Walk Amongst the Dead

by Mark Newman

  There’s a little over an hour till dusk. All he can do is play the waiting game. There’s no sense in trying to mount a daylight assault, even in the fading light it would be easy enough to be felled like a wild deer. He contents himself to wait it out; he carries out the drill he’s executed a thousand times before. Doing so brings back memories of the old days; he misses the desert heat, the camaraderie, and the banter. Things were different then; he was part of something, something that mattered. He pushes the thought aside. This is now. He’s a lone wolf. Can’t be looking back, got to stay focused. Those days long gone. He’s a private contractor, Civvy Street his paymaster.

  Checking his kit, he unsheathes the hunting knife that’s strapped to his thigh, and draws the twelve-inch blade across his palm. There’s a satisfying sting as the blood surfaces, turning his hand crimson. He squeezes his fist tight, letting the blood run free. Dark red droplets hit the earth, staining the mud a darker tone of brown.

  He sharpens the blade against the grey flat stone. Working it up and down, he’s lost in the trance of the blade as the darkened steel scrapes one way then the other. When he’s done he moves onto cleaning the barrel of the Glock 17 Hi Power 9mm, then he attaches the Tac light, and positions the muzzle of the weapon an inch away from the ground to minimize the light residue, checking the strength of the beam.

  3:27pm. He looks at the sky, the light fading fast. Time to get a closer look. Crouching low, he’s moving forward. He covers the ten or twelve yards to the outcrop. Stopping, he takes a look. He can’t afford to rush in. That’s what they want. Just waiting on him to make a mistake, to give away his position. He needs to take it slow. Easier said than done, the adrenalin coursing through his body. He tells himself to regulate it, he breathes deep, in through the nose out through the mouth. He’s in control; he won’t allow his body to dictate the terms.

  Not long now, he can taste it. His body’s pumped, primed, and ready. Death is coming. This is it, the reason he exists, to pit himself against a worthy opponent. He’s addicted to the rush, knows it’s the closest he’s ever going to get to real combat again.

  Chapter 19

  Malkie can’t rest, his mind a whirlpool of paranoia, he’s pacing back and forth in the gloom, trying to get a handle on those who could be responsible for the botched hit. He stumbles in the dark, righting himself before George can awaken. He’s cursing though clenched teeth, agitated at the prospect of just sitting and waiting, the first time in his life he’s felt impotent.

  He moves to what passes for a window, and risks a peek out through the patchwork of wooden slats and broken pieces of glass. It all looks quiet, like he could just walk out the front door. That’s what they want him to think.

  Malkie uses the available fading light to inspect the bullet wound. He pulls back the padding and gauze, heat emanating from blackened lacerations of skin forming a border around the angry red hole. He uses two fingers to probe the injury, grimacing as he connects with the most tender spot. He reaches over to the shoulder blade, searching for an exit wound, there isn’t one, the bullet’s lodged in deep. It’s got to come out before the infection sets in, but that’ll have to wait.

  He replaces the gauze, then the padding, and tries rotating the shoulder, the spike of pain catching his breath, forcing him to abandon the attempt mid rotation. He’s glancing over to George, asleep in the high-backed chair. He told him to rest up, Malkie needs him alert. If they’re getting out of this alive there can be no room for error.

  They’ll be close by now, he can feel it. His thoughts turn to Frank Mayer, Judas, he never saw it coming. It’s always those who are closest, friends, lovers, those you least expect. He cusses himself, no excuses. He took his eye off the ball, allowed himself to be distracted. Got complacent. Should’ve listened to his own counsel. If the tables were turned, would he have done the same? Skulking round in the shadows. Planning. Weaving the web, it all takes time. Be hard to keep a lid on it. So there’ll be others, confidants, an inner circle of deceit.

  He stares back over to George, the question forms… He scrubs it clean from his memory. Not him. The more he thinks about it, Frank turning traitor that he can buy in to. Be a tough sell for anyone trying to convince George. Frank’s got that survivor instinct. He’s seen the end coming and reached out. Had himself a sit down with Cunningham. Should’ve dealt with that little fuck… Another mistake. Family loyalty – don’t mean shit. Blood runs deep – that’s of no interest to Jason Cunningham. So Frank’s laid it out, he’s the King Maker. Carved himself a chunk of autonomous territory. The way he always wanted it.

  Whichever slant Malkie puts on it, doesn’t make it taste any better. So now Cunningham’s showed his hand, made his play, and Frank’s in the background letting it fall into place. Got the ability to walk away unscathed if it all goes to shit. Content to let others get dirty. Careful not to get bloodied. He’s smart. Been in the game a long time. He knows how to play it.

  Malkie expected more of Frank; he should’ve had the balls to speak his mind. At least he could respect that. Frank’s no pussy. That’s what doesn’t sit right. The final piece of the jigsaw doesn’t fit no matter how many times it turns. Everything else slots in to place. Frank didn’t want the confrontation, bullshit. He’s the go to guy for confrontation, he revels in the chaos.

  So if it ain’t Frank, then who?

  Malkie’s got a burning sensation in his shoulder running down the length of his arm to his fingertips. His head feels light, giddy almost. He exhales, resting his good arm against the doorframe to support his weight. Not like this, he tells himself, shaking his head clear, not ready to sign off yet.

  George is moving in the chair. ‘You still pacing?’

  ‘Thought you were sleeping?’

  ‘You felt the busted springs on this thing? No chance.’

  ‘I need you sharp, George, go back to sleep.’

  ‘From where I’m sitting looks like you’re the one in need of a lie down. Take your own advice. I’ve seen you with that shoulder; padding and gauze aren’t doing shit. It needs proper medical attention, you know it.’

  ‘It’ll keep. Besides, there’s no doctor within twenty miles of this place.’

  ‘We can still make it, drive out of here,’ he pauses, squinting through the darkness, ‘could head south.’

  Malkie narrows his eyes against the gloom. ‘South?’

  ‘Yeah, south, still got friends down there.’

  Malkie’s using his left hand, patting himself down for cigarettes. ‘You reckon?’

  ‘I know.’

  Malkie’s mulling it over, a strange quizzical bemused look on his face. He takes out the Zippo lighter, the flame illuminating his face. ‘And how’d you know that, George?’

  ‘Still got contacts down there, I keep tabs. Not quite a weekly update, but enough to go on. He’s got a family now… and it would seem a habit.’

  ‘Drugs?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. Gambling, horses, card games that’s more his thing. Seems he owes a couple of brothers a few grand. I did some digging, pair of nasty bastards. Fancy themselves as Brighton’s answer to the Kray twins. One’s an out and out psycho, and the other hides it well.’

  Malkie takes a long drag on his cigarette. ‘And why you telling me this now, George?’

  ‘Because we’ve got options, that’s all.’

  Malkie blows smoke rings from his mouth, disappearing in to the darkness. ‘No point, they got us located by now. It’s just a waiting game. Soon as we step out that door, they’d pick us off. Least this way we go out fighting.’

  ‘Stubborn bastard to the end, Malkie. You might be content to die, holed up in this cat piss stinking shit hole, but me, I’m getting out and going after each one of them, with or without you.’

  Malkie cackles, drawing on his cigarette nub. ‘Blaze of glory eh, George, you and me.’

  George doesn’t wait for an answer, making his way to the window, his nose pressed to broken pane of glass, the b
uild-up of grime the only adhesive holding it in place. He peers out through the smeared glass. ‘Almost dark. Clouds rolling in, could be a storm. Like I said, no point us both being holed up in here. I can’t see shit. Least out there, I can get a clear shot. Buy some time.’

  Chapter 20

  The rain’s getting heavier, droplets exploding like gunshots upon impact. Mud turning to sludge below his belly. He’s crawling on elbows, his forearms trying to find purchase, boots digging in propelling him onwards towards the target. He’s stopping every few yards, taking his time, reassessing the objective. There’s no sign of life, holed up, gone to ground. They know he’s out there, waiting. He can’t mess up, his life depends on it.

  His objective is simple, take out the muscle, he’ll put money on it being Patterson. The gunman’s got youth on his side, his foe fifteen, sixteen years his senior. He’s experienced, a seasoned pro. Give him his dues; he can’t afford to underestimate him. A lack of respect could prove fatal. If it comes to close quarter’s logic says his speed and agility win out over bulk and mass. Problem is that theory relies on mobility and being out in the open. Could be a different story in a confined or restricted space. He needs to draw them out, both of them. Take aim, pull the trigger. Clinical – textbook finish. Then he can walk away and get on with his life.

  He’s fooling no one.

  No matter the outcome he knows his fate is sealed, it was the moment Thompson dodged the kill shot. Should never have taken the job. He went against his own instinct. Lesson for life, never let the client dictate the process.

  Moving forward again, his feet slipping in saturated mud, he keeps his head low, the exertion and effort causing him to breathe quick and fast. The rough, uneven ground chaffing through his clothing. Less than thirty feet remaining, before he reaches the back of the house. He stops and listens, just the howl of the wind whipping at the landscape.

  He rolls over on to his side, the clouds overhead providing good cover, lessening the risk of moonlight giving away his position. Dusk no more than five minutes away at most. He’s tempted to just lie there, motionless, content to let time stand still. Part of him wants to get up and run, to get the hell out of there.

  Chapter 21

  The wind-up lantern’s faltering beam of light flickers as George stumbles about in the kitchen’s semi-darkness. ‘Gotta be another way out of here,’ he’s muttering to himself.

  ‘Forget it, George, the back door’s welded shut with reinforced steel panels. I had them fitted when I bought the place to keep the kids and junkies out. Unless that is, you’ve got an arc welder tucked away that I don’t know about.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll just pull it from my arse shall I?’ George moves to the staircase, and places his foot on the first runner, applying his weight to test its strength.

  Malkie’s looking over. ‘Don’t fancy your chances. It’s rotted worse than a seaman’s dick on shore leave. Even if you did manage to get up there, those rafters are just about holding the walls up.’

  ‘That’s it then, we wait for them to come in through the front door?’

  Chapter 22

  Sprinting over open ground, head down in to the wind, he reaches the first outbuilding. He stops for a moment, checking for any movement. There’s nothing. He’s moving again. Renewed purpose, heading towards the farmhouse. His eyes straining in to the fading light. They know he’s coming, they’re waiting, trigger fingers poised.

  Slowing up, he reaches for his pistol. Panting, he checks the load. It’s all-good, but he’s feeling the effect of the sprint, needs to build his stamina back up. He tightens his grip and wills himself on. Running the last twelve feet to the edge of the building, he trips, slamming in to the outside rear wall. Fuck.

  Heartbeat’s pounding in his chest, convinced he’s just given away his position. The only thing he can hear is the blood pounding in his ears. Breathless, he takes a second to compose himself. Resting against the windowless back wall, he proceeds with caution, his weapon drawn. He stops at the disused doorway, steel panels welded in to place to keep out the undesirables. He’s listening, straining to hear over the howling wind.

  Two-handed grip on the gun, he makes for the front door. He’s out in the open, vulnerable and exposed. This is the danger zone, the prime killing area. No time to think, just act. Be easy enough for Thompson or Patterson to take him out. One bullet and it’s game over.

  Voices, he’s sure of it. Not just the wind playing tricks.

  He tightens his grip and listens hard. Nothing, it’s gone again. Was it real or did he imagine it? He can’t tell. There’s no turning back, he risks a look round the corner of the building, dropping low to the ground, hurling himself in to a defensive firing position. All clear. He advances, ignoring the sweat that’s stinging his eyes, he needs to stay focused. Can’t afford to mess up now.

  Moving forward, he skulks along the front wall. He reaches the patched up window, a mixture of makeshift ply and chipboard. Crouching low beneath the rotted sill, he aims the Glock towards the floor, and activates the TAC-beam. He moves his head up and to the side, squinting in to the low light. There it is, voices, definite this time. Game on, he scuttles low to the door. Two-handed grip on the 9mm pistol, he slams his boot into the door, making contact just below the lock. The door springs open.

  His errant prey located, time to finish it. No prisoners. Set the record straight. Two for one.

  He takes cover to the right of the doorframe; confident the stonework will protect him from any bullet. He dives in through the opening, Judo rolls on to his forearm. He swings round, whacks the door shut behind him. His pistol follows in a wild arc, the Glock TAC light illuminating the interior. No target. He continues moving in to the gloom, crouching, keeping his centre of gravity wide and low. Last chance.

  The creaking of a floorboard behind his right shoulder alerts him to the imminent danger. He turns, but he’s already too late, George is lunging from the shadows, screwdriver held aloft in a dagger motion. He brings it down hard, catching the gunman on the forehead, opening up an aperture of pain. He digs it in deep, and scrapes it down on to the bridge of the nose, creating a satisfying crunching as he punctures through the cartilage.

  The gunman screams out, writhing in pain as the blood filters to the back of his throat. Choking, he spits it to the floor. He staggers, wiping the spatter from his eyes, and aims his weapon.

  George springs from the gloom, slamming the gunman up against the wall. His bear like grip on his opponent’s wrist, he smashes it once, twice, three times. The gunman won’t relent, he’s hanging on, determined to complete his mission. He knows his grip on the pistol is the only reason he’s still breathing.

  Desperation’s setting in, the gunman drives his knee forward, and brings it up hard. George buckles, but keeps his grip solid. A shot rings out. The bullet slamming into the ceiling. Shards of plaster splinter, and fall like snowflakes.

  George is doubled over, his breathing laboured, still managing to hold on to his assailant. The dull ache of pain synchronized with the nausea rising from the pit of his stomach, causing him to spew bile, he blinks his vision clear. The gunman brings his knee up again, then repeats the action over and over until he feels George’s strength wain, forcing his arm down, he turns his wrist. George is blinded by the power of the Glock’s TAC light 6-volt Lithium battery, now he’s staring into the business end of the 9mm.

  The gunman hooks his trigger finger, a smile on his face. He pulls the trigger. Silence… Jammed. ‘Shit.’

  No written invitation needed. George slams his right palm in to the gunman’s chin, snapping his head back. He uses his left hand to smash the weapon free. It drops to floor, George kicks it away, leaving the TAC light’s Xenon beam illuminating the darkened recess. George tilts his head, pulls his assailant towards him, crunching his forehead full force into gunman’s face. He feels his body sag, but George isn’t done yet, he hoists him up, throttles him, follows with a forearm smash, and throws him to the floor.
The gunman’s trying to scuttle towards the safety of the shadows, but George stalks him, landing a precision kick to the kidneys. He’s off the ropes, and out of the danger zone. He can take a breather. He swallows down the bile, and leans forward, grabbing the gunman by his fringe, matted with a mixture of blood, sweat, and cartilage.

  George is wheezing with the exertion. ‘How many more?’

  The gunman’s eyes are glazed over, he has no answer.

  George thrusts the flat head screwdriver into the nose cartilage, levering it side to side like a can opener, he increases the pressure. The gunman screams out, his tone resembling a strangled cat. George, his face contorted with rage, spittle flying in all directions. ‘Answer me now…How many?’

  The gunman struggles to focus, his claret-stained, broken enamel smile, still defiant, he mumbles, ‘fuck you,’ simultaneously he brings his arm up, and plunges the blade of the hunting knife into George’s side.

  George staggers back, clutching at his right side, his eyes bulging in disbelief, a rookie mistake. He stumbles against the tea chest, his breathing short and raspy, head spinning. He can’t pass out – Malkie needs him.

  The gunman’s clutching at his ruined nose, advancing towards George. ‘Now we end it, Patterson.’