by Rod Glenn
Cradling his head, Carol said, “Don’t talk, pet.”
An image of Natalie in her favourite lotus-embroidered kimono, smiling affectionately, flashed before Sam’s eyes. It remained anchored there like a sudden blinding glare. He sprang to his feet and launched himself at Han, screaming, “DIE!”
Surprised by his ferocity, Han swayed back on his heels. His recovery was instantaneous. “Nah,” he said simply and shot him twice in the chest as he reached half way.
Sam staggered forward a couple of steps, his features fixed with a twisted look of hatred. Two neat holes had appeared in his jumper and a dark stain was rapidly spreading around both of them. Then, after tottering for a moment, with his eyes still set on Han, he toppled forward onto his face. His knife bounced away harmlessly into the corner of the room as his limbs settled and his body went still.
“God … no …” Carol uttered feebly, cradling Jimmy’s head close to her breast. Tears were streaming down her face as she looked from Sam’s body to Jimmy’s ashen face.
“Nearly there, folks. This will all be over presently.” Han ejected the magazine from the handgrip of the pistol, popped it into his pocket, and slapped a fresh one into place. As he cocked it, movement down the hall caught his eye.
Bryce had slipped through the open front door and was now aiming the Barrett at Han. His hair was plastered and snowmelt was pouring down his face, but his features were calculated; all except the eyes. There was something resembling rapture in them. Behind him, and licking at his coat, the storm raged on. Dancing snowflakes whirled into the open doorway around his feet.
Han kept the gun and his body facing Carol, but his head slowly turned to greet the new arrival. His smile was forced, but his tone remained jovial. “Hey, John, nice of you to join us. So glad you didn’t miss the party.”
“I couldn’t quite believe it at first – not my mate, Han. Han wouldn’t butcher me wife and boy.” His tone was matter-of-fact. “But here you are.” Despite the cold and wind, the rifle remained unmoving in his frozen hands.
Glancing from the barrel of the rifle to Bryce’s eyes, Han said, “Well, if it’s any consolation, I’m sorry, big fella. None of this was personal.”
Bryce actually laughed. “Oh, I’m afraid this is very personal indeed.”
Dropping his pistol to his side, Han shrugged, saying, “I’m not a monster – I’m just a normal bloke who undertook an extraordinary test.” Lightening his tone further, he added, “Look, all this’ll be over soon and I’ll go back to my normal life and then the doctors, investigators and psychologists can ponder over it for decades to come. Books will be written, films will be made, but no one will ever understand why.”
Bryce raised his head away from the gun sight and shook his head sadly. “Is that what this is all about? Notoriety? Make you more famous than John Wayne?”
Han frowned. “John Wayne? That was what you went with?” With a grunt, he added, “Nah, it’s not about petty vanity, old friend.”
“You have no friends here,” Bryce said, aiming back down the sight.
“Sorry,” Han said, in apparent earnest. “No one will ever know who did this or why. That is the point.”
“That’s no point at all,” Carol snapped at him, still clutching Jimmy.
Han glanced at her briefly. “Exactly!” He seemed pleased that at least one of them understood.
“You’re no longer welcome in Haydon, Mister Whitman,” Bryce said. “And Haydon reacts violently to any threat.”
Han blinked – a flash of fear – and then threw himself to one side, at the same time, firing a snapshot towards Bryce.
Smiling, Bryce opened fire.
Han’s bullet lodged in the ceiling as Bryce’s sailed through the space where Han’s head had been only a second earlier. Acrid smoke plumed in the hallway, curling snake-like from both weapons.
Even as Han’s shoulder slammed into the wall, jarring him, he was squeezing the trigger a second and third time, each report booming.
Bryce stepped back into the awaiting embrace of the storm. In an instant, he was gone.
Han righted himself and fired one more round out into the darkness as Bryce’s outline disappeared amidst the raging blanket of snow. In frustration, he yelled, “Bryce! I thought you were made of stronger stuff!” With his anger directed at the open doorway, Carol appeared out of the corner of his eye and flew upon him.
Her knife slashed at his shoulder, ripping both material and flesh. He grunted loudly as hot blood jetted down his arm. Using the Walther whilst pivoting, he parried with a sharp blow to her wrist. The bloodied knife was cast down the hallway towards the kitchen.
Carol cried out in pain and frustration, but rushed at him once more regardless. Her hands were balled into white-knuckled fists.
Han punched her solidly in the face with the butt of the pistol. There was a resounding crunch as her nose shattered and blood splattered across her face. The blow caused an explosion of intense pain, blinding her and sucking the strength from her legs. She staggered back into the living room a couple of paces, with gouts of thick blood oozing down her face then dropped to the ground in a crumpled heap. Moaning softly, she grasped at her smashed face.
“What is this?” Han asked, holding his burning shoulder. “A tag team?”
Aiming the pistol at Carol’s whimpering form, on her knees, he said with an exasperated sigh, “I’d love to hang around to chat, but time is short, Carol.” He stepped closer, the muzzle a mere couple of inches from her forehead and pulled the trigger. There was an audible click, but no loud report. Rolling his eyes, he muttered, “For the love of God.” Looking down at Carol, he appeared uncertain for a moment. Then, gathering himself once more, he said, “I’ll come back for you two.”
Jimmy was slowly and painfully crawling across the floor towards Carol. He paused, gasping, “You’re a dead man, Whitman. Nobody fucks with Haydon.”
Han stared at him then said, “Fuck you and fuck Haydon!” Regaining his composure, he added, “You’re dancing with the devil here, son, and the song is coming to an end. When it stops there’s going to be me, and that’s it.” Offering him a smile of condolence, he added, “Haydon is dead. You’re just its last dying gasps; its death rattle. Just get over it.” He turned to the front door, but before he left, he added, in an Arnold Schwarzenegger burr, “I’ll be back.” Then, gritting his teeth against the pain in his shoulder, he sprinted towards the open door where the storm and darkness awaited.
Jimmy struggled across the floor, dragging himself along by his straining fingers. The blood oozing from his abdomen left a slug-like trail across the carpet in his wake. Exhausted, his head slumped down with his outstretched fingers just able to touch Carol’s leg. In a low whisper, he managed, “Carol … Carol …”
Still clutching her bleeding nose, she turned to Jimmy. Her watery eyes opened and managed to focus on the young man splayed out on the floor. Seeing that he was still with her seemed to centre her reeling mind. Muffled by her hands, she uttered, “Jimmy.”
Lacking the strength to lift his head off the floor and with his eyes tightly shut, Jimmy muttered, “Listen to us, Carol … get out … of here …”
Carol took the hand from her ruined nose and manoeuvred on all fours to face Jimmy. Her bloodied hand tentatively touched the side of his pale, furrowed face. “I’m not leaving you, pet.”
Jimmy forced his eyes open and stared fiercely into hers. With renewed conviction, he said, “No! Get out of here! He’s gunna come back and finish me off. That’s just fine with me, like – I’m fucked anyway.” Pausing to gulp in air, he then continued in a more gentle tone. “You can still escape – hide … till the rest o’ the coppers arrive. Please, Carol – do it for me.”
Tears streamed down her face as she listened to his plea. Holding his cheek with her hand, she snivelled and said, “No, I can’t leave you here.”
Jimmy’s eyes closed once again, but his lips managed to say, “No … someone’s got to su
rvive … to tell people …”
Carol’s eyes narrowed. “Han Whitman will not leave Haydon alive.”
The driving snow stung at his face as Han waded through the drifts building up at the side of the doctor’s house. His head throbbed, his shoulder stung and sticky blood was oozing down his arm. Every joint ached and he was acutely aware of how so very dog-tired he felt. It seemed like the night would never end, as if it were some form of perpetual purgatory for his sins against the good people of Haydon. Good people of Haydon? That was a joke. They were fucking lunatics, every goddamn one of them. He just desperately wanted it to be over. He wanted out of this nightmare town … this nightmare. He needed the reassurance of his old life and the comfort of Ju’s loving touch. He felt cold … cold to his soul.
Blood was dripping from his sleeve, splashing the brilliant white snow with crimson. The dark and the blizzard were closing in around him, making him feel enclosed, despite being outdoors. It sapped his fading strength with alarming speed.
The storm still showed no signs of letting up, the black sky utterly hidden by a blanket of seething storm clouds. The wind whipped up the lying snow like playful nymphs as it continued to deepen still further.
As he rounded the corner, he lent back against the cold wet stone, gasping for air. He reloaded the Walther then stole a moment to grip his wounded shoulder, clenching his jaw against the flaring pain.
After a few seconds of catching his breath, he glanced round the corner back to the front door. The darkness and the thick falling snow combined to distort his vision. Squinting, he struggled to see the opening, and struggled further to see if there was anyone there.
His mind started playing tricks on him. Shapes and shadows danced amidst the swirling snow, each one threatening to materialise into John Bryce. There were others there too. Was that Mandy? Steve? A small shape – childlike – almost close enough to touch, sailed by.
His heart was racing in his chest. There was something very wrong with this place. Maybe he should just take his chances and cut and run. Haydon was going to swallow him whole as if he had never existed.
“No,” he said aloud, his voice sounding frail and lost. He had to see this through … to the end. One thing was for certain, John Bryce would not run. John would hunt him down with his dying breath.
“Aye, you’re right there.”
Han recoiled away from the voice, banging his head against the wall in the process.
A huge, hulking shape emerged out of the storm. Bryce appeared much bigger, even for his normally sizable frame.
Han raised his pistol, but Bryce swatted it away with a swing of his rifle. Han cried out in renewed pain and grasped his hand where the barrel had struck him. “Who the fuck are you people?”
A grin cut into Bryce’s stony countenance. “We are Haydon. And nobody fucks with Haydon.”
“What does that even mean, you fucking lunatic?” Han screamed in his face. Laughing hysterically, he added, “Is this Stepford? The fucking Twilight Zone?”
“No,” Bryce said, still smiling, “we just protect our own here. Haydon protects us.” Stepping forward, he sneered, “You will regret fucking with Haydon for the rest of your very short existence.”
As Han went for his knife he thought he saw something change in Bryce’s face. It might have just been the lashing flurries swirling around them, but his eyes widened and blind panic took hold.
Lying still on the floor, Jimmy’s shallow breathing was the only noise to be heard above the moaning wind blowing in through the curtains. Carol was nowhere to be seen. His head was light from the loss of blood and his mouth dry. Occasionally, he half-opened his eyes to peer with blurred vision at the arc of the room that he could still view, including the door to the hallway.
A loud bang startled him, wrenching his eyes open once more. His foggy mind thought it to be Bryce’s rifle at first, but he quickly realised that it was the front door slamming. The call of the storm diminished only a fraction with it and there was a moment of near silence, save for the flapping of the curtains. Then, footsteps approached and Jimmy’s eyes grew wide. After what seemed like a lifetime, a blurred figure appeared in the doorway.
“B-Bryce?” Jimmy asked in a croaky voice.
“’Fraid not, kid,” Han uttered and slumped against the doorframe. His was staring blankly at the window and his whole body was trembling.
Jimmy studied him for a time then, managing a crooked smile, said, “I bet you regret coming to Haydon now, eh?”
Han choked back a sob and raised a shaking hand to his mouth. “Jesus wept.” He was unaware that he had spoken. The words seemed to waver in the darkness.
“Scared ya, did he?”
Han shot a glance over his shoulder and then focussed on Jimmy for the first time. “Carol leave you?”
Jimmy coughed and said, “Oh, she’ll be waiting out there for you.” He closed his eyes and the words were all but a sigh that seemed to evaporate as they drifted loose from his blue-tinged lips. The tension in his body had abated, leaving him almost restful as he lay splayed out on the carpet, surrounded by his own blood.
Han walked over to the prone figure and tears openly streamed down his face. His movements mechanical, he angled the pistol at Jimmy’s head.
Jimmy just lay there, eyes closed.
A flash of movement pricked Han’s dull senses. Carol jumped up from behind the sofa and launched herself towards him. Han reacted far too slowly. She slammed into him with teeth-jarring force. There was a tearing of flesh as her knife struck his arm at the bicep, slicing deep into flesh and taut muscle. As they both staggered backwards, the gun dropped from his suddenly feeble fingers and clattered to the floor.
The new searing pain jolted him into action. Screaming, he spun and cracked her across the side of the face with the back of his other hand. The action renewed the pain in his shoulder and sent fresh warm blood oozing from the wound. For Carol, the blow sent flashes dancing across her vision and knocked her back into the coffee table. Her legs buckled as she sprawled backwards over the top of it, casting the candle and tea plate across the floor. The stump of candle puffed out as it struck the carpet, melting a small hole, and banishing the soft orange glow.
“Bitch!” he screamed at her, clutching his wounded arm as it hung limp and useless by his side. Blood was now pouring freely down both sleeves and dribbling onto the carpet.
Bending down, he painfully retrieved the gun in the better of his two hands, cursing and gasping under his breath. As he rose, a sound just below the drone of the wind caught his attention. Standing, bleeding, he strained to hear.
Then, as the sound grew louder, he recognised it … sirens.
Scrambling to find her feet, Carol screamed, “No! I’ll kill you first!” Her fury grotesquely warped her features.
Gasping, Han swung the pistol on her, crying, “Fuck you!” He fired several rounds at her.
Screeching, Carol scrambled spider-like behind the sofa. Several rounds whizzed past her, lodging in the wall or zipping out into the storm through the window. One grazed the side of her face, slicing a burning groove across her jaw line, and then a second struck her hip. Her face was numbed from its earlier pummelling, so only barely registered the heat from the graze, but her hip exploded as the bullet shattered her pelvis. She slumped, in helpless, squirming agony behind the sofa, clutching her leg and waist and totally immobile.
Han kicked the sofa, nudging it aside enough to see her.
Carol’s agonised cries abruptly stopped and she stared up at him.
Han looked down at the bloodied face of the woman. She was suddenly still, relaxed almost. He aimed the Walther at her head.
The sirens were much louder.
His finger touched the trigger, but then another sob escaped his taut lips. The gun wavered.
“Just do it,” Carol said with irritated resignation.
“I …” He aimed at her one more time and then, shaking his head, he lowered it.
Without another word, he turned and ran to the door.
In the doorway, he stopped abruptly and turned back, causing blood to spray across the door and frame. His eyes swept the room; Sam, Jimmy, Carol. “Haydon,” he uttered and then was gone.
Lying behind the sofa, Carol gripped her wounded hip and bit hard into her bottom lip to control the pain. Her face was caked in the dried blood from her smashed nose, with both nostrils blocked from thick blood and snot. Fresh blood was dribbling from the gash across her jaw and pooling around her waist from her pelvis. She was shaking uncontrollably, but she slowly turned her gaze to the door and a smile touched her lips.
CHAPTER 16
Slaughterhouse blues.
The Northumbria Police helicopter set down, throwing up gusts of snow, in the middle of Main Street, between Moe’s and the Green. All directions were awash with flashing lights and activity amidst the swirling maelstrom of the continuing storm. Sergeant Wilkinson jumped down first, then turned back to help Chief Superintendent Hewitt down from the passenger cabin, whist shielding his eyes from the clouds of snow being tossed up by the rotor blades.
Hewitt took his hand begrudgingly and dropped into the thick churned up snow, freshly gouged up by dozens of police, emergency and army personnel. The street was filled with Land Rovers and other four wheel drive vehicles, with a myriad of different markings; Police, Ambulance and Northumberland National Park Search and Rescue Team, as well as several with the woodland camouflage of army units out of Otterburn Army Training Estate. Two further canvas-topped four-tonne Bedford trucks were parked further down the street, next to Belmont Motors. In amongst all the flashing lights, people in thick winter clothing rushed to and fro.
The first thing Wilkinson noticed was that a sizeable number of those rushing around were armed, including the soldiers and what looked like the entire Armed Response contingent of Northumbria Police. A cordon had been set up around the village with armed sentries and temporary gates set up to block the main entrance into the village. Unseen sniper teams would no doubt be setting up in vantage points in and around the village as well.