by Luke Kondor
Henry felt his mouth go dry. Even more so as Patrick opened his jacket and pulled out a long silver blade. Its edge was clean. There were no signs of blood whatsoever. Was that the same knife that had slain Jeremiah?
She lift up his bloody head,
and kist his wounds that were so red.
“And then there was Kitty. Cut away a few years and I bet she was a looker, eh, Henry? Certainly had a fire in her that one. Had to chase her halfway through the house before we popped a bullet in her. Oh, I’m sure I could’ve had a nice night with her legs wrapped around me. Shame, though. Real shame…”
Oblivious to them both, the hall was growing steadily quiet as more and more heads turned with curiosity at the two leaders of the two tribes with their heads locked together. Yet only Henry and Patrick could see the knife.
Patrick laid the silver on the table and slid it towards Henry as if willing him to take it. His eyes burned behind his irises.
“And what about yer boy, Colin Bolton. Thought he’d find a nice little refuge here, didn’t he? But we don’t let people kill one of our own without holding a grudge, now. Much less two people.”
For a moment, Henry was confused. He’d been told of Colin’s encounter with Stephen, but he’d never been told much of anything about the night Patrick and his cretin followers took his brother’s farm, his brother’s life. All that Colin would say was that a bunch of scavvies under the name of ‘the Millers’ did it. It didn’t take long to put two and two together.
The Millers. A family he only knew too much about already having dealt with them on and off for the past two years, usually from a distance. How long back was it, Henry? When you sent that poor lad, Kenneth, to his death?
More shame weighed down on him as he remembered the spritely little runner, Kenneth Chu, to meet up with the folk camping down at Burham. To maybe open up some trade deals, grow the foundations. Poor lad’s dead body was found a week later on one of Anton’s cache drops. A note tied to the rope around his neck. The writing oddly neat and in cursive.
“It’s not the despair,” it read. “I can take the despair. It’s the hope I can’t stand. Signed, Uncle Paddy.”
“That’s right, LeShard,” Patrick said, his cocky expression faltering as he saw the realisation dawn on Henry’s face. “Stephen were a bit of a bastard, sure, but he was one of the few left in the world who I could trust. Out in the wilds our dogs went sniffin’ for Bolton. And what did we find? Stephen’s corpse to throw on the pile, next to Bolton’s dead mutt. And that doesn’t make Uncle Paddy very happy now, does it, Diana?” Across the table, Diana glared and shook her head. “Exactly. Though, we did hit some luck that night. Seems that ol’ Stephen had a map hidden in his pocket that led us straight to Hope. Oh, we can’t tell you how happy that made us. Not just at the idea of finding Bolton, but we’ve been looking for the rumoured kingdom of Hope for quite some time now…”
She got him up upon her back,
and carried him to earthen lake,
she buried him before the prime,
she was dead her self ere euen-song time.
“But first, let’s start with Bolton. Oh, we have such delights to show that one. Yer know what we did to the last fucker who killed one of our own? We started with the hands.” He grabbed one of Henry’s hands in his own and gently manipulated the fingers. “Simple stuff. Broke the fingers so they splayed out every way but the right way. Then we tied up the fucker’s wrists and strapped them up to the back of one of our Transits to keep him in line. And our Diana over there,” the blonde Miller stared menacingly at Henry, “she burned the souls of his feet with a hot iron poker before we kicked the Transit into second and whipped around for a bit until he stopped his moving. Pretty fucking bad way to go if you think about it. Almost medieval – if you take out the van, of course.”
Henry looked from Diana, to the blade, then to Patrick’s horrible yellow eyes. The colour of tobacco stained teeth. He thought about Colin, tied up somewhere with the Millers, about to be subjected to torture. And it was his fault. He had sold Colin. Henry LeShard. Not only had the Millers taken Henry’s family, but now he’d sold his extended kin too. Henry felt his blood begin to boil. Felt the eyes of Hopefuls burning on the back of his neck.
Patrick continued, eyes glossy. “There were these tribes over in America. Natives. They had some great ideas. They used to cut away the limbs and cauterise the wounds. Then they’d drive their victim’s bones into their own eyes. But they wouldn’t kill them. They’d feed them, maintain them, keep ’em alive. But more as a pet from that point on. A sort of living, breathing trophy. So y’know… maybe we could do that.”
God send every gentleman,
Such hawks, such hounds, and such a Leman.
Henry imagined Colin planted next to the well, nothing more than a potato sack with a head. Blinded, wounded, left as a permanent fixture for Henry to stare at. He glanced around the hall and saw the dozens of expectant Hopefuls staring back. All waiting. All informed by Anton and Veronica of the big uprising that would come once Henry gave the signal. It was all on his shoulders. Everyone waiting on him. What would it take for that moment to come? Would Henry hide forever, give up and let the Millers rule? They outnumbered the Millers twenty to one!
The bubble of anger exploded. “Get out!” Henry shouted, reaching for the knife and standing. “Take your terrible excuse for human beings and get out of Hope, now! Before my people force you out—”
There was a loud noise. A bang. A large portion of Hopefuls that looked ready to rise out their chairs and charge at the Millers jumped in surprise. There was a feeling. A strange sensation, and it took Henry a moment to feel the surge of pain that erupted up his arm. Another few moments and he realised he couldn’t feel his hand anymore, in its place was a swell of pain that was unreal.
Someone gasped and pointed. Another burst into tears. Patrick simply chuckled as Henry looked down to see the bleeding mess that was left of Henry’s hand. Only his little finger and the gnawed bone of his thumb remained in the place where a whole hand had been just a moment before. Henry held it in the air, admiring it as though it were a precious object, blood pouring down his arm. Diana Miller, just a few feet away, continued to aim the smoking pistol at Henry.
Patrick clapped loudly, causing another ripple of shock. “Well if that’s all yer have ter say, LeShard, I guess it is time for us ter leave. But we did promise you all a present before we went, didn’t we? So,” he waved his hands wide and pointed at the door, “let’s all make our way outside, and we can properly thank yer for yer hospitality.”
Henry felt a powerful hand on his shoulder as he was shoved towards the door. Silent tears poured down his eyes as the red hot pain continued to throb. The Hopefuls sat still, frozen in their seats until Henry was out the door. Then they were rounded up by the remaining Millers, guns out on full display.
“Come on, old friend,” Patrick growled into Henry’s ear as he pushed him out towards the well. “Best to give the present outside, eh? We don’t want ter make too much of a mess?”
~ 33 ~
If Colin had any love for running before he came to Hope, it had surely been replaced with distaste now. Carrying Sunny was a stark contrast to the feeling of being pulled along by the dogs. Colin’s boots dug deep gouges into the mud, sometimes barely gripping the floor and threatening to throw him head over heel. They took a sharp left and ran towards Hope’s town centre. That same beautiful vista of a view that Colin had seen upon his arrival was still there, shrouded in peaceful starlight. The fires of the town were lit once more, and they could hear voices.
“Wait,” Joanna said.
Colin knew what she would say. She was trying to warn him of the other Millers. As soon as they’d catch sight of him they’d give him the once over again and throw him in another cage. But there was a rotter somewhere behind, bound tenuously to a lead that could break free at any minute and he’d take the Millers over a rotter any day of the week.
/> So he continued running.
“Wait!”
This time he found himself pausing. Joanna’s footsteps had faded. Her voice didn’t sound quite right. It took Colin a second or two to realise that it wasn’t Joanna’s voice at all.
Standing behind him, faces hidden in the gloom, were five figures, each holding some kind of weapon.
“Yous deaf or something?” Anton smirked, stepping into the light.
~ 34 ~
Patrick stood by Henry and waited for the Hopefuls to file out. One by one they formed a crescent around the well until the bowling alley was empty. Every Hopeful wore the same terrified expression. The same unspoken message behind their eyes. ‘We can’t revolt with our leader held hostage. What’ll they do to Henry?’ It was only Chef who seemed not to be concerned with what was happening as he took his place by the bowling alley walls and crossed his arms.
When Patrick was satisfied that everyone was present (even his own Millers who had created a barricade line of bodies in front of the crowd), he flashed a grin at Diana and Jackie-Boy who held the whimpering Henry still and turned to address the Hopefuls.
“I did make a promise ter all of yer… Hopefuls. Me and me kin’ll be leaving in the morning. Our vans are loaded up and ready ter go. But this won’t be the last you see of us.” Patrick turned and winked at Henry. “It was our good friend Henry here who wanted to make Hope the centre of all trading activity within the county, and we want to honour his wishes, yes we do.” A wave of shocked muttering rippled through the crowd. “Aye, he was ever so keen ter let us in fer his own commercial gain, weren’t you, LeShard? But I’m afraid the Millers ain’t got much ter give. So instead, we’ll be back ter stock up whenever we need ter. But…” here Patrick paused and theatrically stroked his chin, “we have ter say, we don’t quite have faith in the management here, so we’re going to shake things up a bit. Diana?”
The grim looking woman with the crescent face tattoo let Henry’s bloody stump drop to the floor as she withdrew a long machete from her side and handed it to Patrick.
“Wonderful,” Patrick said, sliding a finger along the flat edge. “So, if anyone has any respects to pay to your gaff, do so now. Because this is his final moment.” Patrick dropped to his knees and moved towards Henry, close enough to lick him. His next words were quiet, a secret conversation between two comrades. “We’re going to be giving you the option. You can either die with the honour of a Roman General, or like the scum of some Mexican cartel lowlife.”
“Please!” one of the Hopefuls cried, running forward to help Henry. A second later and a Miller had thrown them back on the floor and aimed their gun.
“Oh, don’t worry,” Patrick announced with mock concern, rising again. “We’re not monsters, no. We’re going to leave the fate of Hope in your master’s hands.” Patrick rested the handle of the blade on the ground and let the tip balance against Henry’s stomach. “So come on, General, here’s your short sword. Now fall on it.”
There was silence in the clearing, only broken by the wind and a couple of muted sobs. The tip of the blade was already biting into Henry’s stomach, but it was nothing compared to the throb in his hand. On some level, he was almost thankful that the Millers had shot him. It might make this part easier. It might distract from the real pain he was about to experience.
He cast his eyes up and scanned the crowd. Over a hundred eyes fixed on him. Not one of them dry. They were his people. His community. His Hopefuls. Every one of their lives meant something to him. He could remember every one of their stories as he hopped from face to face, finding it harder and harder to focus as his own eyes began to tear up. Somewhere far off he thought he heard an animal call, distant in the night, but then it passed. Someone in the crowd blubbered and shouted, “No, no, NO! Don’t do it, Henry”, before a gunshot sounded and the voice stopped.
Henry looked down at the blade. This was all his fault. What was he thinking being so trusting? Thinking that everyone was out there to help and somehow he could expand his trade routes with the likes of the Millers? Blood began to trickle and soak into his top as the knife wormed its way slowly into his stomach. Beside him, he could smell the awful stale stench of Patrick’s breath.
Over in one… it could all be over in one. Why delay it and make it worse? Just let go, fall, and it’ll be over. And maybe… just maybe… Hope will be safe.
Henry took a steadying breath, raised himself slightly, then prepared to let himself fall.
It was then that the noise came. The strange sound of something tearing through the air at high speed. A moment later he heard Patrick grunt and fall to one knee in agony.
*
The arrow made a thwipping noise as it flew across the lake and through the floating embers of one of the torches. It tore past the heads of the Hopefuls and Millers in the crowd and found its target in Patrick’s left bicep. There was an awful crack as bone split from the impact.
Patrick stared in disbelief at the arrow sticking out of his arm. His mouth foamed and his face contorted as he looked around for the culprit. A general murmur began to build as everyone turned to look for the archer who had dared attack the Miller leader, then grew as they spotted the small group running towards the congregation.
“Bolton…” Patrick spat through gritted teeth.
He was half right. Bolton led the charge, with Anton, Veronica, Quinton, Keaghan, Joanna, and Sunny running behind. All armed with baseball bats or some kind of 2x4 (from Craig Martelle’s makeshift construction site down by the old swimming pool). Just a little farther back, Susie K stood with her bow aimed at Patrick, lining up another arrow.
Diana Miller screamed at her kin, “Eyes up!” — a signal to say there were snipers on the hill. Immediately two of the Millers split from the crowd and began to run across the bridge towards the group. The other Millers looked set to join in the charge and flatten the revolters until Anton cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted at the wide-eyed Hopefuls.
“Now, Hopefuls. We fights. We fights now!”
Colin found himself actually laughing as, one by one, the Hopefuls punched a fist in the air. Janet Martelle was the first to cry, ‘For Hope!’, then another voice echoed the words until the Hopefuls’ brows were furrowed and they began to ripple out of the huddle and run for the nearest Miller they could find. Anton’s bat swung and met the face of a stocky Miller with scratchy stubble, forcing him to the floor. He allowed himself a moment of victory before the next Miller came and Anton felt pain course down his spine as a fist connected with his back. Just a few feet away Colin had dropped his bat and was locked in fisticuffs with a Miller so tattooed that he wasn’t even sure the man was entirely human. Joanna had managed a weak punch on another Miller before realising the danger of her situation. She pulled Sunny to the side and took shelter behind a cabin. A moment later and Quinton joined them, knees knocking together as he watched the fight between his own fingers.
At every spare chance Colin got, he looked back at Susie. A real heroine figure standing on the bridge, illuminated by torch light. Her fingers moved fast, loading each arrow in one swift movement. Squinting an eye and letting the arrow fly. He watched the trajectory of one arrow find its target in the side of a Miller-head amidst a group of frenzied Hopefuls and couldn’t believe the accuracy of her aim. All around him now the Hopefuls were in full revolt mode, knocking Millers left and right.
“Hopefuls! Fight, dammit. Fight for your fucking home!” Colin shouted as he felt his spirits rise. It was hardly an Oscar-worthy speech, but when Anton had updated Colin on their plan as they ran to the town centre, he had to admit he had had his doubts over whether the Hopefuls would actually find their courage deep inside and band together.
But here they were. And they were winning.
Colin looked to his right and watched as Craig Martelle punched Jackie-Boy in the face. For a second their eyes locked and Colin saw Craig smiling back. That’s right, old boy. Keep it up. You’ve got this—
&nbs
p; In the half second that Craig was distracted, Jackie-Boy turned with a furious look on his face and leapt at his attacker. Craig’s expression dropped as Jackie-Boy launched a fist which connected with his temple, instantly stunning Craig and sending him to the floor. The next second Jackie-Boy was straddling his chest, sending blow after blow at his face. Blood spouted out of Craig’s nose, he coughed and gargled as Jackie-Boy grinned through his bleeding mouth. Not letting up at all. Colin ran over and booted Jackie-Boy off but it was too late. Janet screamed at his side. Colin raised his head and checked his pulse, but there was no response. He was gone.
Several gunshots rang around them followed by screams. Colin watched almost as in slow motion as several more Hopefuls fell on the battlefield. The hope that he was feeling just moments ago began to fade as he saw the amount of Millers still active, pulling out weapons and mowing people down with a single pull of the trigger.
And somewhere amidst it all, he looked for Henry. Now standing next to Patrick. The machete that would have sliced his own stomach, now in Henry’s one remaining good hand. He was stood over Patrick, the blade raised, ready to chop the man’s head off.
Colin didn’t know which was worse: the onslaught of the fallen Hopefuls, toppling like dominoes now, or the fact that the single beacon of hope left in this world, Henry LeShard, had been pushed so far past his pacifism to the point that he was now in a position to kill someone.
He left the sobbing Janet behind and began to push his way through the crowd towards Henry. He knew it himself that there was no coming back from murder. One swift chop and your soul would forever be tainted.
You can’t recover from death.
“Henry, stop!” Colin screamed, struggling to gain any ground. Henry looked up at his voice, tears streaming down his eyes as Patrick glared at him.
