Hikers - The Collection (Complete Box Set of 5 Books)

by Lauren Algeo

  ‘He’s sensitive to the light then as well as the fever,’ Brewer noted. ‘We’re way ahead of schedule.’

  Georgie shut the warehouse door and they stood over the hiker. She nudged him with the toe of her boot.

  ‘Looks like he’s got a headache too.’ She glanced at Brewer in the gloom.

  He got out his torch and examined the hiker. He turned his head from the beam of light and squeezed his eyes shut. There was a red rash creeping up his neck and out from under the sleeves of his coat, which had probably been there for a few hours. The hiker seemed to be reacting to the virus more rapidly than any normal person; the infection was on fast forward. If that was the case, he could be dead in a day.

  Brewer checked out the perimeter of the warehouse and made sure they weren’t visible through any of the small, dusty windows. The main, front door was padlocked shut so they only had to worry about anyone coming in through the rear door. They settled down to wait and watch.

  ‘He looks so normal up close,’ Georgie mused. ‘Apart from the eyes, of course. If you didn’t know, he would just look like any other bloke.’

  ‘Well he’s not,’ Brewer replied a little too sharply.

  Georgie gazed at him questioningly.

  ‘I mean, don’t lose sight of what he is. We’re going to watch this thing die a slow and painful death,’ he explained. ‘Don’t get confused and start feeling compassionate towards him. He’s a murderer.’

  ‘Trust me, that’s the last thing I’d feel. I know exactly what he is. I’m just fascinated by how normal he seems. He should look more like a creature from a nightmare.’

  They sat silently for a while then Brewer did another circuit of the warehouse. It was pretty empty, apart from an abandoned desk and shelving unit. The chair under the desk didn’t look as though it would take too much weight before collapsing. The place had obviously been vacant for a while. The main room was a rectangle shape, about 20ft by 30ft, and it had a smaller room attached by an open doorway. There was a little mezzanine level with a rickety looking staircase leading up, but neither of them wanted to risk standing on it. All Brewer could see up there were filing cabinets.

  Georgie sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at the hiker from a safe distance away.

  ‘Where do hikers get cars from?’ she asked.

  Brewer glanced up from the desk drawer he’d been rifling through. ‘The Grand I assume,’ he replied.

  ‘But they can’t have licences and insurance and stuff?’

  ‘They don’t need to,’ Brewer said. ‘If they ever got stopped they could easily persuade the police they have all the right documents. The same way they can get on trains and planes, and walk out of restaurants without paying.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘Mind control.’

  ‘I guess I forgot how easily they can get away with things,’ she sighed.

  The industrial park started to wind down by early evening. It was pitch black outside and Brewer could only make out a couple of distant lights through the windows. They flicked the torch on and checked the hiker every now and again. He’d tried to crawl away once but didn’t get far. They didn’t think he had any clue what was happening to him. The fever would be making him delirious.

  They took it in turns to nap and the night was uneventful. Brewer found it almost impossible to sleep with the hiker’s whimpering and laboured breathing echoing around the room. The only time he did drift off, he dreamt that a slobbering beast was chasing him; one he couldn’t see but he could hear it panting in the darkness and feel its hot, rancid breath on his neck. He woke up in a cold sweat and the sound was still there.

  By morning, the hiker was even worse. His skin was a grey colour and he looked clammy with sweat. He had his hands permanently clamped to the sides of his head, and his breathing had slowed dramatically.

  They ate a small breakfast of the last of the food Georgie had picked up. Crisps and chocolate weren’t exactly what Brewer wanted at least it was something though. If they were going to be there a lot longer, he would need to go out and get supplies.

  Brewer did a sweep of the warehouse again. The car was still hidden behind the building and there wasn’t much going on in front of it.

  It was a tedious day. Georgie surfed the internet for a while to pass some time but with no power source in the warehouse, she had to turn it off before she drained the battery. Brewer mostly sat and stared into space, willing the hiker to succumb to the virus.

  At 5pm, the hiker had a seizure. Georgie had been staring blankly at him when his body suddenly began to convulse violently.

  ‘Scott!’ she cried hoarsely.

  Brewer had been pacing by the windows. He saw the hiker fitting and ran over to where Georgie was crawling towards him.

  ‘What should we do?’ she asked.

  There was nothing they could do. The hiker’s body bucked against the hard concrete floor for a couple of minutes then went still. A limb twitched slightly every now and again.

  Brewer got the torch and checked over the hiker. He carefully lifted his eyelids and saw his black eyes were rolled back in his head. The hiker had bit his tongue during the seizure, and there was a thin trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, down to his chin. His breathing was even shallower now. They watched his chest rise and fall a few times every minute.

  ‘I think he’s in a coma,’ Brewer said after a while. ‘Either that or he’s deeply unconscious.’

  He prodded the hiker’s arm with the torch a couple of times but he stayed motionless. He didn’t want to jinx it, but after the coma came organ failure, then…

  Four hours later, Brewer examined the hiker again. He’d stopped breathing. His heart started to beat faster as he checked for a pulse. There was none. His eyes bore a hole into the hiker’s chest but he didn’t inhale. He gently touched a hand to his arm. It was cold and stiff. The hiker was dead.

  He gaped for a minute in disbelief. The meningitis blood had actually worked. Surprisingly, he felt tears spring up in his eyes.

  ‘Georgie, he’s dead,’ he choked out.

  She was standing by the window with her back to him and he saw her shoulders shaking with sobs of relief.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ he whispered.

  They had done it.

  Chapter 32

  The Grand stared at the map with mild curiosity. It was a large, detailed map of the UK on a digital screen, not unlike another map hanging on a wall in a flat in West Dulwich. There were dozens of red pulsing dots spattered across the map – a light for each of his children. The Grand used it to track their locations so he could tell who was closest when a new job came in.

  That morning, something was wrong. One of the lights was not flashing; it burned a constant red. This was usually only something that happened after he had eradicated a child for disobeying him. It meant one of his children was dead.

  The Grand sent a pulse from his mind to the owner of the static red light. It was one of his sons, Greiger. There was no response. He needed answers. On the map was a blinking light not far from the area. He sent out another pulse.

  A daughter, called Evelyn, answered immediately. ‘Yes, Grand?’

  Of course she was not his direct daughter, more of a great, great descendant, but they were all his children in a way.

  ‘I have a mission… for you,’ he wheezed. ‘I need you to look for Greiger, he may have… perished.’

  Evelyn took the details and left for the location straightaway. She would be able to inform him of Greiger’s fate soon.

  The Grand took a seat at his large oak desk, however his eyes kept returning to the glowing light. This had only happened a handful of times before, when some of his less experienced children had forgotten their teachings and been trapped in the mind when a vessel died. Those sons and daughters were not worthy of his line. They had mixed blood, but Greiger was one of his direct descendants. He was strong and obedient, and completed his jobs. He was one of the skilled ones.

  A frown creas
ed the Grand’s weathered forehead. Greiger had slipped of later years though. There had been an incident a while back with a failed vessel that had almost ended with the target cheating death, but he had recovered quickly to find another suitable vessel. The resulting death of the target had been spectacular. The Grand felt a delicious shiver at the memory of all the bloodshed Greiger had been responsible for over the years. He had always been loyal so he could be forgiven for a couple of lapses in judgement. He most certainly would not have allowed himself to die alongside a weak vessel. Something else had occurred down there.

  There were several folders carefully stacked on his desk, potential jobs for him to peruse. He ran a leathery hand over the creamy surface of the manila envelope on top of the pile. What secrets would it hold? He opened the folder and pulled out a crisp sheet of paper – the only one in the folder. The Grand liked to keep everything simple. The piece of paper had a scripted, gold motif at the top, then a name printed underneath, followed by a price and brief summary of the requirements.

  Alan Doherty was the name on this sheet. The price was £20,000. There were four lines of copy outlining who Alan was, and where he was vulnerable. The last two words in the paragraph summed up exactly what was required – violent death.

  The Grand had several trusted sons and daughters who handled the finer details with clients. He was the one who selected which jobs they would accept, and assigned the child to carry them out. Sometimes he chose based on children in the vicinity of the target, other times it was due to the skills they possessed. Occasionally, he would reject a job. This was usually on the grounds of them being too high profile or not worth the money, but largely he enjoyed a challenge. His children had executed some risky murders over the years, which he was incredibly proud of.

  People were weak and gullible. They believed any rational reason they were given – terrorists, lone maniacs, disgruntled lovers. There was no room in their mentalities for the notion of mind control; that was restricted to films and fiction.

  The Grand skimmed over the proposal for Mr Alan Doherty again. A wealthy property tycoon whose business partner wanted him killed so he could take control of the company. Alan was in his early fifties, and married with no children, an easy target. It was a straightforward job that he could give to one of his young protégées to cut their teeth on. He put the folder in the silver tray on the right of his desk. Accepted.

  He worked his way through the remaining five folders. They all went in the tray on the right. The jobs totalled £90,000, although the money was of no great interest. They didn’t particularly need any funds. He had decided early on that the only way to draw out the high profile, challenging murders was to charge a large sum of money for their services. It weeded out the petty disputes and got them meaty assignments that his children could relish. Large scale, lucrative jobs from rich people with deep grudges. They were elite assassins, and hiring them was an exclusive operation.

  They didn’t have a company name. Their business card was plain black, with the small gold motif from the letterhead on the front, and a number on the back. Nothing else. The motif looked a little like tendrils in a brain formation. The Grand had drawn it himself many years ago on his first target proposal. Aside from those, they didn’t have any sort of paper trail, no tax or VAT or invoices. Their set up was immaculate.

  Evelyn’s voice lulled him out of his thoughts.

  ‘Father?’ Her voice sounded hesitant.

  ‘Have you found Greiger?’

  ‘Yes,’ she paused, uncertain of how to continue. ‘He is indeed dead.’

  The Grand was deeply troubled. How had this happened?

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In a warehouse. It’s empty, Grand, no sign of any vessels.’

  ‘What of his body, my child?’

  ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’ Evelyn was perplexed. ‘His skin is pallid and there’s some sort of rash on his neck. His body is stiff and cold to the touch.’

  He thought for a moment. Greiger had been given a vehicle for the job in question. ‘Is there any sign of the car?’

  There was a pause as she checked. ‘No. There is no car around the warehouse.’

  He rubbed a hand over his dry lips. ‘Thank you… Evelyn.’ He had more questions, except she wouldn’t be able to answer them. ‘Bring his body to me.’

  ‘Yes, Grand, expect my arrival imminently.’ She was gone to carry out his request.

  He stared again at the constant red light on the map. No vessel’s body nearby heaped doubt on the notion that Greiger had died because he hadn’t left a mind in time. He still refused to accept he had been that careless anyway.

  There was an unsettled feeling niggling at the back of his mind. The last couple of months had been strange. News had surfaced of two people interfering with their jobs. He hadn’t been too threatened but taken precautions for his children to be on their guard none-the-less. Then Celiah, one of his beloved true daughters, had encountered them. A man and girl, who not only knew about them, but were tracking them.

  The Grand was used to being the hunter, he was never hunted himself. The fact that no one had been able to find them again made him uneasy. He wanted them either killed or brought to him to torture. How much could they know about his protected operation? It didn’t bear thinking about. He decided to go for a walk in the grounds before Evelyn arrived with the body.

  The Grand lived in a large, isolated manor house on thirty acres of land. It had a dozen bedrooms although they were rarely used. He lived there permanently with some of the children who looked after the jobs. There were not many visitors; all of their business was arranged offsite.

  The house was near a village called Embsay, near the Yorkshire Dales. He had chosen its location because it had plenty of wide, open space around, and not many built up areas. He liked the peace and quiet. The previous owner had been all too pleased to sign over his property; he thought it was his own idea to suddenly retire abroad.

  The grounds were tranquil. There was a small maze of hedges, and plenty of flowerbeds and water features. The Grand liked to sit on one of the benches and watch the birds at an ornate bath. Lovely. It was, of course, well protected though.

  There was a tall, stone wall that enclosed the entire estate. It was covered in ivy on the outside to look less foreboding however the top was lined with sharp, metal spikes. There were also motion sensors to alert him of anyone approaching. There was only one security camera pointing at the gate by the entrance, which was all they really needed. The house was slightly elevated in the centre of the grounds, so anyone who tripped the sensors around the perimeter would be easily seen before they got near the house. There was a long, gravel driveway leading up from the gate. It was the perfect fortress. He had lived there for over fifty years.

  The Grand walked slowly along one of the stone pathways between brightly coloured flowerbeds. His body was old and stiff now, and he needed these walks to loosen it up and get his heart pumping again. He was one hundred and fourteen years old after all.

  His body may have been getting increasingly frailer but his mind was as powerful as ever. He had learnt from a very young age how special he was.

  Chapter 33 ­– 29th October 1901

  When he was four, the Grand realised that he was different. Of course he hadn’t been called the Grand back then; his name had been Charles, or something similar, it was of no importance now. He could recall his parents in vague detail. His fragmented memories involved his mother doting on him and a vague smell of lavender. His father was away a lot, work he presumed, only he’d never asked.

  It was the Edwardian era and times were hard for them. His mother had put him into a nursery school so she could work a couple of mornings a week as a seamstress. He’d never been around other children for such a prolonged period before, and he disliked them immediately. They were stupid, whereas his mind was already developing rapidly. He could speak eloquently and had a basic grasp of reading and writing. He di
dn’t want to play with toys or the other children; he wanted knowledge. He’d always had his mother at his beck and call, and thought that was normal, but spending time with other children made him realise that it wasn’t. He had a special gift.

  It started small. He found that if he asked another child to fetch him something then they would at once. He began to push things further to test them. He wanted a little girl to flick paint at a teacher’s back, she did. He told a boy to shove another boy into the sandpit, he did. It was strange; people seemed to obey him. As time went on, he pushed the boundaries further.

  He soon discovered that he didn’t even need to say the words out loud. If he just thought them, the children still responded. Perhaps it had been that way all along – they weren’t obeying his vocal command, they were answering his mental one. He found it very enjoyable. There was a girl in the class who he particularly disliked. She had blond, curly hair and she was mean to him. She took the books he was reading, even though she couldn’t read them herself, and she hid his puzzle games. He decided to teach her a lesson.

  They had arts and crafts some mornings, and the girl was making paper dollies with some scissors. Across the room, the supervising teacher was distracted with a crying child. He concentrated on the girl and thought about what he wanted her to do. He watched gleefully as she raised the scissors and began to cut off ringlets of her hair. She placed each one carefully onto the table in front of her. After six long locks, the teacher noticed what she was doing and screamed at her to stop. She rushed over to the girl and snatched away the scissors.

  The little girl blinked as though she had just come out of a deep trance. She caught sight of the ringlets and burst into tears.

  ‘Why did you do that?’ the teacher shouted at her.

  The girl stood up and pointed accusingly at him, her tearful eyes glaring. ‘He made me do it!’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ the teacher scolded. ‘He was all the way over there and didn’t say a word to you. Now come with me until your mother gets here.’