’s hurt.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘They’re outside.’

  Frank nodded. ‘Bring them in. I’ll do what I can.’

  Suzanne went to the door and waved to Patrick, hiding in the shadows outside with Race slumped beside him. Patrick helped Race up, and together they came through the door.

  Frank’s face turned white as Race stood up straight, nearly seven feet tall. When he lifted his head to reveal the dog’s snout beneath, Frank stepped back, nearly tripping over a low filing cabinet.

  ‘What the fuck is it?’ he muttered.

  ‘He’s called a Huntsman,’ Patrick said. ‘Don’t ask me how or why he was made, but the human behind that dog’s snout is my brother, Race.’

  ‘Race,’ the Huntsman growled, and from the way Patrick looked up at him, Suzanne sensed some cycle of bonding between them was now complete.

  ‘The most important thing is that he’s on our side,’ Patrick said. ‘He saved Suzanne and me, he helped me find her, and now he’s saved me again.’

  ‘Race,’ the Huntsman said again, suddenly sagging forward, falling to his knees. His cloak billowed, revealing the metal shaft of a harpoon bolt protruding from his chest.

  ‘Please help him,’ Patrick said in a quiet voice.

  Frank looked at him openmouthed, and then nodded. ‘I’ll try,’ he said.

  They helped Race into a small surgery. It was clear Frank was only a general practitioner, but he found a fold-out stretcher from a storeroom and set it up for Race to lie down on. As the Huntsman pulled back the robes to reveal the body underneath, Suzanne gasped.

  ‘Sorcery,’ Frank said. ‘There should be laws against this kind of thing. It’s not natural.’

  ‘I don’t think Doctor Crow cares about laws,’ Patrick said.

  ‘I can see that. There’s not much of your brother left. He’s part machine, part animal. And look … oh my God.’ He pointed at a patch of tissue around where the harpoon bolt protruded. ‘Look.’

  ‘What is it?’ Suzanne said.

  ‘You can see where the flesh was torn, but … it’s repaired itself.’

  Patrick grabbed Suzanne’s arm. ‘You mean—’

  ‘He’s regenerating.’ Frank shook his head. ‘The level of the science here … it doesn’t exist. This is … Goddamn, it’s borderline magic. If the government got hold of this … they could make anything.’

  ‘I got the impression Doctor Crow is somewhat anti-government.’

  ‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’

  With a sudden growl, Race sat up straight. His eyes blazed as he turned to face Patrick. ‘Master,’ he growled. ‘Master … calling.’

  Before anyone could react, he climbed off the stretcher. For a moment he sagged on one side, snarling as though remembering the embedded harpoon, and then he was moving, crashing across the room and bursting through the door. Suzanne followed Frank and Patrick, but by the time they reached the back door, he had disappeared into the night.

  ‘He’s going back,’ Patrick said. He turned to Suzanne, taking her hands. His eyes were desperate as he stared into hers. For a few seconds his lips worked soundlessly before he found the strength to utter the words: ‘I have to go after him. He’s my brother.’

  So soon after they had been reunited, Suzanne’s knees sagged. ‘Patrick, you can’t. You only just found us again.’

  ‘I can’t let him go and do nothing!’

  ‘You can! He’s barely even your brother anymore!’

  ‘Don’t say that.’ Patrick’s eyes blazed. ‘Goddamnit, don’t say that. Not you … please.’

  ‘Patrick, I love you, and I won’t ask you to choose.’

  ‘It’s not about choosing! I’ll find him, and I’ll help him somehow, and then….’ He trailed off, shaking his hands.

  Suzanne didn’t know what to say. She opened her mouth, hoping something meaningful would fall out, but Frank touched her arm.

  The doctor rubbed his eyes. ‘I’m starting to regret the day I met you crazy bastards,’ he said, looking at Patrick, ‘but if you really have to go after that thing … follow me.’

  He led them out of the house and around to a small padlocked shed. He unlocked it and led them inside.

  ‘Here, take it,’ he said, switching on a light and pointing to a small moped. ‘It’s electric, so it’s quiet. If you go now, you can get back to the town by morning and hide it somewhere. It has enough charge to get you there and back. Find your brother, find the money for Dill…. The boat goes on Friday, so you have three days. Dill won’t wait, so do what you need to do and get back here.’

  Patrick looked from Frank to Suzanne, then back again. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘I don’t want your thanks. Just try to keep me, Dill and Porlock off the DCA’s radar.’

  Patrick turned to Suzanne. ‘I’ll be back, I promise.’

  Suzanne felt a sudden lump in her throat, as though she would never see Patrick again, and her heart, if not her mind, knew it. She could only give a dumb nod.

  ‘I love you, Patrick,’ she said, her voice hollow, as though someone far away had said it instead.

  He smiled. ‘I love you too. I’ll always love you, no matter what.’

  Then he was climbing on to Frank’s moped, turning it around, and disappearing into the night.

  Suzanne stared after him, until Patrick had become first a silhouette, then a shadow, then a memory.

  Frank put an arm around her, but she refused to let herself cry.

  38

  Kurou

  Once, Kurou would have trusted his eyes better than anything in the world, but eyesight that would once have made a hawk proud had not only declined but halved. Now, peering into his computer tablet as he lay hidden in the grass on the embankment behind Carmichael Industries, he watched through Laurette’s eyes as the DCA set up their defensive positions.

  Laurette was hidden, of course, peering through a second-floor spyhole on to the car park below, but having made a circuit of the upper floor viewing points Kurou had concluded that the situation was the same; the factory was surrounded on all sides.

  The DCA, foolish as they were, seemed to think that he would either give himself up or engage in a gunfight he couldn’t hope to win. Zooming in through the camera fitted into Laurette’s eye, he spotted gas canisters, even a couple of grenades.

  ‘The historical warfare society,’ he muttered, unable to resist a smile. ‘Oh, how it warms my blackened heart to see such folly.’

  Most of the Huntsmen were in position, awaiting his command. Soon the factory’s tarmacked surrounds would be transformed into a veritable Swan Lake of crimson, a dark ballet stage on which his creations would dance.

  But there was nothing like a little anticipation to whet one’s appetite.

  Kurou changed the view to one from a Huntsman positioned on the roof of an abandoned building to the south, zooming in on the line of cars.

  ‘Oh my, what do we have here?’

  Tommy Crown sat in the back of one of the vehicles parked farthest from the battlefield-to-be, in a pseudo-command position that made Kurou want to stand up and execute a neat twirl at the growing intricacy of their political dance.

  How kind of Urla Wynne. Kurou would be sure to give her festering han
d a kiss before he bit it off when he next saw her. How delightful of her to return Tommy to Kurou, in that he might once again have an opportunity to switch sides?

  This time, for good.

  Kurou activated an intercom, alerting his closest Huntsmen. ‘The DCA have a captive,’ he said. ‘I would very much like him freed with as little harm done as possible. I will establish a secure location for you to bring him to me.’

  A growl was the only response he needed.

  The battle was coming near. A few last checks were all that had to be done. All of his Huntsmen were in place, except for Divan, who was travelling back from the coast, where he had found Suzanne and reunited her with Patrick.

  Patrick.

  Kurou smiled. That was a boy he would see again soon, he knew it.

  And not just because of the tracking chip he had inserted—among other delicious things—into the young man’s body.

  No, family was a noose like no other. Blinded by dumb loyalty, Patrick would soon be in position to assume another part in Kurou’s unfolding drama.

  It was time to begin. ‘Laurette,’ Kurou called, flicking the display back to his servant. ‘You have done me fine service, but it is time for you to return to the world. Go downstairs and go outside, being sure to hold your hands where people can see them.’

  As his servant grunted a response, Kurou changed the view again to one from a Huntsman positioned on a roof of a different building, one with a view of the front of Carmichael Industries.

  The door opened. Guns trained on the figure who stepped out. A loud voice shouted for his hands to be lifted, his hood to be raised.

  ‘Slowly, slowly, Laurette,’ Kurou said to himself, wondering how his servant would react when not given a direct order. ‘Play it cool now, my little friend.’

  With a dozen guns trained on him, Laurette stumbled forward, hands above his head.

  ‘Lift your hood!’ one man shouted. ‘Slowly, now. One wrong move and you’re dead.’

  Laurette lowered a hand, fingers closing over the seam of the hood. With a flick it fell away.

  ‘Stanley Carmichael-Jones,’ someone said, loud enough for Laurette’s audio sensors to pick it up and relay it to Kurou’s computer tablet.

  ‘I’m a hostage,’ Laurette muttered, repeating the line Kurou whispered into the computer. ‘Help me, please.’

  Kurou was impressed that several DCA agents appeared to recognise the robotics pioneer, even after the work Kurou had done to turn Carmichael-Jones into a shuffling, obedient servant.

  ‘Cry,’ Kurou said. ‘Let them see your tears, please.’

  On cue, Laurette began to weep. A few DCA agents began to lower their weapons. A man apparently leading the team waved a couple of other members forward.

  ‘I think now would be an appropriate time, my dear,’ Kurou said. ‘You may remove your cloak.’

  Laurette’s hands dropped. As guns came up, he unfastened his cloak, letting it fall to the ground, revealing his stooped, naked body.

  A shout held the fire of several ready men. The DCA stared at the twisted old man’s nakedness as Laurette shivered against the cold.

  ‘Goodbye, my friend,’ Kurou said, finger snaking for a detonation button.

  The boom of the explosives hidden inside Laurette’s flesh made the factory itself shudder. A shockwave of heat stroked the remaining hair on Kurou’s head. He looked back at the screen as dust and debris settled.

  The car park was a wreck. Nothing remained of Laurette except a few shredded pieces of his cloak. Two DCA cars had overturned, their windows shattered. Bodies of those DCA agents nearest to Laurette lay on the ground, unmoving. A couple of other men were screaming, while the rest had taken up defensive positions away from the cars: in the doorways of neighbouring buildings, in alleyways, behind overgrown flowerbeds and rock features.

  ‘Let the dance begin,’ Kurou said. ‘Attack, my dear friends. Attack with all your might.’

  A series of howls filled the air. The DCA agents looked around them, faces filled with horror. Kurou, staring into the screen, began to laugh as his Huntsmen emerged from their hiding places and began their attack.

  Kurou changed the view to one showing the list of his Huntsmen. Eleven of the twelve were now in the process of engaging. A twelfth, however, had gone offline. Kurou frowned. He loaded up the data, his eyebrows rising with surprise as the renegade Huntsman’s name came up.

  Divan.

  39

  Patrick

  He heard the battle long before he saw the muzzle flashes lighting up the night sky. He pulled the moped to a stop as he reached the edge of the industrial estate, then dragged it off the road, concealing it in an old shed behind a line of bushes. On foot, he approached the battle, peering around corners, checking the coast was clear, then running forward.

  Every molecule in his body told him he should run from this place, but both remaining threads of his world ended here. Race was here, and so was the money he needed to pay for Suzanne and Kelly to escape. He had screwed it up for everyone; now he had to make it right.

  He peered around the last corner and found himself facing a scene of carnage. Howling, snapping Huntsmen battled against DCA agents armed with guns. A couple had barricaded themselves into cars. As one Huntsman tried to break its way in, a gun barrel appeared and shot it through the mouth. The Huntsman fell back, spraying blood. The door opened and the man emerged ready to finish it, only for another Huntsman to appear from nowhere, leap onto his back and rip out his throat with a single swipe of its claws.

  Patrick, heart thundering, ducked out of sight.

  He waited a few seconds, willing his feet to move, then backtracked, giving the battle a wide berth and making his way around to the factory’s rear. From an embankment overlooking the industrial estate, he tried to figure out if Kurou was inside.

  From his vantage point, he could see into the upper floor windows. The lower windows were all dark, but as he squinted, he spotted a flicker from inside.

  Someone was in there.

  The battle had moved around to the front. Patrick looked around him for something he could use as a weapon, finding only a lump of granite which might once have been part of an ornamental flowerbed. He hefted it in his hand, then slid down through the grass of the embankment and ran up to the factory’s wall.

  A service door with a rusted hand broke open easily, the clang of his thumping blows with the rock masked by the rattling gunfire. Patrick, breathing hard, slipped inside and closed the door.

  He was in an empty storeroom. He opened a door and found himself in a corridor. From through a doorway farther down came a man’s cries.

  Patrick adjusted his grip on the rock and crept closer. A cry came again and Patrick stopped in his tracks.

  Tommy.

  Blood was bad between them, but his uncle had money. He was a civil lawyer, and that was just the surface. He could surely pay all of them to safety.

  A cry came again, this time leaving no doubt as to the pain being inflicted. Patrick’s fingers clenched around the rock.

  Just inside the door stood a tall figure. What if it was Race? Patrick closed his eyes, wishing he could be sure.

  Then the creature shifted slightly, revealing the corner of its snout.

  Black and white.

  Race’s had been brown.

  Patrick threw himself forward, the rock arcing through the air as he slammed it with all his might into the side of the Huntsman’s head.

  The creature crumpled, first to its knees, then falling straight forward onto its face. Patrick barreled past it, finding Kurou leaning over a metal gurney on which Tommy Crown was strapped.

  The rock struck Kurou square in the face before the scientist could even look up. He crashed to the ground, rolling on to his front, hands over his head, howling in pain.

  Patrick wanted to finish him off, but the Huntsman was already stirring, groaning as it came back to its senses. The straps holding his uncle were fitted with clasps,
so Patrick unfastened them and pulled his uncle up. Kurou had attached a series of electrical pulse pads to Tommy’s skin, so Patrick ripped them free.

  ‘Patrick?’ Tommy muttered, shaking his head. ‘What happened?’

  ‘We have to go. Come on.’

  He helped his uncle off the gurney and together they staggered to the door.

  ‘He brought me in the back,’ Tommy said, voice still slurring. ‘I was in one of the cars. This bomb went off. It was Carmichael-Jones, one of the DCA men said. Suzanne’s dad. That crazy bastard blew him up.’

  ‘They caught you?’

  ‘One of them came through the roof of the car, ripped it clean off. Goddamn, what kind of sorcery is all this?’

  A rear fire exit door was swinging open. Patrick helped Tommy toward it. ‘They’re in Porlock on the coast,’ Patrick said. ‘A boat leaves Friday. I need money, Tommy.’

  ‘Christ, if that’s all you need, consider it done. Think there’s room on that thing for me?’

  Patrick couldn’t help but smile. ‘It’s only Ireland. If not, we’ll take turns swimming.’

  Tommy patted him on the back. ‘Damn you, boy, you’ve got some surprises, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Have I impressed you—’

  Patrick’s legs went numb. In an instant, his feeling was gone and he crashed to the ground. He lifted his arms, trying to sit up. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of the room down the corridor where he had found Tommy. The Huntsman stood there, watching him, blood streaming down one side of his face.

  ‘Boy, what’s going on?’

  ‘Something … I don’t know … I can’t move….’

  Tommy tried to pull him up, but Patrick’s legs were immobile.

  ‘Get up, damn you.’

  ‘I can’t! I’ve got no feeling in my legs. It’s like—it’s like they’ve switched off.’

  And then he remembered the time he had spent in Kurou’s care. His legs felt they had turned off with the flick of a switch.