Michael made up his mind before he even realised there was an issue up for debate. The road offered him a clear path, a place to use his pace to its fullest, but it also made him a sitting duck, a target that could not be missed. What the road offered most was vulnerability.
He veered off the tarmac and into the woods.
As he crashed into the undergrowth, aware that he was making more noise but also hoping that the more difficult terrain would prove too much for his sightless pursuers, he was surprised to find his mind filled with thoughts of his estranged wife, of the way the marriage hadn't so much broken down as melted away. Each day a steady diminishing, until one day, when you found yourself looking, you discovered there was nothing left to see.
Things had been good with Elise, really good for a long time. She taught kids at the local primary school. She smiled whenever she saw him. She sang in the kitchen, little improvised verses that usually swerved into ridiculous territory and always made them both laugh.
Even now, his heart ached as he thought about the way that smile had slowly disappeared, to be replaced one day with curt pleasantries, and finally with a stiff goodbye. The way he had known deep down that she hadn’t wanted to say that terrible word, that she hoped day after day that the man she had met would return. The way, in the end, she felt she had to.
They had moved quickly in the beginning, getting a place together only a few months after they met, in clichéd fashion, following a chance meeting of their gaze across a smoky bar in the Cardiff City centre. Marriage followed within a couple of years and a year later than that, while the glow of the honeymoon period still emitted a failing sliver of light, Elise had announced to him that she was pregnant.
Michael felt it at the time, the dark realisation that having a baby was like papering over the cracks in shifting continents, but he always held out hope that one day something would click, some mysterious unseen machine would shift gears and the smile would return. Yet continents shift, and can not be stopped.
The baby, their daughter, Claire, arrived like the word of God. A miracle that renewed their faith and promised a bright future. She meant everything to him, his heart swelling until it felt like it might burst every time he looked at her. For a time, things felt good again, but still, deep down, Michael knew. Knew that both he and Elise had become actors, playing roles. Saying the right things, doing the right things. But the actions were hollow, and there was no echo of them in their eyes.
Eventually the script just...ran out, and there was nothing left to say, no way to improvise happiness.
Elise finally left, taking Claire with her, returning to her parents’ home in Aberystwyth. It was a hundred miles, the distance between them. A hundred miles and a lifetime.
Claire was six when Elise had left, eight and-a-half now, and her continued absence hurt like a tumour, growing with each passing day and eating into him. He saw her some weekends, bitter tears stinging his eyes every time he had to leave her with her mother, but the long, irregular hours he had to work, the main reason, he guessed, for his wife's muted rage toward him, quickly began to work their dark spell on his relationship with Claire, and he felt it too begin to ebb away.
He had to let her down all too often.
That was the reason he had moved to St. Davids, or at least it was the reason he gave when his superiors questioned his transfer request. It was nothing to do with...the other thing. He just needed to be closer to his daughter, and to work on a Force that wasn't so demanding of his time and energy.
The intervening years saw resentment toward Elise build, naturally. She had become little more than the woman who had taken his child away from him, and whenever he thought about her now, it was usually with anger. When he confronted her, each time he arrived to take Claire away for a weekend or a day trip, their discussions were cordial but functional, a fractured mirror of the final months of their union.
Crashing through the woods, chased by two blood-soaked figures from a fevered nightmare, Michael was surprised to find that it was her face that preoccupied him. It was her, he realised suddenly, that he was running to. All the unmentioned tensions that had built up between them, all the uncommunicated issues, were now so much bullshit. Trivial nonsense that did not have to sit in his gut, boiling away in unnecessary anger. If he could only talk to her again, just one more time, he knew now that he could see that smile once more.
Behind him, it sounded like the roots and bushes were slowing the two predators down; the volume of their crashing passage slowly receding. Michael slowed his pace a little, anxious that he should not stumble over some obstacle and end up dying of a twisted ankle, and pressed on further into the thickening forest.
*
The dog came fast, pouncing toward her, and Rachel had time to notice his teeth, suddenly sharp. Wicked-looking. Were they always that sharp?
He had always had those teeth, those reminders that in another life Sniffer would have been part of a large pack, roaming plains and savagely bringing down larger animals to satisfy their thirst for blood.
Panicked, she took a step backwards, stumbling over the small toolbox that Dad always kept at the foot of the stairs, and hitting the ground, hard. The air rushed out of her, even as Sniffer, his anticipated target now a vacuum, crashed into the shelves lined against the wall, decorated with the junk of an average life.
Rachel saw the shelves begin to topple toward her, and knew instinctively that allowing them to land on her would mean her death. She rolled to one side as the shelves creaked and leaned, finally giving in to gravity's persuasion and crashing onto the floor inches from her left leg.
A noise, half squeal-half growl, told her that Sniffer had not been quite so lucky.
Rachel scrabbled away on all fours and leapt to her feet, coughing out the foul-tasting dust that had no doubt been accumulating on the shelves for years, if not decades.
She half expected to be hit in the back by the wild dog as she stood, but the impact never came. Snatching up the nearest object she could see, a socket wrench sitting atop the ancient washing machine, Rachel turned to face the dog that she had spent her teenage years cuddling and playing with, ready to kill it.
And saw immediately that there was no need.
The jumble of trash that had fallen from the shelves had brought with it a rusted pitchfork hanging from a makeshift hook on the wall. A pitchfork that was now embedded deep into Sniffer's shoulders.
For several seconds Rachel watched open-mouthed as the tiny terrier struggled toward her on its belly, wheezing and growling weakly, desperately trying to free itself from the wreckage. Incredibly, the dog still seemed to be focused purely on reaching Rachel.
Sniffer's eyes never left her, two dark unending pools that, even in the half-light, she could see were ringed in dark blood, flowing freely from the dog's tear ducts. She was still staring into those fearful eyes when Sniffer finally wheezed for the last time and fell silent.
Dead silence in the basement.
She turned to the ruined remains of Jim Roberts then, still nursing a faint, forlorn hope that there might be some life left in him. Hope that fled when she saw the reality: her father's throat had been ripped away, and he had two deep gashes on his abdomen. Little remained of his obliterated face, and the eyes that always seemed to twinkle when he looked at his beloved daughter were gone; eaten away by the family dog.
Rachel thought then of the hug that she had been waiting to receive when her train pulled into St. Davids station just an hour or two earlier, the one that she would now never receive, and of the twinkling delight in her father's eyes that summer all those years before when she cuddled him on the sofa in the bright morning sun that poured through the window, strong hands squeezing her narrow shoulders, asking him to explain how the Olympics worked, and her eyes filled with tears.
Her father was gone.
She wept, her palms pressed tightly against wet cheeks, and allowed the shock and the grief to sweep her up in its hard, unforgi
ving embrace. She cried forcefully then, choking out painful sobs, feeling them torn from her lungs by the catastrophic morning.
Lost in her grief, Rachel almost didn't hear it.
Almost.
A thump, in one of the rooms above her head.
Someone else was in the house.
*
They've finally found me, Victor thought to himself as he watched the police officer moving stealthily through the trees on one of the bank of CCTV monitors that dominated the small strongroom. The small black and white image was fuzzy, but unmistakeable. Odd that they would send in uniformed police, though. He had expected SWAT at the very least, if not military.
The surprise he felt at seeing the man creeping through the trees toward the small surface building that served as little more than an entrance to the safehouse was unexpected. After all, he had been prepared for discovery, and Victor was a man who prepared thoroughly. Discreet motion-sensitive cameras had been installed in trees covering a half-mile radius around his property, along with remotely controlled explosive charges, tripwires and mines that would kill or maim anyone unfortunate enough to find themselves within the blast radius, and which were certainly loud and plentiful enough to give pause to anyone thinking about a direct attack. Both counter measures offered plenty of time for Victor to assess his options, of which there were two; the same two that were left to any cornered animal: fight or flight.
His home was a fortress, and there were defensive weapons he could operate without ever surfacing, but the fact of the matter was that if the organisation had done its homework properly they would come in force, and Victor was just one man.
And the truth of it was that Victor was no fighter. If it all came down to a physical battle then the war was already lost. He was under no illusions about that. No, the scale-model fortress and the cloak of invisibility he thought he'd thrown over himself was Victor's hand, and he had already played it.
Slowing the attackers down would give him enough time to get to the fourth subterranean level of the building; to the escape route that led to a tiny cave on the coastline a few hundred yards distant, barely visible from all but one oblique angle. The cave opened to a miniscule beach that was home to a small boat which would get him across the channel to Ireland, from where a phone call to a man who owed him an enormous favour could get Victor a flight to anywhere on the planet.
Australia, maybe. Victor had always liked the sound of Australia. One of the few places in the world that was inhabited and civilised, yet simultaneously wild. A land of dangerous predators. A place to call home.
The surprise Victor felt at seeing the approaching cop was, he guessed, more to do with the timing of it.
He had expected to be found at the start. Hell, he had expected that his building of this place over a period of two years under their damn noses would have left some trace, some loose end that the investigators would pick up and slowly wind in despite all the care he had taken to make his visits to South Wales, and the money spent on building a military-style complex in the forest as untraceable as possible.
Still, actions caused ripples on the surface of the world, no matter how small they were, or how stealthy their intent. Ripples that might go unnoticed, but not if an experienced fisherman was searching for them.
During those first few months, he had maintained a state of high alert. Defcon fucking One, at all hours of the day, certain that they knew where he was, and were coming for him. As the weeks dragged on he told himself that the delay was simply down to them plotting out their strategy. When the weeks became months, and the paranoia kicked in, driven on by his life of absolute isolation, Victor told himself that their waiting game was simply a ruse. They were waiting for him to lower his guard. Toying with him. He raged impotently.
Finally, when a year had passed, he began to relax, and to believe that maybe, just maybe, he had gotten away clean, and all their searching had yielded no lead. He allowed himself a night of celebration, chugging his way through two dusty bottles of wine, congratulating himself on his ingenuity. He knew the way they thought, knew that they would expect him to have made his way to another country. Right now they were probably wasting time and money trawling through non-extradition slums in the far-flung corners of the globe, while their quarry hid in their very own cellar.
Victor had maintained a strict observance of security, of course, for he knew that people who try to hide from anything are usually caught through their own carelessness. His systems were kept up to date and well-maintained, his vigilance never truly abated.
On the very rare occasions that he had to leave the safehouse for supplies, he did so using the boat, under cover of darkness, and travelled to Ireland, where he paid in cash for whatever he required. It was a chore of course, to travel by sea for three hours just stock up on canned food when there were perfectly good convenience stores a couple of hours' walk away, but Victor would be damned if he would give away his position through laziness.
Everything had gone according to plan, months became years and Victor lived on, the internet and a stray cat his only company.
He frowned at the CCTV screen. So why now, after eight long years, was a policeman moving stealthily toward him?
Victor cycled through the other cameras, finding nothing of interest. The situation made no sense. Of course, the man must be a decoy – it was clear his attempts at stealth were clumsy and ineffectual; an obvious act that Victor felt insulted his intelligence somewhat. Had they forgotten who they were dealing with?
No, the attack would come from the North, that was obvious, but none of the cameras were picking up anything at all.
Victor flicked back to the steady line of cameras that picked up the man's movement, handing his passage to the next like a relay race baton, and stared at him thoughtfully. It was, of course, possible, that this man had no idea where he was, or that every step he took now might be his last; that his life could be extinguished at the touch of a button.
Indecision shuddered in Victor's mind, an uncomfortable sensation for a man who had spent his life making decisions and sticking by them, no matter the cost. To reveal himself by blowing this beat-walker up, panicking and overreacting at a mere moment of chance, would be a loss of discipline that Victor could never forgive.
On the screen, the policeman picked his way across tangles of roots, navigating the uneven ground with the utmost care, blissfully unaware. Victor watched him intently. A decision made in the dark was always a poor gamble.
He needed to know more.
*
Michael had finally lost them, and allowed himself a short moment of self-congratulation, alongside a powerful rush of relief.
His survival instincts had proven trustworthy: Carl and Haycock had steadily lagged behind once the forest became denser, and movement became a matter of picking a careful path through bushes and fallen branches. He had heard their ragged panting grow steadily dimmer as he pushed through the trees until the sound disappeared altogether.
When finally he heard a roar of primal rage that chilled the blood in his veins more than the freezing air ever could, and realised that his pursuers must be at least half a mile behind him, Michael began to finally relax his tensed muscles, almost gasping at the pain that accompanied the realisation that he had been clenching everything so tightly that it burned upon release.
He began to move more slowly then, making sure he made as little noise as possible. Sound seemed to carry easily through the mist, and he was certain that any noise he made loudly enough to reveal his location would draw them to it like a homing beacon.
He was grateful to be able to slow down, not just to spare the agony that had erupted in his calves and thighs an eternity ago, but also because the less rapid movement gave him a chance to avoid the low branches that had whipped him as he ran, leaving painful scratches and welts on his bare skin. Under his uniform, Michael's body was already beginning to protest at the sudden imposition of countless bruises.
&nbs
p; Michael had no great love for the countryside, never had really. He had chosen St. Davids because it was quiet, and because it was the closest position to his estranged family that the Force had been able to offer him. Both of these plus points proved to be as advertised – if anything the miniature city was too quiet, and the day-to-day business of being on the beat proved stupefyingly dull.
The downside was that the place positively reeked of countryside. The town itself looked like the best way to travel to it was probably by time machine – and once you got beyond the borders of the town proper, there was little of note beyond trees and coastline in any direction for twenty miles other than the occasional cluster of ancient farm buildings.
For a guy who had grown up in the hustle and bustle of Cardiff, a city and port undergoing something of a boom period, bristling with renovation and new trends, the lack of technology and concrete constructions was jarring.
Michael enjoyed the survivalist TV shows, watching over-enthusiastic men setting out to tame the wildest parts of the planet single-handed and with little more than a rucksack to their name, but he never at any point felt the call of the wild that other people sometimes spoke of wistfully.
When people spoke about modern life missing a vital connection to nature, his mind simply went blank.
That was down to his father, he believed, to the infrequent and impromptu camping trips to the wilderness that had pockmarked his childhood. The trouble, it turned out, with a camping expedition led by a manic depressive was that the build up promised glorious days of excitement and adventure, yet the reality proved to be excruciating hours trapped in a rain-soaked tent with a dangerously sullen and temperamental beast. Permanently on-edge. Those trips were like living on the slopes of an active volcano. Not a case of if disaster would strike, but when.
He was grateful for the countryside now though, grateful for the cover it provided, even as his thoughts already turned to the very real possibility that he was hopelessly lost. He paused, breathing heavily, and squinted toward the treetops, hoping to catch a glimpse of the sky and gauge the direction of town from the sun. No such luck: the mist – thickening, it seemed – blocked out the sky, filtering through only a cold, unwelcoming light.
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