He Runs (Part One)

by Owen Seth

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  Man is woken by the cries of a baby girl and the broken snarls of the balding Hound. Man counts to himself, out loud and closes his eyes. Slows his heart rate for what he knows is coming. Fate? Destiny? No, he knows such things don’t exist. Not anymore. Not in this New World. It’s nothing more than bad fucking luck, and it is forever chasing him. Now, in this shittiest moment, with multiple foes descending on upon him, he knows he has little chance of winning. He must try to play the long game, survive for as long as possible until the time comes to exact his revenge. No matter how much it hurts him to not end it.

  Man jumps out of bed, runs to the window and peeks outside. Torch beams flutter up and down like Hollywood floodlights, signalling the big event of the evening. He counts six torches but knows there will be more. By the side of the bed sits his karambit and hunting knife; propped up in the corner, next to the wardrobe is the shotgun. Two shots, enough for two men. They know someone is here. Emma’s cries and Hound’s barking has given them away and for a second he hates them for it.

  Shakes his head, remembers that she is nothing but a baby and Hound is nothing but an animal. Man will protect them both. If he can.

  Hound scratches at the bedroom door, eager to join the commotion. Outside a chorus of dogs begin to sing and Hound bounces on the spot, his tail down, barking loudly, communicating with his four-legged brethren.

  Man gets his weapons, opens the door and watches the dog sprint into the blackness. Man runs to Emma’s room, looks in and sees her writhing in the blankets, a tiny human form in distress.

  ‘Stay there, baby girl,’ he whispers. ‘I’ll do my best.’ He closes the door and makes his way down the stairs.

  As he hits the corridor he ducks down, under the predatory beams of light that penetrate the windows. On his belly he crawls to the kitchen, retrieves his rucksack which was sitting on the table. In it are four tins of soup and three tins of fruit. Over the hearth hangs the calf’s leg, one he was maturing. He fills four bottles with cooled rainwater and grabs the leg. Hushed voices are distorted through the windows and walls but still he recognises them. He recognises the voice belonging to Smith.

  ‘He’s here, lads,’ says Smith, louder than the others. ‘I know he is.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have kept a baby, boss,’ offers one of the hunters. ‘It could be someone else. Innocents.’

  ‘No, it’s him. You know what he’s like. Don’t kill him if you can help it. That’s my right and I’ll be fucked if I let any of you take it from me.’

  A grumbling of agreements; Man moves back to the corridor. Hound is scratching the back door, barking as other dogs respond. He holds Hound, opens the door and slams it shut. Locks it. They’ll think he’s ran out the back door, over to the barn or past the chicken coops. Man listens, the voices raised, the commands from Smith for his men to check the back door. The voices quieten as they move to the other side of the house. Man sees a solitary shape, a brave or stupid hunter. He follows the shape from the kitchen, round to where the back door is. The other men seem to be moving away from the farmhouse, the sound of hounds and men scrambling for their prey. They are all aware of his skillset. And they should be wary. Very wary.

  The figure approaches the door and shines his light in through the window. Man creeps under it, watches the handle turn to no avail. Man goes into the rucksack, retrieves the television cord lead and ties Hound to the banister behind him. The figure’s face presses against frosted glass and in the dim light it looks dark, evil. Man quietly unlatches the door as the figure tries to shout to the search party. He sets the shotgun to one side. Too cumbersome, too loud. He feels for the curved blade and loops his thumb through the circle. The figure tries the door again and it opens, his torch beam illuminating the corridor and the savage and crazed Hound, bearing his teeth and frothing at the mouth. The light illuminates everything. Everything apart from Man, who lurks in the shadows. The figure sees that Hound is tied up, releases his own beast and they clash. Hound is the bigger dog. Man is sure of a victory. They tear at each other with yellowed, bloody teeth. The figure laughs and steps in.

  Man moves quickly, a feline deadliness in his steps. The karambit soars in the darkness, like a silvery hawk, the tip meeting the flesh just under the figure’s chin. The blade penetrates up into the mouth cavity, rips the tongue in two. Man drags his arm backwards, drawing the figure off balance as the metallic clunk of a crossbow fires a bolt wildly down the corridor. Man hears a canine shriek but cannot stop to look. He withdraws the karambit and watches the figure writhe silently on the floor, desperately trying to hold his torn mouth together. Man takes out the hunting knife and places it at the base of the figure’s skull. He kneels on the butt of the knife, pressing the knife though soft tissue and bone, cutting the spinal cord in half. The figure stops writhing and Man withdraws his blades. He turns to see Hound standing proud, a crossbow bolt protruding from the other dog’s chest. A lucky shot. A lucky night, so far.

  Man drags the figure inside, turns him over and unloops the crossbow from around his arm. He loads a bolt into the slide and primes the bow. The torch rolls around on the uneven floor, flashing Hound in the eyes. Man retrieves it, turns it off. He knows it will come in useful.

  Hound pounds on the floor, turning his grizzled neck to chew at the television cord. Man unties it from the banister, holds the dog at arms-length and creeps silently upstairs. What’s left of the dog’s hair stands on end but he remains quiet. Man knows that if the dog barks again he will put a knife through his skull.

  Together they reach Emma’s room, open the door to see her figure wriggling around in the bedsheets, her cries simmering to a few wet blubs. Man looms over, reaches down to grab her and smells baby shit. No time for such trivialities.

  Using one hand he swaddles her in the blanket, ties it around his back so she is close to his chest. If nothing else he can use her as a shield. No one he knows of would shoot through a baby to kill another. But Man knows that Smith is no man. He has changed, grown wild with the idea of vengeance, feral with a twisted sense of evening a score. If Man and Smith meet it will be a brutal fight.

  Holding Hound in one hand, with Emma at his chest, the ruck sack on his back and a loaded crossbow in the other hand, Man creeps back down the stairs. Emma’s blubs are muffled by the Barbour jacket and Hound stays quiet. Two more figures stand at the open door, beams of light flitting through the house like laser beams. Man stops, sure that his steps have not been heard over their chattering. They move in, the hallway illuminated, stepping in and out of human and dog blood. Man holds the crossbow level, aims the bolt at the nearest figure’s head. The torches remain forward; they do not check the stairs. The further they get into the house, Man moves step-by-step down the stairs. Hound growls next him but is silenced with a quick kick. Man reaches the bottom of the stairs, his foot squelching on the bloodied floor. The two men stand with their backs to him, slowly moving down the hallway, lights shining into each room they pass. A quick kick to Hound reignites the beast within and Man lets loose his dog of war. The figures turn but for one it is too late. A quick aim of the crossbow and the slightest pressure on the trigger releases the bolt in a mechanised twang. The projectile finds its target: the figure on the right’s throat. He falls quickly, his hands cupping the aluminium arrow. The other figure has no time to react and Hound is on him, tearing at his throat with yellowed fangs, white strings of bearded flesh spreading like a split fig. It is only when Man walks up on the figure that he sees Hound’s damage. The windpipe flaps loose, torn clean in two and the skin either side of the wound glimmers yellowy-red in the torch light. Man pulls Hound off him, pats the dog on the head and collects the torches. The figure with the crossbow bolt through his neck is still writhing silently on the floor. A quick stamp of Man’s red Converse crushes the figure’s skull.

  Man drops the crossbow and picks up the over/under, cocks the hammers. In the near distance he hears the hum of worried voices get
ting closer, the low growls of pack-dogs. They must’ve gotten quite far. He steps outside, the shotgun swung up and straight ahead. Hound begins to bark.

  Man looks at the dog and aims the shotgun at the back of his balding head. His finger presses against the cold steel of the trigger and he looks away. A quick jerk from the dog forces Man to relinquish his grip on the cord and the dog runs free, lightning fast into the darkness, towards a group of men who want Man’s head on a stick.

  Man turns and runs and hears the clash of beasts, the canine howls of a dog being torn to pieces. He nears the front of the house and sees eight horses tied up to a fence post, heads towards them. As he nears the horses a figure comes from the blackness. Man sees the pistol in his hand and lifts his shotgun. His left hand comes across his body to prop the barrel up and he squeezes the right trigger. The figure slumps back in a black explosion of parts, the speckles of a blood cloud sparkling in the moonlight. But all Man can think of is Emma’s poor ears.

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  The horse feels powerful between his legs and with each bound he can feel himself getting closer to safety.

  Man took the horse, a black, stocky creature and cut the other seven loose, frightened them so that they ran off into the night. In the distance he can hear screams and gun fire but he knows he is too far away. The pack-dogs bark with each bound but he knows that as soon as he clears the paddock he’ll be safe from them too.

  One hundred yards ahead lies the paddock wall, a black blockade, barely visible in the moonlight. He slaps the leather reigns against the horse’s back, taking his hand off every few seconds to secure the child to his chest. The wall nears as the horse charges with the might of an ancient force. Man imagines himself sat on a stallion, a warrior horse of old, escaping capture, continuing on his heroic quest.

  Three yards short of the wall, the horse falls. The beast can’t see well in the dark, panics at the solid shadow of the paddock wall. Man is thrown from the horse, straight into the barbed wire fence, and then through it, falling to the floor in a roll. A sickening thud of flesh against stone and the wail of a horse cry out from the other side of the wall; the scratching of hooves, struggling to stand up.

  Man jumps to his feet, tumbles forward, his lead foot tripping on the shotgun. He picks it up, shakes his head and looks for Emma. He hears her, a low sobbing and coughing, the creaking of rusted wire. He retrieves a torch from his pocket, turns it on and scans the fence. The hunters will see it; Smith will see it. But he does not care. Man needs to find the girl. Needs to save her.

  He finds her. The torch illuminates the wall and the barbed wire, turns the sheet a lighter shade of blue. The fabric has unravelled, pierced in multiple places by the barbed prongs. The same as the baby.

  Man moves to her, looks over her body. Her legs are bent and broken from the collision with stone, her face is sliced open and bleeding heavily. He turns off the torch and steps back.

  In the distance he can see the hunters. They’ve set fire to the farm house and as it burns they're rounding up the horses, readying themselves for the second attack. He can't stay long. Knows that they'll catch up. And he can't take the girl with him. Her wounds are too severe. She'll slow him down and then they'll both die. He knows what he has to do.

  The hammer cocks back with ease, the over/under aimed using one hand. At this distance he'll not really need to aim.

  On the other side of the fence a horse screams out in pain, clatters its hooves off the hard, earthy ground. Man will deal with that soon.

  He looks at the girl, writhing in pain. He knows that if he leaves her the hunters will ignore her. They want him too much. But their hounds won't ignore the girl. She'll suffer a horrible death unless he does it.

  'I, I tried,' he says weakly. 'I really tried. I'm sorry.'

  The trigger is squeezed with little physical effort. The booming roar of the firearm ends the girls screaming. It ends her suffering. He knows, deep down, that she is free now.

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  The forest engulfs him like a black leviathan, swallowing him whole, swirling his world around in a centrifuge of wilderness. He can hear the hunters in the forest, their hounds scurrying through the undergrowth.

  He reaches a tree, takes the leg of beef and hangs it from a low branch. He smears the horse blood from his hands and places his jacket on the flesh and then continues through the forest.

  A tree appears out of the darkness like a giant, a wooden warrior of nature. The low branches are perfectly aligned for climbing. So he climbs. Hard and fast and recklessly, the shogun swinging from his shoulders. There are no more rounds for it. But they don't know that.

  He nearly falls twice but eventually makes it to the top of the tree. He looks down, sees the torches nearing him. Hounds bark and men shout threats of obscene mutilations. They call him 'Baby Killer' and 'cunt' and tell him that they'll rape him before anything else. They move in a line, five lights, not as many hounds.

  'He's nearby, lads! The Baby Killer is nearby! Let the dogs sniff him out!' It's Smith.

  Man wishes he had one round left in the shotgun. He'd take aim and squeeze the trigger until Smith's head exploded in a gory, mulched pop. The others, well, he’s sure he’d give them a run for their money. He could take another one of their dogs, spend the time training it to be his companion. Already, he misses Hound.

  He watches the lights and men and hounds turn, the beasts barking in rhapsodic bursts. He isn't certain but can only hope that they are heading towards the blood-smeared beef leg.

  The branches of the tree jut out like accusatory fingers, tightly knit together in clusters of wood. Slowly, quietly, he manoeuvres his way around the tree, sits with his back to the hunters, legs dangling over the edge like a bayou hobo. In his right hand he holds the empty shotgun, in the left the karmabit. He realises that stuck up the tree, his only method of defence is to bluff using the shotgun. But that would prove ineffective. They could shoot him from the tree like a possum, revel in the twists and turns his body will display as it hurtles to the earth, bouncing off branches, breaking and bleeding. His chances lie with the distracted dogs and Smith's enthusiasm for taking him alive.

  'Come on Baby Killer, come out to play!' chides one of the hunters.

  'We've got something for people who hurt children!' shouts another.

  'Shut the fuck up!' warns Smith. 'The quieter we are the more chance we have to hear the cunt trying to squirm away!'

  Immediately the noise abates apart from the melody of yapping hounds.

  Man sits, his legs dangling, adrenaline rushing through his body is cycles, slowing down every three or four minutes for his body to acknowledge the pain it feels from the fall. He sighs quietly, happy in the fact that he didn't suffer any worse injuries.

  The yapping hounds grow quieter as they move away from his tree. The decoy seems to be working.

  He checks his arms for breaks or cuts. Sees the scars, the lines that decorate his arm like an army of white stripes. The fresh ones have healed. He'll add another two tomorrow. Can't risk spilling any fresh blood.

  A loud chorus of barking indicates that the dogs have found their prize. A follow up of loud curses and threats cements it.

  'Tear it down,' he hears Smith say quietly. 'Feed it to the dogs. He's in here. Close by. We'll wait for him to come out. He can't survive for long.'

  But Man can; longer than they can. He has the tins of food, the bottles of water. He has more than they do. And they can't exactly make a trip to the farmhouse for any more supplies.

  Man looks at the sky, sees stars glistening in a purple, cosmic mist. He likes that he can see the stars. It's perhaps the only good thing to come from the day.

  A red glow diverts his attention in the direction of the farmhouse, now a billowing mass of flames, he imagines. Generations of life were lived in that house. And then it served the wanderers who needed it the most, the ones who were capable of taking it from the weak. Now it is a fireball, a s
cene from a revenge film. It was Man's home. A fine one at that. And now a tree is his home.

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  Night turns to day and Man wakes in the same position that he slept in. As his eyes open a swift panic passes over him. It's a good job he doesn't move much in his sleep.

  He looks around, his eyes flitting in every direction, focusing hard to pass through the light tufts of forest greenery that encompass the floor.

  Nothing. No one or no animal in sight. They must've moved on.

  The over/under remains harmless in his lap, the hunting knife having torn through the corduroys slightly. He picks the knife up, remembers what he needs to do.

  Carefully, he removes his shirt and hangs it neatly on the end of the branch. His line-marred forearm bares the evidence of his crimes. It's his penance, his way of accepting the violence and the cruelty of his life. Of nature. Of his nature. He counts the lines, seventeen in total, thick and shiny and white in the Sun's morning gleam. He needs to add two more.

  There's always two more.

  The rust-spotted blade meets wiry flesh and slices quickly, almost painlessly. Another cut, wipes the blade on his trousers. He squeezes his hand together to make a fist, watches with interest as the blood seeps out, drips onto the branch. He catches some with his mouth, tastes the irony liquid and realises that he needs a drink.

  Finds a rag in the rucksack, ties it round the sliced flesh to stifle the flow. He grabs one of his bottles, opens it and swills down a gob-full. Another for good measure and then he secures the cap.

  ************************

  Tentatively, Man walks to where he strung up the calf's leg. He doesn't know what drew him back to this spot. Just a feeling. A curiosity of sorts that his mind wants answered.