Hunters: A Trilogy (95 page)

As they raced towards the windmill, Ken was shouting orders to them.

‘Junior, you and your Dad cover the left side, stop the truck when I bang on the roof, get into the front and tell him!’

Junior climbed across and slid expertly through the passenger door, he shouted the instructions at Red, who proceeded to hold up a giant thumb in acknowledgement to Ken through the back window.

Ken looked at Michael – the boy was as cool as ice.

‘Mikey, you and I will take the right side, okay?’ he said.

Michael nodded and balanced himself against the swaying of the truck, his eyes were clear and the whites of his knuckles shone with the tight grip he had on his rifle. They saw the girls’ truck; it was moving at speed and zigzagging like crazy. The vehicle appeared to be driving in circles, loops of dust showed where it had made several passes back towards the rear of the old mill.

Then they heard the sound of shots firing in the distance, barely perceptible over the roar of the engine and the rushing of wind in their ears, but they heard them all the same. Ken would have recognised that distinctive sound anywhere.

‘That’s an AK firing,’ he shouted. ‘Stand by, fellas – this is gonna get hot!’

Junior opened his door in readiness for the dismount, bracing a boot against it to prevent the door from slamming shut in his face. The occupants of the other truck saw them. Ken watched as the vehicle swerved violently, almost turning-turtle, and then raced towards them. The two trucks closed at an alarming rate, and as they did so, the first tracer rounds started to hurtle past them.

‘
Crack, crack, crack…’
The noise of the sound barrier being broken by the speeding projectiles was not one to be forgotten in a hurry, if ever.

Ken banged loudly on the roof and waited until Red had slid the truck to a halt, before shouting: ‘Out, everybody out, get behind something solid and cover your arcs,’ he ordered. ‘Mikey, get into that ditch, if anybody comes this way then let ‘em have it!’ He leapt down from the pick-up and sprinted toward the second vehicle, which was still speeding towards them.

As it neared, Ken saw that it was Jane who was driving; she had Tori in the passenger seat. Both women’s faces were sheer white. Jane swung the vehicle hard left, skidding to a halt at right angles in front of Ken’s truck, the position providing them some much-needed, temporary cover from whomever, or whatever, was down by the mill, down by the mill and currently in the process of getting the range to them just about right.

He heard some more sharp ‘cracks’ and a solid metallic whacking noise as one or two rounds started to find their mark. ‘Get behind cover, take cover!’ he screamed, wrenching Jane’s door open and dragging his wife onto the ground.

Tori needed no second bidding – keeping flat, she slithered her way across the seat to land in a heap next to Jane. Kneeling next to them, Ken asked, ‘What the hell is going on?’ He looked at the two women in desperation.

Their reply was drowned out by the crash of Red’s AK as he opened fire from less than ten feet away. The red giant screamed: ‘Here they come; the muthafukas are in the ditch!’ His rifle spoke again and was rapidly joined by the sound of his son’s weapon.

The time for Jane’s explanations would have to wait, Ken reached into the truck and retrieved the Beretta from the door pocket, cocking the pistol he handed it to Tori and then passed Jane the 9mm Glock which he’d hurriedly stuffed into the waistband of his trousers before leaving the barn. ‘Keep in cover and let me figure out what the hell is going on around here!’ he said, looking towards the windmill. ‘How many and who are they?’ Ken asked, listening as Jane told him there were about a dozen armed men, who seemed to be foreign and had arrived as if from nowhere – then she gave him the bad news.

‘I think they’ve taken Maggie,’ she said. ‘We couldn’t find her, we went back three times, but they started shooting at us, I heard her screaming, in my head, I heard her – Ken, they’ve taken Maggie!’

He looked at Tori and she nodded in silent affirmation of Jane’s tale.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘You two stay put here, use the pistols if anyone comes near, but just stay here!’ They nodded, he was right, now wasn’t the time for heroics and two pistols against a dozen men armed with assault rifles probably wouldn’t be a good idea.

Ken turned and crawled away to where Red was taking cover by the front wheel of the truck. Within two minutes he had delivered his plan to the other men. The enemy seemed to have gone quiet for the moment, probably as a result of having at least two of their number killed by Red. Ken saw the bodies lying on the bank of the ditch over to the right. After making sure they all had fresh magazines fitted, he gave them a nod and turned toward the windmill, they followed him in single file up that same ditch, ten yards between each of them, rifles held in the alert position, fingers on triggers, blood pounding in their ears.

Ken had underestimated the amount of casualties that Red and the others had inflicted upon their invaders. Advancing along the ditch, they passed three bodies and also saw at least another two decent-sized, blood trails. When he saw the patches of blood smeared on the grass, Ken turned to the others and gave them a thumbs-up sign – their grinning faces made him feel a lot better and took some of the gut twisting concerns for their safety away. Perhaps the training had been good enough after all.

He stopped briefly to stare down at one of the bodies, the man looked like an Afghan, but not quite, he seemed bigger in stature and his skin colour was too dark, just as they had been in the Funny House.

Ken shrugged to himself. ‘Who gives a toss?’ he thought. ‘Just as long as they die in the same way as everyone else does!’

The man was dead all right, the lump of meat missing from the side of his neck gave proof to the fact that these guys were just as subject to the devastating effects of high-velocity bullets as was anybody else around here. Ken pushed past the blood-spattered corpse and continued heading towards the windmill. As they neared, the group of Hunters began to hear the noise of men shouting.

Reaching a fork in the ditch, Ken sent Red and his son down to the left, whilst he and Michael took the route on the right – they all knew the two ditches would converge on the main waterway by the mill. There was a grassy bank about thirty metres away from the outer walls, and that would be the place from which Ken intended to launch his rescue mission.

He whispered his orders to them: ‘You guys clear the left side; kill anyone you see along the way, and keep an eye out for Maggie, Jane says they’ve taken her, whatever happens we need to get her back! Kill everyone who tries to stop us, but above all else try and get Maggie back. We’ll meet you at that big mound over there – watch your flanks!’ Red and Junior nodded and without a sound, crawled away down the ditch.

Ken looked at Michael. ‘Are you ready, Mikey?’ he whispered.

The boy nodded – in seconds the two of them began their own approach towards the mill. The going was difficult as the damp grass only provided a thin covering to the slippery mud lying beneath, they were soon breathing hard but Ken kept on pushing forward. Michael followed him without pause or complaint. Eventually they reached the spot where the two ditches met, Ken was glad to see the two others crawling up to join them, both men were sweating and coated in mud from the ditch.

He spoke quietly to them: ‘Okay, good job! Right, listen, this is just like we’ve practised before, same drills, same skills! Shoot and move, use controlled shots and don’t move unless your buddy tells you to, right?’

They looked up him and nodded. The time for fear was past, there was no fear, only adrenaline and anger – it was to be all they needed.

With one word, Ken unleashed his Hunters.

‘GO!’

In perfect synchronicity, the four men burst from cover, the roar of their weapons filling the air with noise. Moving and shooting, shooting and moving – time slowed almost to a halt. Ken felt the recoil, saw the flame and smoke lashing from the muzzle of Michael’s weapon. The boy screamed: ‘Move, Ken!’

A wall of noise covered the onrushing foursome. Ken’s short dash seemed to take forever; he saw a kneeling enemy to his front and snapped two rounds off before hitting the dirt on his guts. The man went down, blood exploding from his chest, bullets tearing through his body to leave splashes of dirt rising from the ground behind.

Screams and more blood, Michael followed through with two more shots.

‘Move it, Mikey, move!’ Ken’s voice was already hoarse, his rifle roared, empty shell-cases twinkling through the still air as he screamed: ‘Move, move, move!’ Running, slipping, hitting the ground with both knees burning, sweat pouring into the eyes, senses screaming. No time, no mercy, no respite – only death.

Red and Junior were screaming from over to his left, firing and screaming; rage and hot lead spewing at their enemy. ‘Muthafukas, die, you fucks, die!’

The noise filled Ken’s head, the smell of burnt propellant and blood flooded into his nose and mouth, rage and joy filled his heart. Ken was back in the land where only warriors can go, back into the eternal battle with all of his ghosts from yesterday riding shotgun. He screamed at the men to his front, all the Hunters screamed at them.

The unknown enemy seemed to wither in the face of their howling assault, firing as they started to run backwards, tripping and falling in their haste to escape the furious onslaught of their attackers. The air around Ken filled with the noise of their hurtling lead. He felt the blast of a passing bullet, its nearby impact sent earth exploding into his face – a warm, metallic taste filled his mouth.

He spat blood and then screamed some more. ‘Move, move forwards – keep moving!’ His rifle was almost too hot to hold now, smoke rose from the stock, the heat burned his left hand, but he didn’t stop. Dropping the empty magazine, Ken racked a full one into its place and kept firing. Screaming and firing. ‘Move…keep-on moving forwards, c’mon, move, move, MOVE!’

They rushed towards the final objective, dust and smoke hung in a haze over the white mill, Ken’s ears were ringing, eyes darting from one likely piece of enemy cover to the next. As he watched for any signs of movement, he heard Michael fire three rounds in quick succession from close behind. Ken saw the white dust of plaster and the red gore of an exploding head, erupting into a pink cloud from the doorway of the mill. The man, who had been hiding inside, fell forwards. Before his body had hit the ground, Red and Junior had riddled him with another fusillade of bullets. Ken’s slow-motion vision gave him a perfect view of the warheads hammering into flesh, he watched the lumps as they flew off the man’s body – they blasted him to pieces.

The aura of battle soared around them, a million years of inbred warrior-instincts, of blood and hatred for their sworn enemy, exploded from within the Hunters. The war cry ringing loudly through their heads: ‘Death to the Demon…down with the darkness, death, death, death!’ The sound of victory shrieked in their minds, it howled like a banshee and its light burned brighter than the fire lashing from their weapons’ muzzles. ‘Die…Die...Die!’

Nothing would stand in their way, not now and not ever!

And then it was over.

Deathly silence descended over the calm waters of the lake, only the sound of someone moaning broke the grip of the ringing stillness. Ken looked for the others, through the haze of smoke and dust he saw all three members of his team; they were correctly spread out and were covering their arcs, both front and back. He shouted over at them: ‘Red, are you two okay?’

The question was answered with a small laugh and Red’s deep voice.

‘Yeah, boss, we’re mighty fine!’ he boomed.

Ken looked back at Michael; the boy gave him the ‘A-OK’ hand signal, grinning as he dropped an empty magazine from his weapon to fit a fresh one.

‘It’s the last one, Ken,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope they’re all done for, huh?’ Then, without batting an eyelid, Michael leaned forward and puked onto the grass. After wiping his mouth, he looked up and smiled. ‘I’m alright,’ he groaned, ‘it must’ve been something I ate!’ Red’s son laughed from behind them, and then said something about having probably eaten the same thing himself.

Ken wiped a lump of mud off his sweating face, spat some of the foul taste from his mouth, and said, ‘Right…listen to me: Junior, you and Mikey watch our backs! Red, you come with me, let’s go and see who’s left around here, shall we?’ The big man grinned and turned to follow Ken.

In silence the two men skirted from one body to another. There were seven in total, plus the three down by the ditch, all were dead, except the last one, a man they found lying half-submerged in one of the water-filled feeder channels for the windmill. He had a horrific chest injury and they saw that he was not long for this world. Red dumped his rifle and hoisted the man onto the bank; their enemy screamed in agony at the movement and lay writhing on the grass with blood pouring from his wound.

Ken knelt by his side, whilst Red, having rearmed himself, stayed on watch and covered the open space on the other side of the mill. The man looked up, then rolled his eyes and began to fade into unconsciousness; Ken slapped him hard across the face and the man jerked back into the present. Ken leaned up close and said, ‘Who are you?’ He shook the man violently. As he stared into the man’s face, he saw the rolling eyes change shape, they became almost feline. Watching in disbelief, Ken saw a smoky, orange opaqueness flooding into those awful eyes.

He tried to shove the man’s head away from him, and was just reaching for his rifle, when the Dark One had his first proper peek at the inside of Kenneth Robinson’s head. Ken felt as though it was he instead of time that had been frozen for a change. He couldn’t look away, felt himself pulled into those cat-like eyes, those burning yellow orbs – burning, pulling, sucking him inwards, deeper.

The man breathed deeply, as if inflating himself, and then spoke.

‘Who am I?’ He belched the words out; the foul smell of rotting flesh and burnt hair rushed over Ken’s face. The man beneath him grinned, saying: ‘I will tell you exactly who I am! I’m your worst, fuckin’ nightmare! Why don’ yoo just get some balls and com’on over here to see fer yoreself, you soft-pricked cunt?’ The chuckle that exited the deflating chest, on the bow wave of another putrid burp, was the most horrifying sound Ken had ever heard, anywhere.