The Man on Little Sweden

by Sam Harding

“What do I do if you don’t come back?”

  “I’ll come back.”

  I feel a presence next to me and turn to see Jason to my right. He looks at Kate and says, “When we find him, I’m going to call it in. Just stay here, keep warm, and shoot anyone who looks like they deserve it.”

  “Open the back hatch,” I tell Jason. “Black case.”

  He nods and disappears behind my vehicle and I turn back to Kate. “We’ll be right back, okay?”

  She nods, tears filling her eyes.

  “Ready?”

  I turn to see Jason again, only now he’s holding my Mossberg 500 12-gauge shotgun, his jacket pockets bulging with extra shells.

  I nod to Jason and look back to Kate. I’m about to tell her everything is going to be okay, but she stops me with the last words I expect to hear.

  “I love you.”

  I stare at her for a second longer, my lips moving but nothing able to come out.

  “We need to go,” Jason says, already moving back towards the tracks.

  “Go,” Kate says, a smile tugging at her lips. “You don’t have to say it now. Tell me when you come back with your son.”

  I take a deep breath and only nod in reply before turning away from her and hurrying away to catch up with Jason.

  I love you, too.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  4:50 P.M.

  David wasn’t sure just how far into the woods he had gone, but he was sure there was no way the kid could have made it much further in conditions like these. Even David, who considered himself to be in fairly good shape, was huffing and puffing from the exertion, the muscles in his legs exhausted from trudging through the snow, feeling as if the bottom of his shoes were made of suction cups due to the effort it took just to pull his feet free of the wet powder with each step forward.

  And then there were the ravens.

  He couldn’t place it, but David knew there was something sinister in their coal-black eyes. The way they flew overhead, and then perched on tree branches to watch him, talking amongst each other, their black heads cocking to the side when he’d look back up at them. He’d never given it much thought before, but now he was entirely convinced the birds were some sort of messengers sent by the Devil, sent to help the child in his escape. And so, because he was sure of this, David now carried the .22 pistol in his hand with a fresh magazine inserted into the butt and a new round seated in the chamber.

  “Find you, I will find you. I must find you. The Master demands of it. God demands. God forgives. No, not me, can’t forgive me. Can’t forgive me until I come through.” He looked up at the birds and aimed the pistol. “Stop watching! Stop listening!”

  He pulled the trigger, and watched in humiliation as the ravens continued to observe, totally unfazed by the supersonic bullet that had missed them by mere millimeters. He almost fired again, but stopped himself, remembering this was his last magazine, and that it would be unwise to use the rest of his ammunition on mere birds.

  And so, he continued forward, head down, eyes on the disappearing tracks, now mumbling to himself as he moved.

  He was so consumed with his own failures, and with the tracks in front of him, that David hadn’t even noticed he’d emerged from the tree line and had entered a clearing until he was nearly halfway to the lone farmhouse in front of him. He stopped dead in his tracks and felt his breath catch in his lungs, realizing he was totally exposed to not only the wicked storm around him, but to whomever lived in the house.

  He thought about turning back, heading into the woods and then circumventing the house the long way, but that thought was immediately banished the moment he realized the tiny tracks disappeared into a slight depression in the powder. He studied the snow, his eyes squinting, and after a moment he realized he was looking at where the boy had fallen sometime before. Beyond the filling depression were another set of footprints, one slightly larger than the other, but both larger than the boy’s, both leading to the wraparound porch of the farmhouse.

  David tightened his grip on the pistol, but didn’t take another step, he stood dead still, letting the wind and snow whip around him like a cape. He watched the house, his eyes darting from window to window, and then to the old pickup truck in the driveway, and back to the house again.

  A slight movement in one of the windows caught his eye, and he instinctively snapped his head towards where he thought he saw it. There weren’t many windows in the small house, but he knew it either came from the smaller window in what he assumed was the kitchen, or the larger window to the left of that.

  He waited, standing as still as possible, ignoring the cold, his eyes darting between the two windows until—there! It was the larger window to the left, and although it was brief, David saw it. A child’s face peaked out from behind the frosty glass, just the forehead and eyes at first, but then the entire face just before disappearing again under the bottom of the frame. For a split second, their eyes had met, but that was enough for David. He knew those eyes.

  Those eyes belonged to him.

  Finally, he took a step forward, a smile creeping in on his face. So, the boy had gotten help after all. Although David knew that should have bothered him, especially if they’d called the police, he still couldn’t get over his feeling of victory at actually tracking down his prey. God had most definitely been on his side, had shown him mercy for his failure and his lack of focus from before.

  A loud creaking sound could suddenly be heard over the storm, and then once again as the front door of the farmhouse swung open on rusty hinges and then banged against the side of the house. An old man stood in the doorway, his hair and mustache as white as the snow, and a rifle in his hands.

  David stared at the weapon, at first defensively, and then decided he couldn’t help but be impressed at the old repeating rifle, similar, if not identical to what the cowboys used to use back in the Wild West times.

  “I think it’s time for you to turn around and go back to where you came from, son!” The old man called out.

  David noted the man’s deep and commanding voice, but he could see the fear in his bright eyes. Just by looking at the man, David could tell he was no stranger to combat or confrontation, but he could also tell combat and confrontation were amongst the last things the old man wanted to deal with today.

  Keeping his pistol at his side, David called back, “All I want is the boy. Give him to me, and I will be on my way.” And back later when you’re sound asleep.

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Can’t? Or wont?”

  “Does it matter?”

  David smiled at this and then said, “You’re protecting a demon. That boy in there is the descendant of Lucifer. There’s no reason for you to defend him.”

  “Boy, I don’t know where you’ve come from, but if you don’t git back to it, I’m going to shoot you dead where you stand.”

  David sighed and shook his head. He would have much rather preferred to have this encounter on different terms, terms where he had the advantage, and not terms where he stood in the wide open with a pea-shooter while his enemy had cover and a high-powered rifle, especially at a distance of a little over thirty yards.

  “Is this really how you want it, good sir?” David called. “Is this how you wish today to go? Bloodshed over some—some—nonhuman abomination?”

  Despite his age, the old man was able to raise his rifle far quicker than David had anticipated. The first shot echoed into the storm before David had a chance to dive to the side, and he felt a sting in his right arm as the bullet tore through his jacket and outer layer of skin.

  The Demon Slayer hit the snow on his left side and began to frantically belly crawl away from the old man, his eyes fixed on the old pickup in the driveway no more than fifteen yards way. Another shot rang out, exploding a clump of snow right in front of David’s face, causing him to momentarily slow down, but he didn’t dare stop moving.

  A third shot came, this time, David felt a sting in the back of his ri
ght leg, and knew the bullet had gone into muscle and not just skin this time. He cried out in pain, and, as he crawled, he raised his pistol towards the front of the house and began pulling the trigger. Although hard to see through the snow, David glimpsed the old man flinch and raise his hands around his head before backpedaling as fast as he could into the cover of the house.

  David took this opportunity to scramble onto his hands and knees so that he could get to the cover of the truck even faster. The pain in his right hamstring was intense, but he didn’t dare stop until he was behind the cover of the front end of the old truck, knowing the engine block was the best way to shield himself from anymore oncoming fire.

  The pain in his hamstring warranted a look, and David looked down and saw the dark blood dripping onto the snow underneath. There wasn’t a lot of blood, leading David to believe the round hadn’t done any real serious damage, but he couldn’t be sure until he actually took the time to examine the wound. The fact it was dark blood and not bright red was a relief to David, a good a sign his artery hadn’t been hit.

  But, as much as it hurt, and as inconvenient as it was, David knew he could still fight. He had to fight, because if he didn’t, he would be damning himself and the entire world to the will of Satan and the dark forces of evil.

  David gritted his teeth hard and braced his feet underneath him. He counted down from three, and the moment he hit zero, David spun out from cover, his pistol raised, ready to do what he’d come all this way to do.

  The old man on the front porch fell into his sights, and David pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  5:00 P.M.

  The sounds of gunshots cause both myself and Jason to freeze in our tracks. I look over at him, he’s breathing hard, cradling the shotgun I’d loaned him in his arms, and looking back at me with a look that asks, you heard that too, right?

  “Sounded like a rifle,” I say, turning away from Jason, trying to squint through the wall of trees and shroud of white.

  Another series of shots ring out, five in a row, one right after the other. Now Jason speaks, “And that sounds like a smaller caliber—maybe a .22.”

  Fuck, I think to myself. In these conditions, there’s no way people are out plinking at cans or targets. I feel my adrenaline spike. I need to hurry. I need to get to Thomas.

  I tuck the FAL into my left shoulder and push forward, my eyes scanning back and forth like I’m an infantryman on patrol in a hostile environment. Jason keeps up behind me, watching our backside and right flank.

  “Your leg good?” Jason asks.

  “Yeah,” I reply, probably for the third or fourth time since we took off into the woods from the warehouse. I appreciate Jason’s concern for my wellbeing, but at some point, I’d hoped he’d accept the fact I can still get shit done just as well as anyone else.

  Bang! Bang!

  Two more shots from the .22 ring out, and I do all I can to increase my pace, fighting the deep snow and the headwinds that have nearly knocked me on my ass numerous times.

  I don’t know if it’s from the gunshots or from Jason and I trumping through the snow like a couple of elephants, but an unkindness of ravens suddenly explodes from the trees above us and power through the winds high into the air. Their caws like alarm bells, announcing to whomever we’re chasing that we are on our way and very close by.

  There’re no more gunshots for the next few minutes, only the roar of the storm and the cries of the circling ravens above, and I don’t know if I should take that as a good or bad sign as Jason and I come to a large clearing amongst the trees.

  On instinct, I take a knee behind the biggest tree near me, my lower body sinking into the snow, cold wetness soaking into my jeans. Jason does the same thing to my right, bracing the shotgun between the L of his left thumb and forefinger and stabilizing it with the tree he’s using for cover.

  “I can’t see shit,” Jason mutters.

  I don’t say anything and wait for the most current gust of wind to die down before deciding whether or not we should continue out into the open. After nearly a minute, the thickest of the white haze starts to die with the wind, and the outline of a home starts to appear at the end of the clearing. After a few more seconds pass, I can see we’re not far from the river, and that this house is a riverfront farmhouse, built long before I was ever born.

  “Body,” Jason says.

  I don’t see it at first, and nearly ask where, but stop myself. I see it now, a clump on the wraparound porch in front of the wide-open front door. I can just make out a pair of brown work boots and a flannel coat in the haze. A slight breeze picks up, revealing a long strand of white hair lifting from what looks to be the body’s forehead.

  “Looks like an old man,” I say.

  Jason peaks further around the tree and squints. “Yeah, I think –”

  He never has time to finish his sentence, and I watch as his right side jerks hard, spinning him the opposite direction and face-first into the snow. The loud rapport of a rifle echoes through the clearing, followed by another shot that I see rip bark off from the tree Jason had used for cover.

  “Jason!” I call, not daring to move from my cover. “Jason!”

  To my relief, I hear my friend groan loudly, and then I see the hump of his back as he pushes himself up onto his knees. He’s no longer holding my shotgun, and his left hand is firmly grasped around his upper right arm.

  “I’m hit,” Jason says through gritted teeth. “Fucking arm. I think it’s broken.”

  “Stay behind cover, Jason. Don’t fucking move.”

  “Yeah.” He positions himself perfectly in line with his cover and tucks his legs in close to his body just in case they were exposed too.

  At this point, I don’t know if the shooter has only seen Jason, or if he’s seen the both of us, but I do know I can’t just sit here and hope the problem solves itself. I take a few deep breaths, and get a solid grip on my rifle before I make my move.

  I quickly peak around the left side of the tree that I’m using for cover, exposing my rifle first and then the smallest portion of my upper body as physically possible. My eye smoothly finds my combat scope, enlarging the farmhouse behind a set of red illuminated crosshairs.

  Bang!

  Another rifle shot rings out, and I hear the thwack of another round slam against Jason’s tree, but most importantly, I see a muzzle flash in a small window well to the right of the house’s front door.

  I adjust my aim slightly, and turn the adjustment ring on my scope to enhance its variable zoom, zeroing in on the small window the best I possibly can. I see another flash—no not a flash—a glint, and realize it’s coming from what little sunlight there is, reflecting from the silver barrel of a rifle.

  I inhale deeply, and then slowly start to exhale, hoping whoever is on the other end of that rifle is dumb enough to expose himself before taking another shot. I see my crosshairs dancing as I hold my position, trying my best to calm my heart-rate and anxious, adrenaline-fueled shakiness.

  Then, the barrel moves, inching its way out the window, further, further, further, until I can see what looks like the first two fingers of a hand. The rifle stops moving, and then creeps forward again, exposing the rest of the hand, a full set of white fingers around what looks to be the signature barrel and magazine tube of a repeater-type rifle. Then, it fires again, sending another bullet drilling into the bark of Jason’s cover.

  “Why does he keep shooting at me?” Jason calls. “Why can’t he fucking shoot you, too?”

  The hand starts to recede back into the kitchen, and in that split second, I decide I need to act. I hold my breath at the bottom of my exhale and squeeze the trigger of my FAL. The rapport of the medium-length rifle is deafening, causing my ears to instantly ring, but not before I watch the hand in my scope explode into a cloud of red, mixed in with sparks from the destroyed barrel.

  Above my ringing ears and the storm, I hear a primal scream from inside the farmhouse, the agonizing bel
low of a man who’s just lost all the fingers on his left hand in a lightning moment.

  “Jason!” I call. “Can you fight?”

  “Fuck yes, I can fight,” Jason says. “I’ve got two arms.”

  I look over at him, see the red snow, the blood tripping from the sleeve of his jacket. I wince at the sight, but I can see by the look on Jason’s face that he’s still good to go, more angry than anything else.

  “He’s wounded, I just took his hand out. I’m moving up. I need you to cover me. Can you do that?”

  Jason hefts the shotgun with his left arm and braces himself behind the tree without saying anything. A nod and a determined scowl are all he gives, and I know he’ll do everything in his power to cover me should I take fire.

  “Ready?” I ask him, finding my footing beneath me, ready to take off like a sprinter at the starting gate. Don’t fail me now, leg.

  “Ready!”

  I take a series of deep breaths, hesitate for a second, think about Thomas being held against his will somewhere inside that house, and then take off without another thought. My sprint is unbearably slow, both my artificial leg and thick snow slowing me down, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop.

  I focus on the front end of the old truck parked in the driveway, and nearly make it before something hits me hard in the chest. It’s not enough to knock me down, but it hurts a lot, and then I feel it again only inches from the last one. I grit my teeth and half drive, half fall behind the front of the truck and then scramble as fast as I can to position myself behind the left front tire and the old vehicle’s engine block.

  I’m panting hard, and my chest is on fire, but I think I’m okay. I look down at my vest and just above my extra rifle magazines, I see two small holes in the black material covering the Kevlar underneath.

  .22, I think to myself. Son of a bitch just shot me twice, in the chest, with a .22. I’m lucky. .22 rounds are notorious for going through body armor due to their small size and incredible speed, meaning I had just enough space between me and the shooter to save myself from having holes in my actual body as well as the vest. Chances are, the shooter was also using a pistol and not a rifle.