Hunted - Jake The Ripper
Page 7
Big Stan emerged into the sunlight. Several bleeding cuts ran across his face - the most prominent was a deep gash beneath his eye. He looked at his overcoat and grunted his disgust. Several claw marks disfigured the fabric. Several other portions were rumpled or twisted into shreds. He squinted at the brightness of the day like he'd never seen light in his life. His eyes were glowering in disappointment. Like he'd ran out of time for an important appointment. Three hunters swagged behind him, abreast of each other. The one in the middle supported himself on the shoulders of the other two. He was missing an eyeball and his left femur with its flesh and muscles. His clothes had been ripped apart into something less than rags stained ugly with blood. Pieces of bloody muscles stuck out from his empty socket. The other two were simply caked in dirt and filth of hairs and blood. They were okay other than that.
"Filthy ghouls," Big Stan growled and his eyes fell on the crucifix. And he squeezed his eyes in surprise. The crucifix held what were remains of a dusty skeleton. Pieces of it - particularly sections of the ribs had fallen off into the heap of dust and sand that settled by the base of the crucifix. A dark, clearly burnt coat flapped in the breeze, releasing puffs of smoke.
"Yeah, it sure went well." O'Reilly appeared from the side of the chapel to the crucifix. He was also in a bad shape but none of his organs were missing. A thin, satisfied smile crossed his face. Malik followed him, as well as a dozen men. Others advanced from the overgrown hedges, visibly dew worn.
"That boy did it," O'Reilly continued. "Good ol' Joey."
Big Stan looked at O'Reilly. "And where's he?"
"Didn't see him around," O'Reilly replied. "Thought he was with the negro. Been lookin' for him since."
Big Stan shook his head. He picked his crossbow and made towards the bushes. "Are your men still in place at Compshire?"
O'Reilly gave a vague nod.
"Good," Big Stan said. "Joey's also infected? and there's no better place he has to hide."
The sheriff was taken aback. "What are you saying?" His eyes searched the burly hunter's from a sweaty, drawn-back face. His voice seemed to sift through his brush mustache.
"Probably more than three days ago, along with his guys. He killed them. He thought he could fool me," Big Stan explained. "I simply meant to use him to track the ripper. He ought to die sometime today, tomorrow, I ain't too sure so he shouldn't be far. Malik!"
The hefty black walked up to Big Stan and they were going to walk away when a crackle and a burning sound stopped them in their tracks. The sound seemed to surprise O'Reilly because he jumped and turned. At first it wasn't visible but a smoke began to diffuse from the concrete of the chapel wall. And then the smoke became an explosion. Bits of wall brick were blasted off the wall that the others had to shield themselves. The smoke cleared to reveal another dried-up skeleton, two scorched arrows stuck in its shoulder blades and one in its neck on the floor. The half-burnt jacket was all too familiar. A scorched, blood caked stake landed in a thud. Clumps of sand surrounded the skeleton.
The men gasped. They recognized the body instantly. O'Reilly looked disturbed. Big Stan himself was bemused. He looked at the bones that was once his son. Pity washed over him, and loss. He pushed his eyes back to the bones on the crucifix in front of the entrance. And then he understood. But he was filled with a new question:
Was this hunt really worth it? Did one really have something to prove?
"What does this mean?" O'Reilly asked, suddenly standing beside the hunter, still puzzled.
Big Stan shrugged.
"The Jake lad here did us a favor, it looks," he answered but looked up again. "Actually two," he corrected himself.
O'Reilly looked at the hunter's badly scarred face, still not understanding. Big Stan didn't look back. He released his crossbow, allowed it to fall beside Jake's bones and walked away.
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