Dead Men's Dust

by Matt Hilton

  He shrieked.

  He pulled away from me, shrieked again.

  “John. It’s all right. It’s me. It’s Joe. Your brother.”

  John squirmed away from my touch.

  “John. John.” I couldn’t find words to comfort him. To let him know that he was going to be okay. I was there for him. I wouldn’t allow the beast to harm him further. I would save him. Find him medical care. I would do all those things. But I was useless. I averted my face and allowed my frustration to escape me in a ragged howl of fury and loathing. All the while, I hung on to John so that—if nothing else—he would know I was there.

  I pressed my face to his shoulder, held him. I was talking to him, though I can’t recall my words. They were nothing more than low, gentle platitudes that issued between wrenching sobs.

  Finally, I reached across and tested the iron nails that had been hammered into the wall. The nails were slick with John’s blood and I couldn’t get a grip on them. I couldn’t undo the chains without the key. So instead I started pulling free the cords that bound his head. Only distantly was I aware that the cords were the dried tendons and ligaments stripped from previous victims. I managed to pull them free, and John’s head lolled on his shoulder.

  The resilience of human nature is outstanding, the terrific injuries bodies can endure before life finally flees. That John was not only alive but in charge of his faculties was truly remarkable.

  “Joe?” he croaked.

  “Yes, John.” I almost burst out crying again. “It’s Joe. I’m here to help you.”

  And just as I said it, I heard the gunfire.

  I spun from John, stooping for my SIG and lifting it toward the door. The gunfire was from somewhere outside. Rink, I thought. Killing Cain. Or being killed. I took three hurried steps before catching myself. I turned back to John.

  “Everything’ll be okay, John,” I promised. “I’ll be back.”

  “No,” John moaned. “Don’t leave me.”

  I shook with indecision but my training took over. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

  And I started for the steps leading out. I had to defend this place. If Cain had taken Rink out, then he only had to keep me penned inside with no recourse but to watch my brother perish. If there was any way possible that he’d survive his horrific injuries, John required immediate medical help.

  Even as I reached the steps, I heard gunfire again. A second of nothing, then one last shot. Then silence. I quickened my pace up the steps. I took them in three bounds, then I was out. Searching for targets, finding none. Immediately I set off in the direction of the narrow cleft between the rocks.

  I shouted one word: “Cain!”

  The cleft was a dark slash between the towering boulders, but I thought I could see movement there. Instinctively I pulled the trigger. And as reactively, someone shot back. I felt the wind of its passing as the bullet punched through the air next to my head. In midstep I dropped and rolled, came back to one knee firing again. A return shot tugged loose cloth at my elbow. I didn’t let it stop me, kept on firing. Six shots in rapid succession, directly into the narrow passageway where I just had to get at least one killing shot into Cain’s body mass. I heard him curse and knew that I’d hit him.

  I dropped to my belly, fired the remaining two rounds in my gun, snatched backward at my waistband for a fresh clip even as I ejected the spent one.

  It was a practiced movement I could achieve in less than two seconds, but it’s surprising how much ground a determined man can cover in less than two seconds. Even as I pushed the clip into my SIG, Cain came charging at me out of the gloom.

  Point.

  Shoot.

  The bullet caught him. It struck his left arm. But he didn’t recoil; he fired back. Kept on coming.

  Bullets punched the earth in front of me, spraying me with salty dust. I felt fire sear my left calf. I grunted. Fired again. And this time Cain doubled over. Though it didn’t stop him. He launched himself at me.

  Prone, I was at his mercy.

  I had to move.

  I twisted sideways, barely avoiding the elbow that Cain thrust at my skull. Then I twisted back toward him, firing at point-blank range. Only Cain had also twisted away and my bullet missed him. He slashed at my gun hand, and the stiffened edge of his hand struck the nerves on my forearm. The SIG fell from my lifeless fingers. Cain’s gun swung toward me. I kicked at his chest and his aim went wide. Then we’d thrown our bodies together, and even as I thrust at his throat with my left hand, Cain jabbed his knee into my groin. I head-butted him in the face, reached for his gun, and wrenched it from him. He chopped at my wrist and I allowed the gun to drop so that I could return the blow.

  We rolled across the sand, and there was no reason behind the strikes we aimed at each other, only that they were vicious and aimed at vulnerable points. Delivered with evil intent. Neither had the advantage. We were both wounded. Both of us were insane with hatred. Both of us wanted only to kill. At any second one of us would get what we wanted. Then the earth gave way beneath us and we were falling into space.

  Somewhere deep inside I knew that our battle had taken us to the lip of the stairs leading to Cain’s lair. We caromed against the steps, each taking the bone-jangling force as we somersaulted downward. Hitting the bottom we were forced apart, scattered on the floor.

  I pulled myself to my knees, my teeth bared as I spat blood from my mouth. Cain was in a similar pose. There was a wound along his scalp that made his pale hair stick straight up. Another wound above his right hip leaked blood. His eyes were pinched; pinpricks of fury.

  “I’m gonna rip your fucking head off,” I promised him as I pushed up from my crouch.

  “Come on.” Cain beckoned. But even as I stepped forward, he spun on his heel and charged into the chamber. I half expected him to throw the door shut, and I primed myself to throw my shoulder against it. But Cain did nothing of the sort. He took half a dozen running steps into the chamber, then turned to face me. Almost languidly, he drew a knife from his waistband, held it up before his eyes, grinned at me. “Come on. If you think you’re up to the challenge.”

  I stooped, drew my KA-BAR. Nodded. Stepped into the chamber. “Ding, ding. Round two.” Cain looked like he was enjoying himself.

  I pointed the KA-BAR at him, a matador taunting a bull.

  “Sanctimonious shithead,” I called him.

  Cain’s lips pinched. “I can see where John gets his colorful language.”

  I swung my head. “Let’s leave John out of this. It’s between you and me, Cain.”

  He jerked forward. I feinted at his gut, and we both skipped back out of range. Cain prowled to my right. I turned with him. He hopped to the left. Ten feet separated us. Beyond him, John hung on the wall, an unwilling witness to our duel. I spared him only a glance. Cain also glanced John’s way.

  “You see this, John? The great liberator has arrived. You really think he can help you? That it makes one iota of difference to your fate?”

  “Leave him out of this,” I snapped. “Me and you, Cain. If you’ve got what it takes.”

  Cain smiled as if he were hiding a great secret. “Oh, I’ve got what it takes. Believe me. But what about you? Up in Washington I heard your name whispered. Like you’re some sort of silent killing machine that even presidents are afraid of. Me, I think it was all hyperbole. I don’t think you’re anywhere near as good as they say you are. Me, on the other hand, well, just look around. I reckon the proof’s in the pudding. Just take a look at what I did to our mutual buddy John Telfer.”

  John made a noise, a hiss of anguish. I lunged forward, cutting at Cain’s torso in a bottom-to-top oblique slash. Cain skipped away laughing. My knife edge had missed by a mile. But that was okay. I’d only cut to get Cain to move, allowing me to leap through the space he’d left and position myself before John. Realizing his mistake, Cain shook his head. Made a tut-tut noise.

  Now it was my turn to be the facetious one. I wiggled the fingers of my left h
and at him, beckoning him to me. “Come on, Cain.”

  Cain did come on. He dropped low, thrusting at my abdomen. As I shifted to block his knife, he twisted to one side. He slashed in an S, bringing the blade perilously close to my throat, a centimeter shy of my carotid artery. Only I was also ducking and my return stab forced him back on his heels. I followed him, jabbing at his throat, at his groin, back to the throat. Cain shouted in forced humor. Slashed back at me. I struck at his knife blade with my KA-BAR and sparks danced.

  I thrust my left foot into his gut. Cain absorbed most of the kick—but not all. He went into a wall, scattering bones across the floor. Immediately he spun, struck at me. It was all I could do to save my throat, at the expense of a deep cut across the back of my left hand. I flinched, and Cain saw that as a weakness. He came at me again. To show him I was no weakling, I jabbed my blade into his thigh. I’d have preferred to rip out his femoral artery, but the meat was as good a reminder of my potency as anything was. Cain didn’t like it. He jumped back, slapping his free hand over the wound.

  He stood there, breathing deeply through his nose as he slowly lifted the blood-smeared hand before us.

  I nodded at him. There you go, you son of a bitch. I repositioned myself so that I guarded John from his blade. Inclined my head, inviting him in.

  Cain postured. He did an adjustment with his feet reminiscent of a young Cassius Clay—a show of bravado to indicate that the wound wouldn’t slow him down any. I smiled knowingly. Bravado was the tool of a frightened man.

  “What’s wrong, Cain? Not so sure of yourself anymore? It’s one thing cutting up helpless people. What’s it like to have your victim turn on you?”

  “Fun.”

  “I bet.” I took a slow step forward. “Bet it isn’t as much fun as when you murdered your wife and kids.”

  Cain stiffened slightly.

  “Or when you killed your brother, huh?”

  “Leave my brother out of this,” Cain said.

  I gained another half step on him. “What was it like, Cain? Murdering those that loved you? Was it a thrill? Some sort of sick fantasy come to life?”

  Cain growled. My taunting was having the desired effect. For one, my words were angering him. An angry man doesn’t reason. And when reason goes, so does training. And my speaking was forcing him to consider the actual words. Even if his response was only to swear, his brain was engaged as he deliberated his answer. While he was measuring those words, he wasn’t capable of planning his next attack. It was a lesson I learned many years ago. Ask a question of your enemy. As he answers, hit him.

  “Did you watch them burn, Cain?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Watched them burn like torches.”

  “Bit of a waste, though. Bet you wish you’d brought them here, eh? What a waste of good bones.”

  Cain paused. I could see that there was regret behind the scowl. He opened his mouth. I didn’t wait for his response. I leaped at him.

  It should have ended then. My knife should have found his throat. He should have fallen to his knees gripping his wound, attempting to halt the flow. But as I’d always been cautioned, should-haves and could-haves have nothing to do with the reality of blood and snot combat.

  Even as I stabbed at Cain’s throat, he was already lifting a hand. Instead of the soft tissue of his throat, I found a sinewy forearm. All right, I wounded him sorely. If he didn’t staunch the blood loss, then he would ultimately weaken and die. But he was still in the fight. And unfortunately, my KA-BAR was wedged in muscle and bone. And Cain’s blade was still free.

  47

  YOU’VE UNDOUBTEDLY HEARD THAT OLD STORY ABOUT HOW at the moment of death your entire life flashes before your eyes. It’s not true. Well, not for me it wasn’t. I guess my life had been way too eventful for that. Not many people get the luxury of playing out a billion reminders before sinking into oblivion, not when death comes in an instant. Instead of the whole panoply of incidents from an event-filled thirty-nine years, only two things flashed through my mind. First, the face of my ex-wife, Diane. It wasn’t a genuine image, but one my mind conjured of future events. She was standing at my grave, but she wasn’t grieving. She wore a face of disgust, even anger. As if she’d always known that this was how it was going to end.

  Second—and equally poignant—an image from only minutes before. John beseeching me, “Don’t leave me.”

  On reflection, those two images whorled through my mind in less than a heartbeat, so I suppose the important facets of my life could’ve been played out within seconds. But I didn’t have the luxury of seconds. If I was to live at all, I had to act now.

  I loosed the hilt of my KA-BAR. It was pointless attempting to wrench it free. While I tried, Cain could have cut enough of my hide to fashion himself a new pair of boots. Instead, I stabbed my fingers at his eyes. It didn’t stop his knife from parting flesh and grating on bone, but it was enough to deflect it from my heart. It also forced us apart. It was a slow release, and I swear that I could feel every cold inch of steel as it sucked free of my chest. Cain went backward, eyes screwed tight as he tried to fight the response of tears invading his senses. I went to one knee, clutching at my chest.

  Cain backed to the wall again, his shoulders brushing more bones on the floor. He scrubbed at his eyes, cursing me in short guttural snatches of sound. I remained kneeling, almost overwhelmed by the agony. His knife hadn’t killed me, but at that moment I wasn’t sure that the pain wouldn’t finish the task for him.

  Ignoring the agony, I rose up to see where he was, and already Cain was coming for me. He was half blinded, but he didn’t need eyes to know I was at his mercy. He was armed. I wasn’t. I was severely wounded. It would be a matter of seconds to finish the job.

  But would-be is a phrase that sits alongside should-haves and could-haves in combat. And the difference between Cain and me was that only I understood that at that moment. He hadn’t seen Rink step into the doorway behind him. Rink was bleeding from his belly. He had a gash across his chin, another across his arm. His face was plastered with gore from another wound across his forehead. But life seethed in his furnace-hot gaze.

  Cain faltered. Something in my face must have alerted him. He stumbled to a halt. Swung around to face Rink.

  “Drop the knife,” Rink roared as he lifted a gun and aimed it at Cain’s face.

  Cain laughed. “You found my gun? I wondered where I dropped it.”

  “Drop the knife, Cain,” Rink said again. He stepped closer, the gun trained between Cain’s eyes.

  “Sorry. Can’t do it.”

  “Drop it now or I blow your goddamn head off.”

  “I’m surprised you’re still alive,” Cain said, as if he genuinely cared. “I really thought that I’d opened you up back there.” Cain sucked air through his teeth, noting that Rink’s throat was fully intact. “I didn’t realize that you got your arm in the way. I only cut your chin, eh? Suppose that’ll teach me for rushing the job.”

  “Don’t try messing with me,” Rink warned. He looked unsteady on his feet. Loss of blood and what looked like a knock on the head were making him weak. “I know what you’re trying to do. Do you think you can get me with that pigsticker before I blow a hole in you?”

  Cain glanced my way. I could see a smile begin across his face. “You know something, Rington, I believe I could.”

  I knew it. Cain knew. Even Rink knew it. The gun was empty.

  “Shoot him, Rink,” I shouted.

  Rink pulled the trigger.

  A click as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  But it was enough. Cain almost swaggered as he advanced on Rink. As he did so, I was already moving. I snatched at the clutter on the floor, came up with the first thing my grasping fingers found, and with all my might I forced the broken end of a human rib into the soft flesh in the hollow of his throat.

  The result was instantaneous. Cain shuddered, his knees gave way. He stumbled toward Rink, who was already coming at him. I snatched at
his left arm even as Rink grappled with his right, pulling the knife from Cain’s listless grasp. Cain twisted toward me. His eyes were wide, as though caught in an epiphany of insight. His mouth was wide, too, but nothing issued forth but a gurgle. My own face was flat, emotionless, as I plucked my KA-BAR from his flesh.

  We could have done it then. A frenzy of stabbing and slashing. Doling out as much torment as Cain had subjected his victims to. But neither of us succumbed to our base instincts. We did something immeasurably crueler. We allowed Cain to suffer the ignominy of a slow and painful death. If he hadn’t reveled in displaying the trophies taken from his victims, I would have been left weaponless. No doubt about it…he’d have won the day.

  Instead, he had to suffer his last few minutes of life in the knowledge that he’d messed up.

  He collapsed to his knees. He searched our faces. We both grinned at him. Miraculously he found a laugh. But it was lost on us. He was simply pathetic. And he knew it.

  He sobbed. Lifted a beseeching hand to me. I shook my head. He lifted faltering fingers to the half-inch stub of bone protruding from his throat.

  His eyes said it all.

  “You reap what you sow,” I told him.

  Cain laughed a final time at the irony of it.

  48

  JUST AS I SUSPECTED, WALTER ARRIVED LIKE A CELEBRITY at a Hollywood bash. There’s no show without Punch. He entered the chamber only after the storm troopers had given him the all clear. Medics were in the throes of strapping John to a gurney—belly down, of course—hooking up IV bags and inserting all manner of hypodermic contraptions into his failing system.

  Sitting in the dust, clutching at a dressing on my chest, I watched it all with a strange sense of distraction.

  Medics fussed over Rink, but I gave them as little notice as I did those working to save John. I was only concerned with Walter. I wasn’t worried that any of us would end up buried under the dirt as I once contemplated. Walter was seeing this through the right way. Showing his gratitude. Otherwise, the armed strike force wouldn’t have given ground to the medical team; they’d have simply shot us where we sat.