Hunters: A Trilogy

by Paul A. Rice

  Ken hissed: ‘That’s the…’

  Jane was one step ahead. ‘It’s the ship, the medal thingy – it was Mikey’s!’ she said, in amazement. ‘I thought that it was…’

  She didn’t get the chance to finish before Tori answered her.

  ‘Yes, it is exactly that,’ she said, ‘the black ship, Mikey’s black ship.’ She turned to them and smiled, saying: ‘It was passed to Jack after my Michael moved on to another place – Jack had the most need for it as he was closest to the Demon.’ She paused the show, her actions left them with a frozen picture of George holding the dark twin, the other half to a small ship, which at this very moment lay within its black velvet case on the inside of Ken’s safe.

  After a while, Tori spoke again. ‘Jack was to enter the final battle armed with the ship, it was to be the only weapon he needed – he was going to give it to the Demon.’ Tori looked at Ken’s confused face and said, ‘Jack was a lot younger than Mikey ever was. In that dimension, Jack was merely a child when Jeremiah ended my brother’s life in this one…’ Seeing saw the glance that Ken gave Jane, and in a perfect rendition of George’s lecture voice, the tall woman smiled once more and said, ‘Time, my dear Kenneth, is…’

  Ken finished the cliché for her. With a sneer of distaste, he said, ‘Yeah, yeah, I know: time is a relative thing! Jesus, if I hear that phrase one more time I reckon my bloody head will explode!’ He shook that potentially-exploding cranium and sat back with his eyes closed.

  Tori sniffed in a faint gesture of exasperation and raised her eyebrows at Jane, who, in turn, simply shrugged her shoulders and then asked a question of her own. ‘What do you mean when you say that he was going to give it to the Demon?’ She paused, as if trying to remember, it had been a long time ago, after all. Then, as the memories jumped back into her head, she said, ‘I thought it would be the last thing we should be doing, I mean…you and Maggie said it was the one object which that bloody horrible thing wanted. The Demon, he wanted it above everything else! You said it would have a terrible consequence, that’s what you meant, didn’t you?’

  Tori nodded in agreement, but made no further comment on the matter. Instead, she turned back to the screen and pushed the buttons to make the show continue. They watched as George held some further discussions with Jack before turning towards him with the tongs. Jack reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a cloth bag. George slid the little ship into the bag and released his grip upon the handle of the steel forceps. They all saw the weight of the ship alter the shape of the black bag as it slipped into the bottom. Jack took the bag, tightened the drawstring and slipped it into his pack. He stood upright, placed the pack over his shoulder and then embraced George.

  They only just caught the old man’s parting words to Michael’s father before the tall man turned to leave. George was saying: ‘Thank you, Jack, your service will never be forgotten, and if it should not work out for you, then don’t be concerned – it will all be taken care of, I promise you.’

  Jack looked at him for a moment and then nodded. He walked to the door and waited as it slid open. Just as it did so, he turned back and spoke to George for one last time. ‘If this all goes badly, then please will you make sure they’re okay? They’re all I have, all I’ve ever had, and I love them!’ Without waiting for a reply, he spun on his heel and strode through the door.

  They watched as it slid shut behind his departing figure.

  ***

  The next scene showed Michael’s father arriving at the bottom of a mountain. After he had recovered from the Shrink Down, Jack looked up at the task before him. The journey ahead was a long one; they all saw the narrow, stone-strewn path as it climbed away from him, rising toward the snow-covered peak above. Jack adjusted the position of his backpack, raised the collar of his jacket and began the long climb up the steeply-sloping track. It was an arduous journey by any standards, wind and snow flurries blew in at right angles, lifting maliciously across the lip of the track as it wound its unprotected way toward the summit.

  They saw him rub the layer of frosted slurry from the side of his face and then blow into his reddened hands. Jack shook his numbed fingers and, keeping his head low, continued his upward battle against the incline and unforgiving weather. The journey must have been a terrible one. Jack’s battle became a little easier for a while because the storm vanished as quickly as it had arrived, leaving only a strong wind and some weak sunshine for him to deal with. His pace increased and before long he had climbed much higher; they saw the steam billowing from his mouth and nose as his breath condensed in the icy air.

  Jack was now very nearly running as he slipped and staggered over the sharp rocks and water-eroded grooves of the ancient byway. Several times he tripped and fell to his knees, the bright stain of his wounds caused black rosettes to form in the torn cloth of his baggy, green trousers. Blood dripped from his lacerated palms and splashed on to his left boot. They watched him in silent respect, Jack’s determination and courage were as plain to see as was the blood on his boot. He battled ever upwards to meet the unknown; he would not be beaten and the awesome self-belief and courage he displayed would be something they would all remember later. When the going became tough the memories of his will-power would serve them well, and, unbeknownst to them, they would be soon to need those memories.

  Jack threw himself flat on the ground and they watched as he began to crawl. He moved cautiously, like a sniper approaching his final position – the place from where he would take that one critical shot. The only thing is that Jack didn’t happen to have one of the most vital parts of the aforementioned sniper’s equipment.

  A rifle is the sniper’s raison d’être, and a rifle was something that Jack would have most likely given anything to have in his hands right at that particular moment. Instead, totally unarmed, he slithered his way sideways until he reached the edge of the track. Inch by inch, he crawled off the path and onto the steep slope that fell away to the right. Once over the edge, Jack pressed himself into the lip of the overhang – the drop below him was steep, horrendously steep, one false move and he would be into a slide that would become an unstoppable, tumbling fall. It would be a fall leading to certain death, and yet, Jack did not flinch as he stayed pressed into the side of the icy track.

  The onlookers began to hear the sound of footsteps emitting from the monitor, the noise of boots scraping against stone, the metallic clank of metal against metal. Jack was hiding from a person who was approaching down the track toward him – surely his cover was too shallow, to the watchers he stood out like a sore thumb, surely he would be seen, surely!

  It was exactly at that moment, with six feet separating the hunter and the hunted, when an unexpected gust of thick snowflakes and freezing wind appeared as if from nowhere. They saw the approaching man shy away from the wind, hunching his back against the howling weather. As he did so, they caught a glimpse of the rifle slung over his shoulder.

  It was right about then that it became obvious as to why Tori had referred to Michael’s father as the best they had ever known. As the unknown man turned his back to the weather, Jack sprang from his hiding position. His rapid movement propelled him onto the track directly behind his prey, the force of his leap causing a small avalanche of rocks to cascade down the slope behind him. The man whirled around at the noise of the falling stones, but he was too late. Jack was upon him.

  With the speed of a striking adder, he delivered a punch to the side of the man’s head. With absolute precision, Jack’s blood-stained fist crashed into his temple. The force of the blow felled the man where he stood. Instantly rendered unconscious, he crashed to the ground in a lifeless heap, they all heard the solid ‘thunk’ the back of his head made as it struck the rocky track. Jack rolled the body over and took the rifle from where it had been slung across the man’s back. Raising the weapon, he removed the magazine and checked to see if there were any rounds in the banana-shaped bullet-holder. Seemingly satisfied, he racked the bolt, chambering a ro
und into the breech.

  Then, leaning over the body, he hurriedly rooted through the man’s pockets. Seeing nothing of interest, he glanced back up the track before rolling the man towards the edge. The man’s body was like a floppy rag-doll and Jack had to place both hands under him in an effort to lever the inert weight over the lip. With one final heave, he rolled the unconscious man’s body over the side. As it flopped over the edge, the body began a lazy tumble down the ever-increasing incline of the mountainside. Within seconds the tumble had become an unstoppable, acrobatic display, the steep fall sending the body cart-wheeling into the white haze far below.

  Ken chuckled to himself. ‘Well, if he wasn’t dead before, then he will be at the end of that little trip – good job, Jack!’ He realised he had been thinking out loud and looked up to see the horrified faces of the three younger men.

  They were staring at him in disbelief.

  He frowned and then said, ‘Sorry, guys, I’m just thinking out loud – listen, without being too callous…but you’re gonna have to get used to some of this stuff, okay? It’s the way things are most likely gonna end up, you know, with us having to kill people, you need to get that into your heads!’ For once he didn’t smile. They saw the fearsome light glinting in his eyes. Ken wasn’t joking.

  Red sat in silence looking up at him, he was smiling and those huge hands were balled into fists, fists the size of a small child’s head. In silence, and with a fresh sense of reality lodged in their minds, they watched the last few minutes of the show, the last few moments of Jack’s life.

  Picking up the rifle, he took one last glance over the edge and then headed back up the hill. The snow was still blasting over the ridge and his figure was barely visible as he fought the slope ahead of him. As he advanced, they saw him take cover twice more – this time there was to be no hiding, he simply lay in the prone position by the side of the track and waited in the whiteness of the blizzard.

  Twice they saw the rifle’s muzzle flash, the brilliant orange of its flare giving a strobe-like glimpse of his stunned enemy; twice they saw the crumpled heap of his victims, crimson liquid staining the unsoiled white of the snow-covered track, heads smashed by the impact of the high-velocity bullets fired into their unsuspecting faces at close range. Jack would wait a few seconds, staring unblinkingly into the whiteness of his destination and then, seeming satisfied that he was alone, would toss the latest body over the side. Once more the disjointed puppet would take its bizarre cart-wheeling dance down into oblivion. Michael’s father never looked back, not once.

  He climbed and then climbed some more, breath flying away in an almost constant exhaust as he fought the altitude and his own racing heart-rate. They saw the steam rise from his damp shoulders and the sodden mane of his thick, black hair, but he was completely oblivious to the weather, Jack was possessed – a man on a mission if ever there was one.

  Eventually the pinnacle came into view, it seemed to be unaffected by the raging storm which the lone figure approaching from below had battled with. The summit gave the impression of existing in its own space, a separate dimension all together. It looked like a monolithic, black wart, an abscess upon the beautiful, white face of the surrounding mountains.

  They saw the entrance; it was a stone door with large, metal hinges, and lay cut into the very centre of the rock face. The door was ajar and they were able to make out the shape of someone standing inside. A strange light from within flared briefly. No… not a light. It was blackness. A deep, black, emptiness filled the space behind the figure. So dark was the colour, so black, that it radiated as though it were a light, an awful black light. Ken remembered the sensation he had felt when George sent him back to Kandahar…the first time with Mikey and the Spears…the feeling he’d had just before passing out, a black spotlight that seemed to have beamed into the space behind his eyes, into his soul, almost.

  This blackness was far more powerful. It was a terrible luminosity that beamed from within and blasted past the figure standing in the doorway; it shrouded that person, seeming to swirl around them like a shield, a black heat wave. A thin veil of the darkness pushed past the figure, adding to its obscuration, and began to slither toward Jack. He looked up and they saw the sheen of sweat covering his face, he raised an arm, wiped it across his forehead and then laughed loudly. The pall of blackness wafted down the slope towards him, and just as they began to think it would smother him, the substance stopped.

  They watched as it began to spread across the track in front of Jack. Like a barrier, it blocked his path to the cave. The only way for Michael’s father to continue would be for him to go through the blackness. Jack never faltered, without pausing, he dropped the rifle and began to run towards the blockade of dark mist; the shadow rippled as if in anticipation, seeming to tense itself. As he ran, they saw the sweat of his exertions rising in a heavy steam from Jack’s body, thick wafts of steam rose from his shoulders, from his neck, his head, and from his back. Jack literally steamed toward the black perimeter.

  ‘Look at him, he’s awesome!’ Ken breathed his admiration through clenched teeth.

  Jack was the epitome of a warrior – without fear, he rushed headlong into the teeth of the Dragon, eyes blazing and teeth bared, the steam flying from his head as he attacked. His rushing figure began to a radiate with a strange, blue aura.

  ‘Look, look at that! What’s he doing?’ Michael couldn’t contain himself any further. ‘Go Dad, go – kill it!’ he shouted out, rising to his feet with cheek muscles bulging, face red with passion. He appeared as though he wanted to jump into the screen and help his father, which was precisely what the young man did want to do.

  Jack had started to glow, the blueness radiated from him like anger, as he reached the veil, he seemed to pulse. A blue ripple of energy surged outwards from him, ripping into the dark barricade to his front. The power he exuded tore through the veil as though it were indeed a curtain, a useless, cosmetic, net curtain. One that was of no use whatsoever in standing against the ruthlessness of Jack Wildeman’s assault. He blew it away with ease and raced through the gaping rip left open by his attack.

  Without stopping, he scrabbled his way up the final slope, losing his footing several times. He stumbled and fell, but always he carried on, never pausing for breath, eyes fixed firmly on the mysterious figure standing in the doorway – standing and laughing at him. As he neared, Jack slid the rucksack off his shoulders and threw it onto the rocky ground to his front. He tried to undo the flap but fumbled, frozen fingers numbed to the bone.

  Cursing, Jack wrenched at the straps.

  The figure spoke to him – taunting him. ‘Hello, Jack! My, my, you are early, aren’t you? You very nearly caught me with the old trousers around the ankles! That would have been most unfortunate, wouldn’t it?’ The voice laughed, taunting Jack: ‘Oh dear, oh deary-deary me, Jack, Jack, Jack, JACK! What are you doing, my dear chap? Look at you, with your frozen fingers. You poor thing, what is all the panic about – what is it, a grenade, or a pistol, perhaps?’

  The man’s voice began to chuckle, for it was now clear that it, the figure standing in the glare of blackness, was a man, at least it sounded like a man. The voice was thick and bitter, like poisoned treacle, flowing across to Jack and slithering from the silver screen to reach out for those who were watching.

  Red shuddered involuntarily. Ken looked at him and watched as the big man seemed to cringe. He knew Red recognised the sound, it was Jeremiah’s voice in all but accent, the underlying evil was there, fat and smokey with its intent, but the pronunciation was different, almost well-spoken.

  Either way, it was evil and filled with a despicable, gloating, menace.

  ‘Ooooh…surely not a pistol, Jack, not a big, scary pistol, you know that you can’t bring those things in here, nothing works in here, nothing at all – except me!’

  The figure stepped forward and Tori’s students tensed as they waited to see who, or what, would come into the light. It was not to be, however
.

  Still shrouded in darkness, the thing spoke once more.

  ‘Still, I suppose you may well have figured something out that does work. You and your meddlesome kind having managed to get in my way so many times before, haven’t you? So, with that in mind, I think I may as well be on the safe side, wouldn’t you say, my dear fellow?’

  With those words, they saw the shadowy figure move.

  Jack glanced up from his pack and the expression of desperate realisation upon his face was one they would never forget. Jack knew he was done for, and yet still he fought. With a curse, he finally undid the flap – his fingers were covered with blood as he delved into the pack to reach for his saviour.

  He was too late.

  A stream of pure energy leapt from the direction of the taunting figure, it was as though a fire hose filled with bilge water, a filthy, liquid sludge, had been aimed at Jack and then switched on with the tap fully open. A potent stream of liquid energy smashed into him, poured right through him, blasting Jack backwards down the track. He somersaulted twice and then skittered to a halt on his face. They heard the low moan of pain escape his lips, and the shriek of delight coming from the Demon.

  ‘Oh, what fun we are having today! Ooooh…look! ‘The Hunter’ is on his back!’ Its laughter filled the room once more. ‘Not so big and clever now, are we, Mister Wildeman, not so big anymore?’ The awful chuckle seemed to reach into the onlookers’ heads and scrape their eyeballs from the inside.

  Jack rolled onto his side and scrabbled to his knees; he sucked air into his lungs and coughed once. Then, with that terrible anger crossing his face, he spat blood and words back at the taunting Demon. ‘Fuck you!’ he said, and rose to his feet once more. With a supreme effort, he made the return trip up the slope.

  Jack stumbled now, no energy left to run, feet dragging across the icy ground, only his unbending will to keep him going forward. Whatever the Beast had propelled, or fired, at Jack, must have done terrible damage to the tall man, he looked as though he had been run over by a juggernaut, his deathly-pale features with those blazing blue eyes glowing, cherry-splashed lips twisted in fury and determination.