Sentinel

by Joshua Winning

  As he watched the foul beast throw itself at Reynolds, Nicholas suddenly snapped to his senses. Yelling, he hurled himself at the monster, raising the Drujblade and sinking it into the Garm’s massive front leg, which was pinning Reynolds to the snowy ground. Yellow sparks spewed into the air as the blade penetrated Garm’s armour, and a piercing shriek erupted from the monster’s gullet. It backed off, scraping away from the pair through the mud and snow. Its red eyes burning hate, it licked at the wound and trilled phlegmy comfort sounds to itself.

  Nicholas helped Reynolds to his feet, and the man turned breathlessly to him.

  “Run,” he panted.

  “But–” Nicholas began in protest. Reynolds held up a hand to silence him as he wrenched his own blade from his back. Wielding it in front of him like a sword, he squared up to the Garm, which was already recovering and setting its devious sights on them.

  “Get out of here, boy,” Reynolds yelled. “RUN!”

  Confused and disappointed, Nicholas backed slowly away from the shopkeeper. He’d thought they would defeat the beast together, but now he saw he’d been stupid to think that Reynolds would let a boy get in the way of his conquest. Nicholas lingered by the log that Isabel was perched on, desperate to see Reynolds in action. A Sentinel in action.

  “GO!” Reynolds commanded huskily, and Nicholas didn’t dare defy him. He seized Isabel in his arms and hurtled through the woods.

  For once, the cat didn’t complain, sinking her claws into the boy’s thick jacket and clinging on fearfully. As they reached the outskirts of the village, a horrendous scream sliced through the woods.

  “Reynolds!”

  Nicholas skidded to a halt. That scream. Reynolds was hurt, maybe even killed.

  Isabel seemed to read the boy’s thoughts.

  “We can’t go back,” she insisted quickly. “We must return to the house at once. That beast will be the death of us.”

  “We can’t just leave him out there in the woods,” Nicholas reasoned defiantly. “That thing will kill him!”

  “Not our problem,” Isabel said. She squirmed out of the boy’s grasp and landed noiselessly on the ground. “Come, child,” she urged, already hastening in the direction of the Orville high street.

  Dragging his heels, Nicholas went after her. He stopped as they came to the street, where a handful of people were bustling about, braving the snow in order to shop for supplies. A thought struck him, and Nicholas hurried over to a burly bald man who was coming along the pavement.

  “Please,” the boy said. “You have to help us. The thing in the woods, it’s got Reynolds.”

  The burly man didn’t seem to notice him, though, and carried on down the high street as if Nicholas hadn’t spoken at all. Cursing the insolence of the Orville folk, Nicholas rushed up to the next person he saw – a middle-aged woman with short black hair and a puffy blue winter coat who was carrying a full bag of groceries.

  “Please,” Nicholas began again with growing desperation. “Please, can you help us?” The woman ignored him and, frustrated, Nicholas seized her by the arm. “Please,” he begged. “There’s something in the woods and it’s going to kill Reynolds.”

  The woman stared fearfully at him, just as the man at the Red Lion had done the previous day.

  Nicholas squeezed her arm encouragingly, tried to soften his voice. “Is there anybody who can help us?” he pleaded.

  The woman only gasped in horror, staring right through him as if he were nothing more than vapour. Dropping her groceries, she let out a shriek and jerked her arm free, scrabbling down the street away from him.

  “They can’t see you, child,” Isabel said slowly.

  Puzzled, Nicholas looked down at her. “What? What do you mean?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” the cat said, casting an appraising look at the people in the street. “This is no normal village. I don’t know what’s happened here, but I doubt anybody who lives here can see outsiders. They certainly can’t see you or I. Come, we must leave this damned place.”

  Baffled, Nicholas stared apprehensively at the villagers going about their business. They couldn’t see him? They could certainly feel his touch, maybe even hear his voice, so why couldn’t they see him? He shivered, recalling how he’d felt when they’d first stumbled upon the village. That feeling of unease, almost like the place itself was aware of him.

  “Nicholas!”

  The boy snapped back to reality as the gruff voice cried his name. It was Reynolds!

  Nicholas turned to see the shopkeeper staggering down the street toward him. His face was covered in blood and he was limping, his left trouser leg tattered and stained.

  “The shop,” Reynolds huffed, sweat running down his face, mingling with the blood. “We have to get to the shop. I lost the gun. And the blade. That hellbeast’s stronger than I thought. I wounded it, but it’ll be after our innards now more than ever.”

  “No,” Nicholas said. He didn’t want to stay in the village any longer than he had to – especially after what Isabel had just said. “We should go to the house. Come on.”

  Isabel shot the boy a glare, but Nicholas didn’t stop to argue, putting an arm around Reynolds’ waist and shouldering the man’s weight. Considering Reynolds’ ample girth, it took a concerted effort, and together they stumbled through the village.

  “Come on!” Nicholas yelled at the cat and Isabel hurried after.

  As they hastened out into the fields, that familiar wheezing screech sounded through the trees, and all three of them broke into a run.

  “I could’ve helped,” Nicholas panted, struggling as Reynolds’ arm dug into his shoulder. “Back in the woods. Why wouldn’t you let me?”

  Reynolds winced as pain shot up his leg. “I…” he gasped. “I… wanted to… protect you.”

  “I don’t need protecting,” Nicholas cried. “Why does everybody think I need so much protection?” If the shopkeeper hadn’t been in such bad shape, he’d have suggested going back and finishing off the monster instead of fleeing to the house. He knew, though, that Reynolds wouldn’t allow it, especially with that leg.

  Another inhuman scream sounded, closer this time, and Nicholas attempted to quicken his pace, pulling Reynolds with him.

  The house appeared before them and they hurried to it.

  Letting go of Reynolds, Nicholas raced up the steps and threw open the front door. The shopkeeper was right behind him, but he tripped on the top step and tumbled to his knees.

  “Come on!” Nicholas cried. He grabbed the man’s hand and hauled him inside.

  “Thanks,” Reynolds huffed. He pushed Nicholas away from the door and turned just as the Garm monster launched itself up the steps. It ignored Isabel, who was still at the foot of the stairs, and its claws scraped against the stone like metal.

  It went to hurl itself through the door when Reynolds suddenly straightened, threw his arms up and bellowed “STOP!”

  The beast skidded to a halt on the top step and glowered up at the man. Nicholas stared on incredulously as the monster’s behaviour changed completely. Its ruby eyes became meek and docile as they blinked dopily up at Reynolds, and it sat there obediently, as if awaiting a command.

  “Good Garm,” Reynolds soothed, peering down at the massive beast. He reached out and patted him on the snout. The creature gave an affectionate snort.

  “I think you’ve earned your supper,” Reynolds cooed. “How do you like the sound of cat?”

  The Garm tilted its head and saliva oozed out of the corner of its gaping maw.

  “Go get her,” Reynolds commanded encouragingly. An excited squeal escaped the monster’s throat, and it whirled about on the steps, rushing clumsily down to where Isabel was sitting, still panting and breathless.

  “Reynolds?” Nicholas began unsurely. “What’s going on?” He stepped backwards slowly, disturbed by the way the man had suddenly changed.

  “Why don’t you just call me Snelling from now on?” the other man said, leering at the
boy. “I always preferred that name.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Harvesters

  SAM’S HEAD STRUCK THE FLOOR WITH a sickening crack and immediately the world began to spin. The old man heaved himself woozily onto his hands and knees and attempted to get up, but a boot dug him hard in the ribs and he collapsed against the floor once more.

  “Oh, come, come, old man,” a venomous voice goaded over his shoulder. “I thought you had a little more fight in you than that.”

  They were still in the living room. Sam’s head pounded dully, as if at any moment it was going to implode, and blood wept from a cut above his right eye, half blinding him. He gasped in short, sharp breaths, his ribs screaming, every inch of his body aching. In the back of his mind, a tiny voice considered the possibility that this was it; he was done for. He didn’t want to think that way, wouldn’t have done even five years ago, but he was too old for this sort of thing now.

  “You–” stuttered the old man with effort. “You’re a coward.”

  Richard threw his head back and howled with laughter. “Words can’t hurt me now,” the scruffy man sneered. “That’s okay, though. Words are all you’ve got. You’re feeble. Pathetic. Should’ve been put out to pasture years ago. He was only friends with you out of pity, you know. He hated you. Couldn’t wait for you to cark it and end your ceaseless meddling.”

  Sam tried to shut out the needling words, but they jabbed at their intended mark like pokers. Even if this thing that used to be Richard was no longer his friend, he knew exactly where the sore spots were.

  Steel-like hands seized the elderly man’s shoulders and suddenly Sam was being dragged to his feet. He was spun to face Richard and the older man stared blearily into that smirking, bearded face. The afternoon sun had almost entirely sunk below the window frame and the shadows distorted themselves across Richard’s stiff, skeletal features. His hair was lank and greasy, and he looked meaner than ever.

  “This is just the beginning, Sam,” he goaded. “We’re everywhere, and with each sunrise our numbers swell. The Sentinels will join us or die screaming.”

  “N–never,” Sam muttered, wiping at his bloody eye.

  “The Dark Prophets are mustering their strength,” Richard said. He put a grubby finger to his lips. “Shhh, listen,” he whispered, cupping a hand to his ear. “Can you hear that? That silence? It’s the sound of defeat. The fight is already over.” He scratched his beard thoughtfully. “I’ll give you a sporting chance. If you can land one hit, I’ll let you have it. Go on – in the name of sportsmanship.”

  Sam swayed unsteadily. Pain ran jaggedly down his right leg where Richard had kicked it moments before. In front of him, the other man hopped about like his veins were crackling with electricity instead of blood. He couldn’t stay still for more than a second.

  His head throbbing, Sam wracked his brain for a way out of this. What in this room or the next could save him? Then he had it. The knife. The one that Richard had sunk into the arm of the chair earlier. It was still there, and Sam was standing right next to the chair. Could he move fast enough? Sam doubted it, but if he could get in just one good hit, it might buy him the time he needed to snatch the blade up.

  Still swaying, Sam attempted to focus his mind, push every angry thought he could muster down the length of his arm to gather in a ball in his fist. He gritted his teeth, then swung his fist up with as much furious energy as he could.

  Richard was too fast. He blocked the punch easily, and landed a hard smack to Sam’s left temple. The old man went down again. He coughed, tasted carpet and blood. As he heard Richard pace toward him, though, he realised through the daze of pain and exhaustion that he’d landed right by the armchair. Rallying his strength once more, he flailed a hand upward, gripped the blade’s handle, and wrenched it free from the chair.

  It wasn’t a moment too soon. Rolling over onto his back, Sam raised the knife just as Richard threw himself at the old man. Sam slashed the blade in an arc in front of him, and Richard only just managed to dodge its bite. The knife still caught his arm, though, and Richard snorted, recoiling from the contact.

  Head clearing slightly in the wake of this small victory, Sam wobbled to his feet and clutched the blade before him. Richard ignored his bleeding arm and stared Sam down like a mad dog, not sure how to react now that the odds had changed.

  “Richard,” Sam panted. “Stop this. Whatever it is that’s got you, you can free yourself from it. You’re stronger than it.”

  Blood trickled down Richard’s forearm and dripped onto the living room carpet. “Richard’s dead,” he told the other man coolly. “He died in that sad little house of his, and it’s a good thing. He was a waste of space, a snivelling lowlife who spent his entire life in the shadows of others, too afraid to take credit for anything.”

  “You’re a good man,” Sam persisted, his shoulders sagging with fatigue. He could barely keep the knife pointed at Richard. “A smart man. You can come back from this.” His voice was desperate now. “You have to fight.”

  “RICHARD’S GONE!” the other man bellowed, and he bowled into Sam. Together they hurtled through an open doorway into the kitchen where they collided with the kitchen table. Richard pummelled Sam in the stomach with his fists, and the old man grunted, slashing out with the knife. It sunk into Richard’s abdomen and Richard yowled. Sam shoved the man away from him and got behind the table.

  “Please, Richard,” Sam pleaded, the hand gripping the knife now slick with the other man’s blood. Richard shot him a deadly stare, then leapt up onto the table. He kicked Sam in the jaw, and the old man crashed against the sideboard, knocking the toaster and kettle onto the floor. Richard jumped on top of him, forcing Sam down onto the linoleum, gripping the old man’s throat with his dirty fingers. He squeezed.

  “How much fun do you think they’re having with her right now?” he teased, pushing his face so close to Sam’s that his stale breath violated his nostrils. “The black witch. After I’ve dealt with you, I think I’ll go and get some of that for myself. I’ll bet she squeals.”

  Sam battered feebly at the vice-like grip at his throat, but Richard was too strong. The clamp of his rough fingers crushed his windpipe and he couldn’t breathe. The blood pumped deafeningly in his temples and everything started to go fuzzy.

  “Nnnn,” Sam gurgled. Richard batted the old man’s flapping arms away as if he were swatting at a bad smell.

  “I’ll bet she’s as feisty elsewhere as she was with her fists,” Richard drooled, revelling in his power over the nuisance pensioner.

  Sam’s hands beat against the linoleum floor, questing for the knife, which he’d dropped in the scuffle. Then his fingers grazed something – the metallic kettle. As he felt himself starting to lose consciousness, he gripped the handle and swung the kettle at Richard’s head. It made a dull clunk, and Richard rolled heavily off him. Sam wheezed in a welcome breath, spluttering as his lungs filled with air.

  Richard sprawled on the floor in a daze, blood splattered across his face.

  The kettle trembled in Sam’s fingers as he heaved himself up, and the other man looked at him with scared eyes.

  “Sam,” Richard choked. “Sam…”

  The old man’s heart leapt. It sounded just like the Richard he knew. His friend. He softened, went to move toward the fallen man. In an instant, Richard’s features contorted and he bared his teeth in a snarl. He lashed out with his bloodied hands, clawing the air in desperation, clutching for the old man.

  Sam brought the kettle down on his skull. It made an upsetting squelch. Driven by blind hatred now, he lifted it and brought it smashing down again. And again. And again, venting his anger at the thing that had destroyed his friend until it wasn’t moving anymore.

  Finally, shattered, the old man dropped the kettle and collapsed onto the kitchen floor.

  With Richard’s lifeless body pooling blood across the white linoleum, Sam slipped into unconsciousness.

  He wasn’t sure how long he
was out for, but when he came to it was dark. Richard’s dead eyes stared accusingly through the gloom at him and Sam turned away. He struggled to his feet, sucking the air in sharply as pain spiked at his ribs. He limped to the kitchen sink, took a dirty mug from the side and filled it with water, gulping down three cups before his mouth stopped tasting like blood and sandpaper. Then he opened the cupboard by the sink and retrieved a first aid kit.

  For half an hour he cleaned and bandaged himself, put a plaster over the cut above his right eye. He’d done this before, but that didn’t lessen the sting of the antiseptic wipes. One thing drove him: Liberty. They had her. Where they’d taken her he couldn’t guess. Liberty had sensed Malika’s presence at the museum, but why would they return there? Malika had already obtained what she needed from that place. Richard’s home was a tip. He only had one option. The church from the Ecto message. St. John’s Baptist Church. Even if Liberty wasn’t there, somebody at the church might know where she had been taken.

  With this vague plan filling him with purpose, Sam shakily retrieved his fedora from the living room floor where it had fallen during the fight. In the hall, he plucked his coat from the stand and gingerly pulled it on. Then he grabbed his keys and went out into the cold.

  Twenty minutes later he was driving down a quiet country lane with his headlights off. He was a few miles outside the city, out in the darkening countryside. The only lights brimmed from the stars and the warm orange glow of the city at the bottom of the hill.

  Sam parked behind a large hedge and got out into the snow. He’d have to walk the final mile to the church if he didn’t want to be seen. Pulling his collar up, he seized his rifle from the back seat and hunched into the wind.

  *

  Liberty came to with a start. A smell of damp and mould hit her solidly. The cloying reek curled up into her nostrils and she gagged, tying to put her hand to her face. Except she couldn’t. Her hands were chained. Confused, she tugged at her restraints, but they held fast.