by Luke Kondor
And besides, if he was going to die here like this, dick on display, he wasn’t going to shame himself by crying for mercy. Not a chance. He had been taught better than that.
It probably wouldn’t do much good now anyway.
*
The wind blew long dark hair in the archer’s face as he loomed over the body, his nose wrinkling in disgust at the sight in front of him. He crouched down, prodding the body without a hint of emotion. Checking the vitals.
Dead.
Good.
He glanced afar to the shack from which he had seen the man come. Would the town be stupid enough to leave just one man on guard duty? Probably not. There’d be another there, for sure.
Reaching into the depths of his pocket the archer pulled a small, wide knife and held it at arm’s length in front of him. He angled the blade, staring out at the cobbled walls beyond, twisting it back and forth.
A moment later, a small fallen star reflected back at him. The glimmer of another knife.
A grin pulled at his cheeks. They were nearly ready.
~ 7 ~
Colin got less than his forty winks that night.
He spent the night playing with his wedding band, trying to picture Rachel and Fletcher’s faces. He hated himself for even thinking it, but as each new year passed, the details became increasingly vague. Like their likeness was melting and fading away. A glass portrait steaming up with fog.
He could hear their voices. He could half-remember the smell of Rachel’s perfume. Hell, he could even picture the shape of her glass perfume bottle, crafted into the likeness of a woman in a tight-fit sailor’s outfit with some pompous French name that Colin didn’t understand. But their faces were sandcastles, and each year a passing wave.
Realising that sleep just wasn’t going to come, he sat up in bed. The skies turned from a deep inky black to the early morning oranges and purples. The clouds had yet to shroud the sky with their greys.
He eased off the ring, placed it on the bedside table, and stood up. He walked past his half-folded clothes and grabbed the shorts and t-shirt which Byron had given him after his run the previous day. A new set. Still just unclean odds and assortments from the bin, but the ones he had worn yesterday were still wet and the last thing he wanted was to catch a cold.
Especially not on his first day at his new job.
Colin went to the kitchen cupboard, grabbed a tin of beans – kidney beans this time – and ripped open the top before shovelling mouthfuls (brine included) into his gob. Chewing and gorging on the salty legumes, he felt his energy levels rising.
He stared at the glass doors of the cabin, with the view of trees, trees, nothing but trees, as he chewed and swallowed and placed the empty tin on the side.
After, he walked into the bathroom and saw himself in the mirror. A light stubble already growing and his hair sprouting in uneven, scruffy tufts. A few more greys and bald spots and he wouldn’t be far off a fine impersonation of Henry. Though he didn’t suppose he’d ever have that booming tree-bark tenor of Henry’s voice. He noted a long sprout of hair sticking up from above his ear, grabbed a knife from the side and sliced it. The hairs feathered to the floor and he nodded, avoiding staring too long at the stranger who stood before him. The man with the lines of broken skin and eyes forever bloodshot, as though he’d never get enough sleep again to see those fresh blues that Rachel used to stare at in the mornings after appearing through the door with a tray of tea for two.
Well, it is what is it, he thought to himself, looking down at his arms and stomach. Slimmer than they’d ever looked before. Four puncture wounds healing nicely on his wrist from the Millers’ dog, and a knot of skin forming the scar on his chest. Not much I can do now but accept that this is my face, these are my scars, this is my home. As soft as these bumpkins seem, they’re family now. At least they ain’t gonna sell you out like… His thoughts trailed off as he shook his head. He wasn’t going to let himself go down that road again. Thomas Miller and his cronies were far behind. Long gone to the wind.
He forced a smile and nodded to his reflection. “Are we ready?” he said before turning and heading for the door.
Colin broke into a jog as he headed along the same route that Anton had taken him the previous day. Up, left at Row C, right until you hit the fences, and then left again. The air was fresh, and the morning sun flashed like lazy strobe lights as he passed.
At least the ground was dryer today. The wet puddles of mud from yesterday had hardened and sealed into a stiff clay. You won’t be slipping ass first into no puddles.
Whether it was the dawn air or the residual giddiness he felt from his moment with Joanna on the bridge, Colin felt good. Motivated. Excited and ready for the mystery of what the day would bring.
When had he last felt that?
Even his aching muscles, sore from the trial canicross experience the day before, didn’t seem to dampen his spirits. Colin’s mind flashed back to Sunday morning 5k’s in Hyde Park, surrounded by sweating and spluttering fun-runners in tight shorts and high-vis bibs. It had been Rachel’s idea. A chance for them to spend more time together and keep fit at the same time – not that Colin had been in bad shape then. Yet he remembered how many times during those runs that he’d feel his body telling him to stop, that it couldn’t go on, and how many times he’d surprise himself by simply pushing those aches down and focusing on the simple act of running, of moving.
Of listening to Rachel’s encouraging words.
There really wasn’t much to it.
Soon enough the kennels came into view. A lone figure stood at its entrance, but it wasn’t Byron, it was a runner. A woman with dark skin and hair bunched up in a blue headband. Fixed to her front were not one, but two dogs, barking and tangling themselves as they excitedly leapt over one another.
“Ria,” he called aloud with welcome surprise.
Ria shielded her eyes, her furrowed brow staring moodily back. It was difficult to believe that this was the same woman who’d captured him and tied his wrists behind his back a little over a week ago. She’d seemed so strong back at Ditton, so in control and in charge. But now, as Colin approached, he could see there were heavy bags under her eyes and she was swaying gently, a glazed look in her eyes.
Was she still drunk from last night? Or had she continued the celebrations long after the party had dissolved?
“That’s me,” she said holding onto the harnesses as the two dogs, Indie and Flynn, pulled forward to sniff at Colin’s hands. “How you finding Hope?”
“It’s growing on me,” Colin said. “When Byron said Indie was out with another runner, it never once crossed my mind that it could be you. Shouldn’t you be out collecting cache drops like Anton?”
Ria shook her head, her sadness betraying her as she tried her best not to let her lip curl.
“Not my purpose anymore.”
Colin could read that there was a lot more to those words. What had happened to Ria to deflate her so? It had been her leadership which had lost the lives of two Hopefuls in an abandoned factory. Yet it was also under her guidance that the remainder were able to get back to safety.
The door to the Kennel opened and out stepped Byron. “You’re early. Good.”
He invited Colin inside and left Ria waiting out front. He strapped Colin into his canicross harness, all the while explaining that today would be a simple skirmish towards Burham on the eastern trails. Once there they’ll turn back. All in all around ten kilometres. It was set to be Colin’s route for the next month. After which he’d trade with another runner to keep things fresh.
“Oh,” Byron said, finger in the sky. “I forgot to say. As Ria will be joining us you’ll be running with Cuddles, today.”
The red-haired husky met Colin’s eyes, its tongue lolling out the side of its mouth as it waited patiently on Byron’s lead.
“No,” Colin said.
“No?”
“I want to take Dylan.”
Confusion contorted Byr
on’s face. He turned to the lone husky in the corner, hiding in the shadows.
“No,” Byron said. “Dylan’s more of an… advanced dog. A work in progress that I’m handling. Cuddles is definitely more your speed.”
“Trust me. That’s the dog I want.”
Even as the words came out of his mouth Colin wasn’t exactly sure why he asked for Dylan. Though somewhere deep down he felt, looking into Cuddle’s eyes, that he wasn’t ready for another animal friend. The memory of Wheat was all too fresh, lingering in the back of his mind like a bloodstain. The pooch that had given Colin unconditional love, and, in return, Colin had led him into death. Crushed by the brute strength of a deranged scavvie.
No. If he had to have someone, it would be the monster. It would be Dylan. A dog who Colin could keep at arm’s length, and maybe stay angry at. Dylan was different. Dylan wouldn’t pull Colin in by the heartstrings then tear them out one by one.
Colin and Byron’s eyes locked, each waiting for the other to break.
“Fine,” Byron resigned. “You can take Dylan if you can put this on him.” He walked over to the makeshift desk in the corner, littered with maps with red lines noting routes ending with red X’s. He opened the draw and pulled out a tawny collar with frayed edges and handed it to Colin. He nodded, took the collar, and walked over to Dylan’s cage.
The smell of piss and sawdust filled his nostrils as he peered inside. Scraps of chicken bones were piled in one corner. There was half a mattress at the back, and on it lay the brown and white husky with deep blue eyes. Watching him. Its tail didn’t wag. The dog’s teeth didn’t bare. Not at first anyway.
It was only as Colin placed his hand on the cage latch and flicked it open that Dylan’s top lip lifted to reveal those sharp canines, stained in yellows and browns. His snout wrinkled in anger.
“It’s okay,” Colin said sternly as he opened the door. “It’s okay.”
Dylan stood up, head lowered and tail upright.
“We’re just going to go for a walk.”
He could feel Byron watching him. The other dogs also seeming to silence in respect of Colin’s venture.
Doing his best avoid Dylan’s glare, Colin stepped inside.
Wuff!
Dylan’s bark was loud and fiery. Colin jumped. He took a slow breath and stepped inside.
Wuhh wuhhhff!
This time the bark was louder and angrier and accompanied by a grating sandpaper growl that made the dog’s intentions clear. You are not welcome.
“Are you sure this is a good idea? I don’t want you getting yourself bit up because of your pride. I need you fit and running, and Cuddles is good to go.”
“It’s okay,” Colin said as he lifted the collar and took another step. “It’s fine—”
With a single leap, the beast jumped forward and clamped his jaws on Colin’s hand, pressing down into the meat of his palm. Colin cried out. Byron stepped to the door. Colin halted him with his free hand. “No!”
A fine trickle of blood escaped the back of his hand. From this close to Dylan he could see a scratch of pink on the dog’s wet nose, the imperfect eyes with one pupil slightly larger than the other, the clumsy blend of brown and black fur around his head and ears, mixed with the whites on his cheeks. His teeth were sharp. Colin dropped to the cold concrete floor and pressed his back against the side of the cage.
Dylan reacted by throwing his head left to right, yanking on Colin’s arm like a knotted rope. An action he had seen Wheat perform on many a patrol at the LeShard’s farm. Only now Colin knew how every stick and rabbit felt as they were thrown back and forth. Nothing more than a chew toy for the dog’s entertainment. He cried out again and once more Byron stepped towards the cage. Colin waved him back.
“It’s okay, Dylan,” he said, trying not to stare at those eyes for too long, not wanting to assert any level of dominance in fear of somehow pissing him off even more. The dog’s deep growling reverberated through his teeth and into Colin’s hand. “Come on, boy. Come on.”
During the next few minutes, little happened. Dylan continued to growl, whilst Byron continued to stand with arm’s folded, watching with morbid interest. At one point, Ria’s shuffling footsteps were heard at the door, followed by a ‘What’s going…’ But before she could finish, Byron had hushed her with a finger on the lips.
With slow precision, Colin raised his free hand and stroked it along the side of Dylan’s fur. For a moment, Dylan bit down harder, the fear obvious as his eyes watched Colin. Then, as Colin was beginning to lose faith that he’d ever get his hand back, Dylan opened his mouth and took a wary step back.
“It’s okay,” Colin repeated softly, lifting his hand and carefully placing it by Dylan’s mouth. This time, instead of taking another bite, Dylan nudged his head forward and began licking Colin’s bloody hand.
Byron chuckled. “That’ll do, pig.”
“When was the last time Dylan had a lead on?” Colin whispered.
“Months, to be honest. Ever since he came out of puberty his attitude just completely U-turned. Since then, no one’s been in this cage other than me, and that’s only for very quick visits with a padded glove.”
“You have a padded glove, and you didn’t tell me?”
“Had. The remains are lost somewhere under your arse.”
Colin nodded and then reached for the collar Byron was holding out for him. Its metal clip jangled. “So, what d’ya say, Dylan. Wanna go for a walk?”
Careful to maintain some form of confidence, he eased the collar around Dylan’s neck, aware that by doing so his face and neck were only inches from the dog’s erratic jaws. There was a moment when Dylan padded his feet and Colin froze, thinking perhaps he was well in over his head. But the dog already seemed at ease.
With the latch clipped together, Colin stood up.
“Come on then, big man,” he said as he clipped the lead onto Dylan’s collar, then his own harness.
Byron stepped out of the way as Dylan scampered out the open cage door, sniffing the air.
“Are you okay? Do you want to go see Veronica about your hand?”
Colin looked down to see fine rivulets of blood like frayed threads of a ribbon clinging to his skin, but it was already clotting at the puncture wounds and healing itself. Dylan had never meant to do Colin any harm. He had entered his territory after all. The only space in which the dog had felt like he could exercise some control in a world which had torn his brothers and sisters away from him. On some level Colin understood. He’d been ripped away from several homes himself.
Still, the hand thrummed.
“No,” Colin said, wincing at the sting. “As long as your dog doesn’t have rabies, I’ll be fine.”
“Who knows…” Byron said with a shrug.
They stepped out into the morning sunlight, Byron and Ria keeping Whisper, Cuddles, Indie, and Flynn at a fair distance from Dylan.
Byron pulled his legs behind him in turn, stretching out the muscles, squinting in the morning sun.
“Right, then. Shall we get to it?”
Colin glanced at Dylan who was already eagerly pulling on his lead, driving his hips forward. A moment later, they were off.
~ 8 ~
Once outside of the single entry point to Hope – the same gates they’d entered the week before with the legend written in scruffy white paint: ‘Remain Hopeful’ – Ria, Byron, and Colin broke into a steady pace.
All of the dogs but Dylan were loud and abrasive, barking with excitement. Their tails wagging left to right. Their paws burying deep gouges into the mud as they used it to propel themselves along.
Leading the procession of panting dogs and huffing runners was Byron with Whisper and Cuddles tied to him, looking the part of the seasoned professional. Not too far behind him was Ria with Flynn and Indie, again running like she’d been doing it for years. Any trace of her depression melting away as she focused on the task at hand. Colin brought up the rear of the pack, led by Dylan, a dog more obsessed w
ith his own curiosity of the world than any form of uniform running.
When Colin ran with Whisper it was like running with a freight train, a one-ticket mind on a single track, moving forward with uncanny precision. Whereas running with Dylan was far more chaotic, more unruly. Like strapping yourself to a dozen fire hoses and letting rip.
It was understandable really. When had been the last time the dog had been allowed free roam? Byron had said he hadn’t left the kennels in months. That’s a long time for a dog to forget the wonders of the outside world. The scent of earth and pine, the chill of the wind, the contrast against the sun’s warm rays as it beat down on all of Hope.
He was strong though, Colin had to give him that, and he wouldn’t allow for Colin to slow him down whatsoever. Byron and Ria seemed at ease with two dogs but Dylan seemed to match them for speed and grit.
Colin focused on moving his feet, keeping his pace and breathing steady. But he was also trying to create a mental map of their route. They’d already taken a few turns and the woods had barely any distinguishing features. Maybe a fallen tree here and there. There were no white X’s painted on trunks. No plastic bags tied to branches. No breadcrumbs. It was only as they came to pass a manned sentry box that the road seem to be leading anywhere at all.
Byron pushed two fingers into his gob and whistled before extending his arm to the right, directing them all off road and into the open bracken.
They all followed direction, the dogs leading the turn. Even Dylan responded in kind, Colin wondering whether they had trained him during his pup years and he was now just remembering what he was taught.
As they reached another sentry box, Byron pulled them to a stop. It was similar to the one Colin had slept in the night he had first met Anton and Stephen. The sour smell of damp wood and old paint stung his nostrils.