by Guy N Smith
'We'll have to wash this,' he murmured as he moved the kettle on to the wide Rayburn hotplate. 'Now, suppose you tell me what happened to you and your mate, eh.'
'Don—have you seen him?' Bostock gripped the sides of the chair and tried to sit upright, but immediately fell back again. 'For God's sake, where is he?'
Peter was trying to sort out some bandages from the meagre first-aid tin on the Welsh dresser. 'I've seen him but I'm afraid he's dead, a wound like a horse had kicked his head.'
'I knew it.' Bostock's voice trembled. 'I knew he'd never get out of that bloody wood alive.'
'Now suppose you stop talking in riddles and try and tell me what the hell is going on around here.' Peter found some rolled bandage and wondered how long it would take the kettle to boil. 'You and your mate were doing your best to try and frighten the life out of us in the Cat that night. Now it seems that all your bogeys have materialised.'
'We was poaching, Don and me.' Bostock's eyes widened as he began to relive the terrifying events which had led up to this meeting. 'Rabbits, mind you, nothin' else, no game or pheasants or the like. We was on Ruskin's land when we saw 'em. Christ, if only we'd seen 'em sooner we might've stood a chance, but the buggers were dressed like us, all in white. First we thought they was somebody else out after the rabbits but the way they started after us we knew then they was no warreners. We split up and took to the woods to try and shake 'em off. You could hear 'em all around looking for us, and then from afar off I heard Don's scream. Just one scream that was sorta cut off so sudden I knew he was dead. Then they was after me. I gave 'em a chase I can tell you, right out of the big wood on to Hodre ground. I reckon I might've made it down here but something hit me.' Bostock fingered his wound gingerly. 'Don't know what it was but it came with terrific force, and if it'd hit me fair and square I guess I'd've dropped there and then. It was a glancing blow and I staggered on somehow, bleeding like a stuck pig. How they never caught up with me I'll never know but eventually I found myself all alone with not a sound of anybody around.
That was when I passed out, and I guess I must've lain a whole night and a day out there in the snow. When I came round I knew there was no way back to Woodside; all the old tracks were drifted up since Don and I had set out. So I had to come here. You understand that don't you, Mr Fogg?'
'Yes.' The kettle had boiled and now Peter was trying to bathe the ugly wound, grimacing. 'But how do you know that—that they are out there now?'
'I saw 'em,' He winced. 'God strike me, I saw 'em, Mr Fogg, up on the slope above the Hodre Circle, four or five of 'em all dressed in white and heading here, sorta glidin' over the drifts!'
'I see.' Peter began winding the bandage round the poacher's head; the sooner the man saw a doctor, the better. 'But who are they?'
'I told you, I don't know. They ain't after the rabbits, that's for certain, even if they are dressed similar to how Don and me always dressed for snow poaching. If you ask me, there's something funny going on up at that old circle.'
Which was what Peter had thought in the first place: nutters who were out to offer up a human sacrifice to whatever entity they were trying to raise up.
'I think we'd better go upstairs if you can make it,' Peter said. 'I've got a gun and cartridges and maybe we can hold'em off.'
'I'll make it.' Bostock touched his bandaged head gingerly. 'God, I wish I knew what hit me. Some kind of catapult maybe.'
Somehow Peter managed to get Mick Bostock up the narrow flight of stairs. The poacher was weakening rapidly; possibly his wound and the hours of exposure to the elements had brought on pneumonia. His lungs were gurgling again.
'Let me take a look.' Bostock seemed to find renewed strength once they were in the bedroom and staggered across to the window and began to force it open. 'Maybe we'll be able to spot the bastards from here.'
One second the poacher was looking out of the open window, the next he was staggering back, trying to scream, but something was protruding from his throat and allowing him to make only a wheezing sound. A stream of thick wet fluid jetted upwards, splashed against the ceiling and began to drip steadily to the floor. And even as Peter stood watching in horrified silence, Mick Bostock crumpled on w the frayed carpet, still trying 10 jerk a length of steel arrow from his throat.
Peter watched it all in the beam of his torch, a shaft of shaking light that followed the spurting blood up to the ceiling and down again, then focused on the crumpled, bleeding form of Mick Bostock. It was quite obvious that the poacher was dead.
Peter felt his stomach knotting and wondered if he was going to throw up. If he did, it was going to make a mess on the bedroom floor. Jesus Christ, the carpet was already saturated with blood and the thick crimson fluid was oozing its way along the gaps between the floorboards like sluggish polluted rivers; probably dripping through into the room below—his study—spotting his manuscript, pages splashed with genuine human blood. A real-life horror novel!
With a supreme effort he pulled himself together and knelt down by the dead man. The weapon sticking out of Rostock's throat reminded him of a redskin arrow, a shaft of some sort of steel, a weapon so silent and deadly, bringing instant death without warning.
And then he remembered an advertisement he'd seen only a few weeks ago offering sportsmen a weapon that was efficient, silent, and needed no licence whatsoever. The crossbow: a device of death that had been used many centuries ago, now updated, made of steel, a hundred times more powerful than ever before. And they were outside armed with crossbows!
Peter began to sweat, knowing that Bostock's arrival on the scene had saved his own life. Had the poacher not gone to the window, then undoubtedly at some time he would have done so himself, and would now be lying dead on the floor with a steel bolt embedded in his throat. They were here; they were closing in for the kill!
Keeping low he reached the window, cautiously raised his eyes above the level of the sill and peered out. The landscape looked much the same as on the previous night: a steep expanse of frozen wasteland that reflected the light of millions of sparkling stars. So silent, so devoid of life. He could almost believe that the enemy had given up and gone home. But they were out there somewhere, all right.
Did they know Bostock had fled here, or were they under the impression that it was Peter himself they had felled with that devilish bolt? He wondered. They weren't making any move to close in. Perhaps they had gone away after all.
Seconds later Peter knew without any doubt that the enemy had not left. He felt the rush of cold air on his face and was aware of the passage of some kind of missile, but before his reflexes had him diving for cover he heard it strike the far bedroom wail amidst a shower of splintering plaster.
Cold steel glinted in the half-light, a shaft that quivered and hummed its vibration, angry that it had been denied a victim, embedded several inches in the far wall.
Without any doubt the enemy knew he was skulking in the bedroom and their intention was to kill him. Full realisation brought with it a new kind of terror. Previously the fear of the unknown had made him flinch from every patch of shadow. And he had been uncertain whether anybody really was lurking there. It might have been all in the mind.Now that doubt was removed. Out there was a flesh and blood enemy whose main objective was to remove him from the scene with brutal efficiency. The reason was beyond him, but it didn't matter. Now they had him in a corner; he must either fight or die. Or both.
God, he didn't know who the hell they were but he bloody well hated them, wanted to kill them, every single one of them. His smouldering fury fanned its own flames from dwindling fear. They'd scared him but not any longer. Because they were only human like himself, whoever they were, not spooks or druids or other intangible forces of evil. They had crossbolts; he had a shotgun. They wanted a fight and he'd bloody well give 'em one! It was as simple as that.
Suddenly he was on his feet, pulling on both triggers and lighting the hillside with orange stabs of flame.
He winced at t
he double report as he knelt to reload, and smelled the powder smoke. Its sharp odour gave him a heady sort of sensation, a feeling of satisfaction that made him want to sniff it deep down into his lungs. Because it was the smell of power; he was fighting back. He felt he could get hooked on it, like sniffing glue.
Except that there was no time. Even as the sound of the double blast was roiling into a roar that echoed across the hillside, Peter heard the glass in the open window shatter. Something glanced off the lead latticing and went singing with vibration into the night air. He flung himself sideways; flying glass smashed against the wall behind him and tinkled to the floor.
A shot for a shot; that was the way it was going to be. Like a B western movie, he grinned to himself—arrows thudding into the bunk-house, the defenders keeping the attackers at bay. That thought prompted him to check his ammunition. He'd have to go steady if the siege was going to be a long one, and it could well last until the snow had melted.
There followed a long period of silence. Once he thought he heard the sound of footsteps crunching on frozen snow, but it died away. Perhaps it was a ruse to tempt him to show himself again. The enemy had one big advantage over him—they had only to wait with their crossbows trained on one square of window; he had to search out his white-clad targets on a snowbound hillside. He licked his dry lips; he was the proverbial sitting duck. By the luminous dial of the alarm clock on the bedside table he saw that it was eleven-forty. Jesus Christ, the night had hardly begun!
An hour passed. He was cold and starting to fidget. He experienced an urge to show himself, to get it over and done with. He longed for somebody out there to curse, or even fire a few bolts at the house, to break the terrifying silence. He tried not to glance at Bostock's inert form. Death like that was unnerving because it was so unnecessary, so bloody brutal. And he knew he might end up that way himself . . .
Oh Jesus Christ, he could smell smoke!
He coughed as he scrambled up, keeping low so that he didn't pass in front of the window. Something was on fire somewhere. The Rayburn chimney maybe.
He burst out on to the tiny landing, then recoiled as a wall of creeping smoke met him, the acrid fumes searing his throat, making him step back into the bedroom to gulp some of the fresh air that came in through the open window.
Somewhere he could hear flames, a rush and a crackling of dry wood.
The bastards have fired the granary! The whole place will go up in minutes!
He took a deep breath and with eyes closed fought his way down the staircase, still clutching the loaded 12-bore. The wall was warm; he could feel and hear the fire on the other side of the stonework. Crackling loudly, the flames had found the tinder-dry woodworm-riddled beams and were already beginning to devour their way through to the house. Something heavy crashed in the granary; the floor-joists and rafters were already yielding to the mounting inferno.
He stopped in the hall, crouched down and managed to draw in some more fresh air coming under the door. Oh Christ, they were desperate to get him; they were smoking him out now and he had no choice other than to rush out into the open. They had been too clever for him in the end.
One moment of lingering hesitation; a mixture of feelings that he had no time to sort out separately—sadness that he'd never see Janie or Gavin again, regret that he'd never get that book written now or enjoy the money and freedom his first one had given him. It was the old hackneyed western theme all over again: the Apaches had fired the bunkhouse with their burning arrows and were out there waiting to mow down the homesteader when he was forced to dash out into the open. Outnumbered, he stood no chance, but was determined to go down fighting.
Peter slid back the bolt. It ran easily, as though even this inanimate object was conspiring to hasten his death. He lifted the latch and let the door swing open a few inches.
It was getting unbearably hot. The stone wall adjoining the granary was like the side of a bread oven. He gripped the gun with both hands and pulled the hammers up to full cock. A handful of cartridges was concealed in the pocket of his jeans; this was by no means a surrender.
He tried to formulate a rapid plan of action. Go out there fast and low, zig-zagging towards the low wall by the gate. Make a last stand from there.
A report, as if the 12-bore had gone off, and the stone in the granary began to split. It was an instant inferno. The whole place was tinder dry, the beams half-rotten, and burning debris fell with a crash. Peter felt the vibration beneath his feet and knew he couldn't stay there much longer. The cottage and the granary roof formed a single structure; the whole lot might come down together and bury him in an avalanche of fiery rubble. He could linger no longer.
The door creaked open another foot, urging him to run. He paused briefly, wishing he had gone with Janie and Gavin, thankful that at least they were safe.
Then he hit the porch at a run, feeling the snow beneath his feet, a hard-packed slippery surface that slowed him down and threatened to send him sprawling with each step he took. He found it difficult trying to zig-zag as he anticipated the tearing force of a steel bolt ripping through his body, throwing him back in a heap of mutilated flesh that spouted blood and turned the snow a ghastly crimson.
Peter couldn't understand it. He'd reached the boundary wall and was kneeling in a patch of shadow, trembling and trying not to look around him. But not a single bolt had been fired at him as he ran!
Something was wrong. It took him several seconds to realise what it was: the darkness was gone, pushed back to a mass of shadow that hovered uncertainly as far as the stone circle. It was the orange glow from the blazing building that lit the night sky, of course. Not wholly, though. Shafts of dazzling white light split the night sky, a criss-crossing of anti-aircraft searchlight beams trying to pinpoint enemy bombers, swinging this, way and that, converging, moving on. Ok God, those tampers, as PC Calven called them, they were here, too!
Even as Peter reared up slowly to try and peer over the top of the low crumbling drystone wall his ears picked up the steady drone of engines, an incessant hum that was growing louder by the second. It was aircraft . . . No, the lights, the sound was too low on the ground, they'd crash into the hillside if they were planes.
He viewed the scene above him in total amazement, his fear forgotten. Three or four vehicles traversed the steep slope, going one way then the other, their powerful lights illuminating the whole hillside.
It was impossible! The slope was like a glacier; the ice and snow would not hold a vehicle of any sort. Even a crawler would have difficulty in making it up there in dry weather. But these vehicles traversed it with ease!
Snowmobiles!
Peter caught his breath. He picked one out in the lights, a low snub-nosed thing that moved steadily with a power that defied the elements and the terrain, swinging one way, then the other. The snow machines were moving into a wide circle, now closing in.
Men were running—white-robed figures who stumbled and fell, panicking and trying to rid themselves of their obstructing garments, a kind of bizarre round-up in which they were herded by mechanical creatures which anticipated their every move. The fleeing figures had what looked like outsize shoes on their feet.
Everything had come to a standstill. The whole scene was illuminated by the lights of the stationary snowmobiles, and the eerie glow from the shooting flames which were rapidly devouring Hodre. The burning debris crackled, shooting sparks high into the windless sky in a kaleidoscopic firework display. Above the hum of the idling engines Peter heard men shouting. There were a dozen or more figures now; a brief scuffle, and it was over almost before it began.
He gripped his gun and waited.
After what seemed an eternity the cavalcade of snow machines began to move off again in an almost vertical convoy. Coming this way. The slow procession came to a halt in the drifted lane. Two men clambered out of the leading vehicle and began ploughing their way through the deep snow towards him.
He caught his breath and instinctively beg
an lowering the hammers of the shotgun as he recognised one of them in the glare from the blazing cottage. There was no mistaking the angular features of PC Calvert, a sheepskin jacket covering his constable's uniform—Peter suddenly experienced the urge to burst out laughing, a sense of utter relief combined with the comical appearance of the Woodside policeman in knee-length Wellington boots that were surely two sizes too large and gave him a kind of Mickey Mouse appearance. 'Glad you're OK, Mr Fogg.' Calvert was sweating. Peter nodded. Tm OK, but we'd better move away from the house. The whole bloody lot's going to cave in any second.'
'Well, we got 'em.' The constable motioned towards the group of men clustered around the waiting vehicles. The ring-leaders anyway.'
'Got who?' Peter winced as he heard the roof behind them starting to slide. 'I haven't a clue what's going on except that somebody seems determined to perforate my body with crossbow bolts. They got Peters and Bostock, by the way. Bostock's in the house, probably cremated by now.'
'We found Peters up there.' Calvert pointed up the hillside. 'Sergeant Lewis and myself came with the forest rangers tonight but I don't think any of us quite expected a haul like this.'
'Suppose you fill me in on everything.' Peter shook his head slowly. 'I'm afraid I'm getting a bit confused.'
I'd've thought it was obvious.' A tall raw-boned man wearing a torn ex-army combat jacket over a polo-necked sweater stepped forward. These guys here are the leaders of what was probably the most dangerous and highly organised gang of deer-poachers ever to operate in Britain.'
'Deer-poachers/' Peter stared wide-eyed at the heap of crossbows and high-powered battery lamps loaded on to one of the snowmobiles glinting evilly in the light cast by the blazing cottage. 'But I thought ..."
'Sure we know what you thought, and so did we up until a couple of nights ago when we got a tip-off.' Calvert laughed, a humourless hollow sound. 'You thought you were the victim of an anti-English campaign by some fanatical yobbos, and so you were to some extent. And you also thought that a couple of our local moochers, Peters and Bostock, wanted you out of the way so they could poach rabbits on Hodre in peace. And you were right! But these deer-poachers were the ones who killed your cat and rabbit and slashed your tyres. They needed to get you out of the way when the big herds moved up to winter on Hodre because that was going to be their big coup, thousands of pounds for a few night's work. They're more desperate than most of the armed gangs who raid banks in the cities, and their overall rewards are just as rich. In an out-of-the-way place like this, working systematically, they could clean up most of the herd. They tried to scare you off first but when that didn't work they were going to make sure you didn't live to tell the tale, just as they weren't taking any chances on Peters and Bostock getting away. For the poachers this blizzard couldn't have been better timed; they could take their time, use snowshoes, and all they needed was a few nights when nobody could get to them. Fortunately the Forestry Commission shipped a few snowmobiles out here when they realised what was going on.'