Hunters: A Trilogy

by Paul A. Rice

  Then they were out, Ken holding on like a limpet and Red pushing him backwards. Their struggle was extremely violent, but very slow. Almost as though enacting a well-rehearsed dance, the two men slipped from the interior of the Spear and stood locked together in their deadly embrace, the panted breath rasping from their throats being only sound they emitted whilst engaged in this, their most desperate of struggles.

  Red lashed out with his free hand. Ken ducked, managing to block the blows by pulling his arms downwards, locking his elbows together and keeping the gun hand trapped. The heavy punches thumped into his shoulder and rib cage. It felt as though he was being struck by a lead-filled wooden club. Each blow reverberated through his chest like a base drum, and he knew it wouldn’t be too long before at least one of his ribs decided that enough was enough.

  Ken dug his thumbs deeper into the huge face before him. He felt Red pushing, trying to manoeuvre the pistol. He countered, feet slipping and sliding as he fought against the unbelievable weight and strength of the man. Red screamed and pushed again, struggling for dominance, desperately trying to gain some forward momentum. Ken yanked downwards as hard as he could. Red positively shrieked, all thoughts of his weapon now gone, only the desire to release himself from the agonising pain of Ken’s vulture-like grip upon his face remained. Sensing the huge man’s desperation, Ken let him have some momentum. He feinted slightly; a short step backwards was all it took to get Red to overbalance. Ken used the movement and the man’s weight to his advantage. Rotating his hips, he turned sideways and pulled like a carthorse on Red’s face. His adversary emitted another scream, a thin, high-pitched sound of agony.

  Ken stuck his leg out and rolled his shoulder.

  Red had only one choice, and that was to follow his own face.

  Ken flipped the huge man into the dust. Red hit the dirt with a thud, Ken on top of him, still grasping his face, fingers knuckle-deep in flesh. He felt Red’s arms moving, gun hand gaining freedom. Ken instantly released his grip on the howling man’s face, and went for the hand. Knowing what was coming, Red tried to avoid the attack. He was too slow.

  Ken stamped on his wrist. The bones crackled and Red screamed again. Ken kneed him to the side of the head, and then, using the outside of his palm in a chopping motion, landed a vicious blow to the bridge of his nose.

  Red collapsed onto his back, screaming in anger and pain. ‘What the fuk...you muthafuka, I’m gonna kill your ass!’ He spat blood and tried to sit up.

  ‘No, you’re not, dick-head – you’ve had your chance!’ Ken snarled, kicking him in the face. The toe of his desert boot caught his target on the upper lip, he felt the teeth snapping. Red’s head jerked backwards. Without stopping to check if the man was toothless, Ken stamped on the giant’s hand again. This time something gave, Ken felt it through the sole of his boot. He stamped down once more, hard. Red screamed with pain. The Glock fell from his broken hand and Ken was on it like a terrier. Clambering over the heaving and blood-spitting body below, he grabbed the pistol and tried to roll away. He didn’t quite make it.

  It was a boot knife, American by design and extremely sharp. Sharp and very finely pointed. Ken knew because it was currently impaled in his right thigh. Somehow, Red had stabbed him. The pain was immense; he cried out and jerked his leg away, feeling Red’s grasping hands clawing the knife back out and then stabbing repeatedly at his legs. Ken lashed out in reflex, feeling his boot connect with something hard. Red grunted in pain.

  Ken staggered to his feet, hopping to one side as the torture of his wound nearly made the leg collapse. He looked down, blood was pouring out of his thigh – but it wasn’t pumping and it wasn’t bright red. Dark red and pouring, that was good. At least it wasn’t an artery…

  Red laughed.

  Then the light started. Mike’s light. A brilliant, all-consuming sheet of effervescence blasted past Ken – he cringed and narrowed his eyes against the glare. For a moment it appeared as though Red had become transparent. The rays of light seemed to pass straight through him. He cried out and raised a hand to cover his one good eye, ducking his head and cowering from the wave of brightness. Ken’s leg gave way – he staggered to one side and collapsed onto the ground. The light dimmed and he heard the sound of Mike’s voice crying out in anguish. Red laughed again.

  Deliberately ignoring the sound of Mike’s voice and the flickering light – George’s warning ringing like a church bell in his ears – Ken quickly sat up and stared at his enemy. He raised the Glock and pointed it at Red’s swollen and blood-spattered face. Red never moved. The pair of them sat there, ten feet apart, glaring at each other. Both badly injured and surrounded by the eerie glow of the Mike’s own battle for survival. Ken, ignoring the howling sear of agonising heat in his thigh, took hold of the pistol in both hands and steadied his aim.

  Red stopped laughing. Instead, he looked down at his blade, the Gerber had a metallic sheen coating its blade, a bloody-red coating. He twirled the knife in his hands and looked back up at Ken. There was a strange blankness about his face – little tendrils of a dark substance began to ooze out from the corners of his eyes, wisping like smoke from the tear ducts. The stuff was barely discernible, but it was there all the same, Ken saw it. Red fiddled with his knife again, expression still blank, the face of a dead man.

  Ken lifted the pistol, aiming directly at the big man’s face. ‘Put it down, Red,’ he snapped, ‘put it down or I’ll just head-job you right now!’

  Red grinned, saying: ‘I guess it all comes down to which one of us is gonna be the quickest on the draw, don’t it, huh, boy?’ His face was a terrible sight: nose disjointed, teeth smashed, left eye closed, it wept blood and some kind of gelatinous fluid. Red was in a mess, but even so, he still grinned and lifted his knife to chest height.

  Ken was incredulous. ‘You’re fucking joking with me, right?’ he snarled. ‘Just put the blade down or I’ll blow you away – put it down!’

  Red raised his arm, saying: ‘And you’re just a fuckin’ pussy – I don’t give a shit about no damn jokes!’ He stared at Ken, face still blank, almost as though Ken wasn’t there.

  Then the light stopped. At a stroke, the eerie green glow, which had been surrounding them thus far, was replaced by the soft light of a crimson dawn.

  Red glanced up at the sky, sneered, then looked down and stared across at Ken again. His eye glittered, a black, glittering coal of an eye. ‘See you around, pussy-boy,’ he said, ‘me and my knife will see you in some other place at some other time. You have a nice fuckin’ trip!’ He jerked his arm back.

  Ken shot him in the head.

  The round entered above Red’s left eye, the damaged one, and exploded out from the back of his skull, its velocity blowing chunks of bone, brain, and ponytail into the air. Without a sound, the huge man collapsed onto his back. If Ken had been able to see, he would have been horrified by the sight of the awful mist, crumbling and flowing out of Red’s ears in a trickle of fine, black dust.

  It, too, had died.

  Ken lurched to his feet, keeping the pistol pointing at Red he limped across and stared down at the man. Being sure of his demise, sightless eyes and a puddle of blood swamping the back of his head providing the giveaway, a dead one, he turned away and hobbled over towards Mike.

  As he looked up, Ken quite clearly saw that his friend was in trouble.

  Mike was on fire.

  29

  Death of Friends

  We all stand upon the pavement of life, waiting for our bus to arrive.

  Sometimes it comes early, and sometimes it comes late.

  But, at the end of the day, our day, it always arrives right on time, every time.

  Mike looked like he was praying as he knelt there with his knees pressed into the surface of the road. The sphere was between his thighs and Ken saw that he was actually touching it, like a medicine man crouching over his magical fire, both arms outstretched with their palms pressing down onto the Light Maker’s shuddering surface. The mac
hine was not making any light now, but Mike was. He glowed. The power of the Light Maker was making clouds of dust rise into the air around him. Mike never flinched as he knelt before it, face quivering and dark hair swirling about his head as he fought the storm. Ken watched as the dust turned into fearsome, dirty spirals. Whipping and shrieking as they rose into the air before racing away into the desert like spinning, red devils. Mike’s eyes were closed tightly against the storm of dust and energy.

  Then the Light Maker exploded – it became a light bomb, and Ken was looking straight at it. He fell to his knees. The power of its awful energy surrounded him. Mike turned and stared at him in horror, screaming…

  ‘Oh no...no, Ken! NO! Look away, turn away!’

  But Ken did not turn away – he did not close his eyes. George’s forlorn voice echoed in his mind, ‘When Michael heals the Stone you must ensure that you turn away, not for one second must you look at it, do you understand?’

  Ken did not turn away, he did not want to look away, he was tired of this nonsense, tired of the darkness, tired of the light, he wanted to go – now was his time to go. He fell onto his side and stared at the scene before him, eyes locked onto oblivion. He watched as Mike caught fire. The forces that the burning orb of light dispensed blasted into him, lancing right through his body. Mike became transparent and Ken saw completely through him – he stared in disbelief as he watched Mike burn. He screamed out in anguish, ‘Mikey!’

  His friend never flinched. Ken saw the glare around Mike intensify. Huge lines of energy, radiating spikes of luminosity, protruded like lasers through his body. Their shocking rays beamed into eternity. Mike became rigid, his jaw dropping open involuntarily. ‘Help me, father, please help me!’ The strangled plea escaped his lips, almost surfing upon the wave of green light as it poured from his open mouth. The muscles and sinews on his neck bulged and tightened as he threw his head back and stared at the heavens.

  Then Mike screamed: ‘George, help me, oh, God...please help me!’

  As Ken lay there, watching from the prison of his own helpless stupor, he saw his friend being turned into an immense, filament of power. He had now become a glowing beacon of blinding light, Ken was hardly able to define where Mike stopped and the light started, they were almost as one. The outreaching beams of light seemed to shudder and dim, like a long, slow blink. At the same moment, a horrible shrieking noise began to fill the air. Unbelievably, and like a film in reverse, the terrible rays began to rewind back into Mike, he just seemed to suck the energy back into his own body.

  Then, and to Ken’s utmost horror, Mike burst into flames. He simply lit up, flared like a magnesium candle and turned into a brilliant burst of energy. His was not a normal fire, no – this was more akin to a liquid combustion, a conflagration of water, bright green light and heat. It was an awesome ball of fire and Mike simply disappeared into it. One moment he had been there, and in the next he was gone, immersed within the fireball. With that awful gurgling sound – like water being torn apart – Ken’s friend and partner died with the Light Maker.

  Without another sound, Mike blinked into oblivion.

  The resultant blackness blinded Ken. The Light Maker had also burned into him – killed him with its beautiful fury. It had killed him and he knew it. Blackness surrounded him and he began to die. Ken knew he was dying. The pain in his skull flared and the tube of dirt, which felt as though it was filling his throat, began to slip out, and his guts went with it. He tried to cough but his energy seemed to have deserted him, it didn’t much matter as his guts had taken things into their own hands and decided to slither out of him on their own accord. Ken felt them pouring out of his mouth and sliding over his teeth as they exited his useless corpse. He felt his entrails being dragged across his tongue and their departure left a strange, empty feeling in his chest.

  He sank down and floated in the darkness as he waited on a ticket for his final ride. Ken’s bus had come at last, the one with his name emblazoned within its glass information window. He heard the Darkness: ‘Tickets please!’

  His mind screamed with agony and frustration. ‘No, no, not like this, please!’

  He heard the Darkness again, it whispered and that rusty voice filled his thoughts one more time. ‘Come on, Kenneth, it’s time to give up – come on home, come to poppa…’ It pulled him and he felt himself being yanked towards its unfathomable depths.

  The chasm reminded him of the stairwell to their bunker. Deep and black, yes, but there was also a source of light, something white fluttering in the depths, light shining through the crack at the bottom of a black door. As he floated down, a flood of white light began to fill every piece of his mind. Ken’s skull felt so heavy, too heavy to lift. He tried, but the effort was too much, so he stopped fighting and surrendered to the light, gave his soul to the Darkness – for they were one and the same – he had no thoughts, no feelings left to have, he was spent.

  He saw the door rushing upwards and let his body fall towards it. As his mind started to fragment and he began to drown in the knowledge, the terrible recognition of the end that was upon him, Ken screamed one more time.

  ‘No!’

  Awful sensations began to smother him. He couldn’t breathe and a heavy weight on his chest began to make him feel as though he was filling with liquid. Then his eyelids started to feel like they were being torn off – Ken heard them ripping. His mind was filled with light; he stared into it, waiting for the Darkness, waiting for the black liquid kite. He knew now what it was he’d seen fluttering like an oily mist around Red’s face, seeping from his eyes in those final moments – it was the black shadow of death. The memory of its horrible blackness, the wretched Darkness, filled Ken with fear. He realised it had been death within Red that he had witnessed. An evil filth, all things bad, death was within that man – Red was death. Ken began to fight, struggling to get away from the Darkness, desperately fighting the bonds of the Reaper.

  White light began to fill his vision. There was no Darkness this time; only a soft, white glow beckoned him, a warm and inviting light shining all around him. Ken decided that he would go to it, he would happily go anywhere other than into the blackness, anywhere at all. Looking into the light he became aware of a voice – it was calling him and he listened. It was definitely a voice and it was...it...he recognised it. Ken knew that voice, without doubt he knew it.

  The voice was hers and she was calling him, it was Jane.

  She was calling him. ‘Come on baby, come on, it’s okay now, ssshhh, Ken. It’s okay, I’m here.’ Her soft, chocolate voice filled his ears; her fragrance covering him with its beautiful, warm smell. The sound of her voice energised him with its peace. Ken fought like a demon to go to her.

  Jane was in the light and so must he be – he must be with her!

  His efforts were in vain. The Dragon’s hands pinned him in the Darkness and his was a powerless struggle against the unbreakable grip of his tormentor. Ken was unable to break free, unable get to the light. He must go, he...

  Then, like a miracle, Jane’s hand reached out from the light and Ken felt her cool fingers caress his brow. He knew they were together again, for one, tiny second he glimpsed her face, brown eyes wide with concern, face leaning gently towards him with her outline blurring in the white light. She placed her soft lips upon his parched mouth. Ken knew then that he had been saved by the touch of his wife, saved by the sweetness of her taste. Jane had rescued him from the Darkness and he would be forever cocooned with her in eternity, wrapped in the arms of her endless love.

  Then the cave opened its dark and welcoming bosom once more.

  Kenneth Robinson willingly entered into its blackness.

  Jane held his hand.

  30

  The Awakening

  Jane held the hand of the man she loved. Looking down at his bruised and lacerated face, only she knew of how deep her love for this man truly was. There were times when even she was overcome by the strength of her emotions for him. Jane would
have gladly traded places with his broken body, happily given everything she’d ever had for one last kiss, one last touch of those strong hands, to see one last twinkle from those smiling green eyes.

  He was her warrior, her love, her life. Ken was her everything.

  And she wanted him back.

  Jane had been by Ken’s side for nearly six weeks, almost every hour of every day. She did take some enforced breaks, but they were only when the hospital staff absolutely insisted that she leave him in their care whilst she took a few hours off. Reluctantly she would oblige them, wandering down to the car park and driving home with that awful feeling of needing to be somewhere else flooding her stomach. Then, once back at home, she would find herself pottering aimlessly around the apartment, looking at her watch every few minutes and trying, but not succeeding, to get some other thoughts going. In the end she always returned to his bedside within the hour. The hospital staff simply shook their heads in admiration, some of them secretly wondering: ‘Would my lover do this for me, would they?’

  The international rescue team had bought Ken back from that god-awful place, returned him to Jane with half his head missing and a piece of metal still embedded in the back of his brain. It was the remains of a satellite dish that, apparently, whilst whirling through some bloody sandstorm or another, had decided to crash-land upon her husband. Only three people were hurt in the storm and Ken had suffered by far the most serious injuries.

  The doctor had said that if Mike hadn’t found him when he did, found him and given him first aid, then Ken would surely have died. In fact, he was so impressed by the procedures Mike had carried out that the Head Surgeon had looked the Australian in the eyes and asked him if he had ever received any surgical training. Mike shook his head and simply replied that it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

  ‘Needs must…’ he’d murmured, turning away in embarrassment. He told them that he thought Ken must have been hit on the head by the dish whilst running for cover, a blow such as that would have felled him like an ox, causing him to tumble into the bottom of the bunker’s stairwell. Mike gave details of how he’d sawed through the three-foot pole that had speared Ken through the back of his skull, and left the remaining five inches, three of them actually in Ken’s brain, where they were, before stabilising his other injuries, which included a smashed cheekbone and a badly broken femur of the right thigh. Then the medics had arrived and the rest was history.