by Frank Tayell
“Here’s the road,” he said.
Knowing it was there, Ruth was able to discern where it had once run. Curving more toward the west than the north, it was a crooked line with stubby shrubs for ten feet either side. The road itself was clear of vegetation though covered in those ubiquitous rotting leaves. Ruth looked up.
“Where do the leaves come from?” she asked.
Collectively, their eyes went up, then down.
Kelly kicked at the leaves. She bent down. “Here. There’s a tread mark. They swept the leaves onto the road to cover the tracks.”
Suddenly energised, Ruth peered down the road. “We go south?”
“Yes,” Mitchell said. “But we’ll stick to the woods.”
After twenty minutes of painstaking trudging through increasingly dense undergrowth, they reached a hamlet slowly being retaken by the forest.
“We burned this place down,” Isaac said. “Do you remember?”
“Watch the roofs,” Mitchell said. “Do you see the birds?”
“Five crows,” Kelly whispered. “It’s an ill omen. But there’s no one here. I’ll check the road.”
Despite the woman’s assurances, Ruth’s palms began to itch as Kelly ran, doubled over, onto the old roadway. The shotgun was growing heavier, and she could feel her last reserves of energy draining away.
Kelly straightened, gave a gesture that Ruth couldn’t begin to translate, before disappearing behind the shattered houses. Mitchell’s face was taut, Isaac’s was calculating, and from those expressions, Ruth couldn’t gauge how worried she should be. Kelly returned, at a swift jog, but with her head held high.
“They didn’t come through here,” she said. “There are lots of deer, but no people have been this way for months.”
“Then we need to backtrack,” Mitchell said.
Kelly raised a hand. Ruth raised her shotgun, but the woman was pointing to a herd of wild ponies shuffling through the woods to their south. Ruth lowered her weapon. The task was futile. It was something for Mitchell to do so he didn’t feel useless waiting in that hospital. Isaac too, she thought. They had no… There was a hint of something in the air. Was that smoke?
She took a cautious step, and another. The ponies drifted beyond earshot, and the forest seemed more silent than ever. Too silent. There were no birds nearby. What had caused the animals to start moving?
Eyes narrowed, Ruth angled toward the direction from which the ponies had come. The smell didn’t grow more distinct, nor was there any new sound betraying where people lurked, but there was something about this stretch of woodland that spoke to her gut, telling her they were in the right place.
Her coat snagged on a branch. She reached her left hand up to free it and saw the thorns. Hawthorn. Just like on DeWitt’s jacket, and on Norton’s. She looked back. The others were spread out, a few paces behind. She gestured ahead. Mitchell nodded, his expression changing, as a dark veil slid across his eyes.
Was that a sound? She paused with one foot in the air, slowly lowered it, and took another step. Yes. A sound. It wasn’t the rustling of leaves, nor dull thump of a falling branch, but a scratching metallic rasp. There it was again. She turned around, intending to indicate what she’d heard to the others, and found Kelly at her shoulder.
The woman raised a hand, then three fingers, making another of those incomprehensible gestures the other two seemed to know so well.
“I’ll take the lead,” Kelly finally mouthed.
Ruth let her.
The hawthorn grew thicker, almost forming a wall. Kelly found a way through, but thorns scraped at Ruth’s neck and face. She had to slow down again after her jeans caught. There was an audible tear as she tugged her leg free. Mitchell and Isaac, seemingly oblivious to the bush’s three-inch long needles, silently pushed past her. Ruth fell to the back of the group.
Twenty yards further on, the three of them crouched. Ruth did the same. Ten yards after that, they stopped, and bent even lower. They’d found them. Beyond the screen of hawthorn, the forest opened out. A large building stood in a clearing that must have once been at least an acre of grassland.
“Boulderwood Hotel,” Mitchell whispered, pointing at the remains of a weather-warped sign.
The hotel was built of red brick, three-storeys high with windows in the attic. Two sets of bay windows were positioned either side of a double-sized front door. A single column remained of the pair that had been supporting a roofed porch. That, like the broken column, lay blocking the main door.
“No smoke,” Ruth whispered, staring at the chimneys, though she was sure she could smell something. There were no obvious holes in what she could see of the roof. Half of the windows had been boarded up. Glass remained in most of the rest, though some had been left to let in the elements. It was a place in which to hide, not to live. But where was the truck? To the right of the house, separated from it by a tennis court, were three low buildings. Someone had added log cladding, the timbers carved into intricate shapes, but that didn’t disguise the rusting metal chimney pocking out of the roof.
Ruth looked from window to window, and then to the outbuildings, back to the house, and finally at Mitchell. His eyes were roaming across it just like hers. She looked to Isaac. He looked thoughtful. She didn’t need to read his mind to know they were all thinking the same thing. Mitchell raised his hand, fingers out. Ruth took that to mean they were waiting, perhaps for five minutes.
After two, there was an inhuman, mechanical roar that spluttered and then died. It came from the outbuilding, Ruth thought. A moment later, that arrhythmic rasping began again.
Mitchell lips curled into feral grin. “Broken engine,” he mouthed.
Isaac rose from a half crouch. “What now?” he whispered.
“Kelly, how good are you with that rifle?” Mitchell whispered back.
“Very,” she said.
“Find a position with a clear view of the front of the house. I’ll lure them out. When I do, start shooting.”
“To kill?” Kelly asked.
“Not if you can help it,” Mitchell said through gritted teeth. “I want them alive.’
“Even after all he’s done?” Isaac asked.
“No. Because of it. Go.”
Kelly drifted backward. Ruth moved out of the way. When she turned to look for her, the woman had vanished.
“How are you going to lure them out?” Isaac asked.
“By walking up there and asking them to surrender,” Mitchell said.
“Simple. Direct. I like it,” Isaac said. “But I’ve got one small suggestion.”
“Yeah?”
Isaac smiled. “Good luck, Henry. Tell Anna I’m sorry. Here,” He thrust his shotgun into Mitchell’s hands. Before the captain could say anything, Isaac had run out of the trees and down to the drive leading up to the hotel.
Mitchell hissed in frustration. “Cover the road,” he said to Ruth. “If they try to drive that truck out of here, it’ll come along this track. Use the shotgun. Aim at the tyres. Stay low and out of sight until it’s close.” And he turned, and ran through the undergrowth, toward the house.
Ruth heard Isaac whistling a vaguely recognisable tune. She crept forward, finding a position half hidden by a laurel bush from where she could see Isaac. Mitchell and Kelly had vanished. She braced the shotgun, aiming it at the road.
“Hello!” Isaac called. “Anyone home?”
Ruth had to force herself to look away from Isaac and focus on the house, and then the outbuilding, then back at the house. She thought she heard something behind her. She swivelled. There was nothing.
The engine’s noise changed, rising in pitch. Ruth counted the seconds. She reached nine before a door in the outbuilding opened. Wearing tattered overalls covered in grease and oil, one hand holding a wrench, the other stuck in the large front pocket, a man came out. His hair was dyed black, and he had the beginning of a trimmed beard, but she recognised him instantly. It was the old man from the pub.
A
wave of furious hatred rolled over Ruth. She forced her hand away from the trigger, squeezing the immovable metal of the stock instead. The old man ambled toward Isaac.
“Yes?” the man asked. “Can I help you?”
“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” Isaac said. “The kind to remember. Is that an engine in there?”
“Most of one,” the old man said. “You familiar with them?”
“I dabbled a little, back in my wayward youth.”
The old man nodded. “You don’t live around here?”
“No, I was on my way to Nunton,” Isaac said. “I lost my horse, my travelling companions, and my bearings.”
“I’ve a map in the garage,” the old man said in that same kindly tone with which he’d spoken to Ruth moments before he’d shot Davis. “Why don’t you come inside and have a look? You can have a cuppa before you continue.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Isaac said, though he didn’t move.
The tension was palpable. Ruth’s breathing seemed loud. Her heart was echoing like a drum. Isaac tilted his head to the side. She saw his fingers flex. She wondered where his gun was. She guessed the old man’s was in the hand concealed in his pocket. Who would draw first? The shotgun would be useless. Carefully, quietly, she lowered it to the ground, intending to reach for her pistol.
There was a shot. Not from the old man, nor Isaac, but from the house. And another. There. The second-floor window, to the left of the door. She saw a flash, and a shape of a person. Then the shooting really began.
Gunfire came from behind her and from in front. Glass broke. Wood splintered. Stone chipped. Ruth scrabbled back into the illusory safety of the bush’s leaves, trying to make sense of it all. Isaac was on the ground. Dead? No, crawling, rolling toward the garage. The old man was… motionless. A new, dark stain was spreading over the oil-covered overalls. An unintended smile curled her lips upward, lasting until a burst of gunfire sprayed the ground a foot from Isaac’s head.
She looked back at the house. Windows were breaking, almost systematically. No, it was systematic. Kelly, or Mitchell? It didn’t matter. Someone was shooting each glass window, breaking each in turn, showering glass on anyone hidden inside. Why? Ruth couldn’t see anyone. No, there, by the outbuilding. A figure with a rifle. Not Emmitt, not Fairmont. A bearded man she’d never seen before. He raised his rifle, and she knew, from that range, he wouldn’t miss Isaac. She raised her gun. Before she could fire, the man flew backward, a bullet planted squarely in his forehead.
Isaac rolled the last few feet to the relative shelter of the garage. He had his gun raised, firing at some unseen target in the house. Shots were being returned, but not as many as before. Were the people in the house dead? Ruth doubted they would be so lucky. More likely, the criminals had simply taken cover. Soon they would realise that there were only three people shooting at them. But how long was soon? How much ammunition did Mitchell and Kelly have?
Isaac was reloading. He waved his hand above his head, turned, and ran toward the garage’s side door. He reached it as the wide gates at the garage’s front smashed apart. A truck barrelled out and drove over the old man’s corpse. The vehicle swerved, angling down the moss-lined road. It was painted a mottled green with the words ‘British Army’ stencilled on paintwork that was being chipped by gunfire. Who was firing, Ruth didn’t know, but she recognised the people in the vehicle. Behind the wheel was Fairmont. Emmitt was sat next to him.
Barely audible above the engine’s growl, there was a shout from inside the house, the words lost behind a high-pitched squeal from the vehicle. Ruth thought the truck would stall. It didn’t. There was a tortuous grinding of gears, as the vehicle accelerated down the road, and towards Ruth.
She holstered her pistol and grabbed the shotgun, tracking the barrel left and right as she tried to maintain a bead on the jostling cab. It drew nearer. Someone opened fire – Kelly, Ruth guessed. It was a long sustained burst that fractured the windscreen. Cracks spider-webbed along its length, but the glass didn’t break. The men in the cab were barely visible now. She didn’t care. But the glass was bulletproof. She lowered the shotgun, aiming at the tyres. They weaved left then right. Left. Right, and the side of the truck slammed into a tree. It bounced off and kept coming. Closer. Closer. Close enough. She fired, rocking back with the recoil, wincing as fresh pain washed across her back, but already chambering the next round. This time barely aiming, she fired again.
The front wheel blew, the vehicle jack-knifed across the road, and the cab slammed into a tree. There was an almighty crunch of metal. The wheels spun. The tree creaked. The engine cut out. The wheels slowed and stopped. Smoke and steam poured from the wrecked vehicle. Without the roar of the engine masking all other sounds, she heard a distant gunshot, followed by a shout of, “Clear!” she thought that was Isaac but couldn’t be certain.
Metal clicked and cracked. Ruth waited, the shotgun raised, pointing at the rear of the vehicle. No one appeared. She stood. Shotgun held tight, her finger poised by the trigger, she walked toward the rear of the truck. The driver-side mirror was shattered. She moved out into the road, giving the vehicle a wide berth as she edged toward the driver-side door. There was crack from above, and a branch fell from the tree into which the vehicle had crashed. It landed heavily on the stalled truck, and Ruth jumped back, almost pulling the trigger in reflex. She breathed out, took another step. Another, and she could see into the cab. It was empty. The passenger side door was open.
Quickly, she stepped around the cab, swinging the shotgun left and right, looking for the two men. They weren’t hidden behind the side of the stalled vehicle, but there were two sets of footprints in the mud by the door. Three feet into the forest, she saw another footprint. A second, six feet further on. She kept following. After twenty feet, the ground rose, the mud hardened, and the trail ended. She didn’t stop.
After thirty yards, she slowed and listened. The only sounds came from behind her. Another ten yards and even the wrecked engine was inaudible. The silent forest seemed to swallow all sound, even that of her own footsteps. She kept walking.
Where would they go? North, she decided, away from Twynham, but which way was that?
Another twenty yards, and the trees opened into a grassy clearing. There was no sign of anyone. She lowered the shotgun. No, there, on the trunk of a tree was a bloody smear, four feet above the ground. One of them was wounded, and they’d come this way.
She moved more slowly now, her ears alert, her eyes roving across the trees at the clearing’s edge. She saw movement. Not in the trees, but above them. A flock of birds erupted from the leafless canopy a few hundred yards ahead. She ran, across the clearing, into the trees. Stumbling on slippery leaves, dragging herself through thorny bushes, she forced her way through overlapping barriers of evergreens. Heedless of footing, of noise, of anything except that desire to catch the men and bring an end to it all, she ran. She stumbled, slipped, fell. The shotgun hit the ground first. Her face hit mud a moment later, landing with her eye an inch from the barrel. She picked herself up, berating her own carelessness.
Where were they? Where was she? She’d become disorientated. She turned around and saw the fist sailing toward her face. She ducked. Fairmont’s blow missed her jaw, but he turned the blow into a push, shoving at her shoulder. She staggered a pace, trying to bring the shotgun up. His leg came up, almost at a right-angle, slamming into her chest. She was knocked from her feet, and the gun from her hands. She sprawled to the ground, trying to catch her breath and draw her pistol at the same time.
Fairmont nimbly moved to the shotgun and scooped it up.
“Almost,” he said smiling. “Almost, but that’s never close enough.” He levelled the gun. She stared down the length of the barrel. “And now,” he said, “we win.” The smile grew wider, and then it vanished. Blown away as his head disintegrated.
The vague realisation that there had been a sound, a gunshot, surfaced in Ruth’s frozen mind as she saw Mitchell
limping through the trees toward her. His gun was steady, but the rest of him wasn’t. His other hand was clutched at his side, and he looked pale.
Ruth scrabbled to her feet.
“Sir, are you—”
“Where’s Emmitt?” he asked.
Ruth looked around. There was no sign of him. But someone had left that bloody smear on that tree and it hadn’t been Fairmont. “I’ll find him,” she said, drawing her pistol, and started running once more, heading in the direction opposite to which Mitchell had appeared.
Find him, find him, find him. The words echoed as she scanned the tree. There. A swatch of cloth. Could it have been from Emmitt’s coat? She hadn’t got a good look at what he was wearing. She slowed her pace, using her ears more than her eyes. Ahead, something was crashing through the undergrowth. Lots of somethings. Deer or wild ponies, she thought. It didn’t matter which. Like the birds, they told her where Emmitt was.
Another two hundred yards, and she caught a sight of a shadow moving through the trees. A hundred yards after that, she saw him more clearly, and he was staggering. One arm in a sling, the other reaching for trees, pushing himself from one to the next.
Ruth kept running, feeling like she could do it all day, and knowing that there would be no need. The distance between them closed until, at thirty yards, she raised the pistol and fired a shot above his head.
Emmitt turned. He saw her. He tried to find some reserve of energy, sprinting for a dozen steps before he stumbled to a halt. He leaned against a tree for a moment, then pushed himself away, stopping with his back to her.
Ruth gripped her pistol two-handed and walked slowly toward him, coming to a halt twenty feet away.
“Kneel down,” she said.
“No,” he said. “I’ll die standing up.”