Hunters: A Trilogy

by Paul A. Rice

  His adversary giggled again, this time its well-spoken host was shoved to the back as trailer-park trash, man-dog, made his bid to be the lead speaker. ‘Why dontchya jus’ fuk off back down this lil-ol’ hill, huh, Jackie-Jack-Jack? Git lost before yoo really piss-me-the-fuk-off!’ The giggle thickened until it became a snarl.

  Jack snarled back, his bleeding lips curled back in rage as he launched himself forward again. Considering the damage he had already suffered, Jack’s speed was remarkable. He almost flew across the last remaining twenty yards separating him from the figure in the doorway. He slithered to a halt and dived towards his pack again, the brown bag lay upon its side with a gentle glow illuminating the interior.

  As he reached into the pack the shadow bound figure laughed at him again.

  ‘Uh-uh, Jacky-boy, I told yoo already, no naughty weapons allowed!’

  It blasted him once again, and as though he had been caught in a powerful gust of wind, Jack tumbled backwards once more – they heard him cry out in anger and in pain. He stumbled to his feet for the last time, shook his head, looked at the sky, screamed, and then began to glimmer with that strange blue light again; they saw it flicker and wane. Jack cried-out, and as the blueness of his rage increased in its intensity, the spellbound audience began to understand – they were watching Jack’s life-force, one that he was summoning with all of his remaining might.

  The Demon saw this too, felt it, and they heard it shriek with joy, hatred and fear. All of the surrounding darkness lifted into the air above Jack, joined forces, and began to take on the shape of some ungodly airborne beast, a black, shimmering liquid bird. They didn’t really know what it was as the shape twisted and turned. Like molten tar, it fractured and then coagulated. The terrible aerial dance was mesmerising.

  As they watched, the Hunters saw the stinking beast leap downwards onto Jack. His blueness exploded – in a final blast of light and energy, he blew the Dark One’s mist away. In a million splintered crystals, the horrible mist scattered into the icy wind. It was to be his last real fight, Michael’s father was spent. He fell to his knees and collapsed. As Jack lay there on his back, the dust of his enemy began to fall upon him; it rained down like volcanic ash, sprinkling softly across the whole area. Jack became covered in it.

  With a swift caress of her forefinger, Tori stopped the show, saying: ‘Are you okay with this, Mikey?’ She glanced at him and they all saw the concern on her face.

  Michael sat still for a few seconds, breathed deeply, and then nodded in consent. ‘Yeah, it’s all right,’ he said. ‘It’s hard to watch, but I…I’ve seen this before, George showed it to me back in Mum’s house, not in so much detail, but I need to know anyway, I want to know everything!’ Junior and Red echoed his sentiments, nodding when Tori cast her gaze towards them.

  ‘Fair enough,’ she said. ‘It’s terrible, but…’ She pushed the buttons and let the silver screen do the talking.

  Jack lay on the frozen earth and rolled his head sideways. As they watched, the onlookers saw him reach out with his hand whilst muttering some words to himself, he looked as though he was talking to somebody, but there was no-one to be seen. Jack must have been hallucinating, injuries sending him half-crazy.

  After a few seconds he began to wrestle with the imaginary person, his mind appeared to have been lost alongside his physical strength, he pushed whomever it was he was able to see away from his chest and then lurched once more to his feet. He was still talking, but the words were lost behind the shrieking of the Demon. Its howl sounded like the ripping of metal.

  As Jack spoke they saw the yellow of his eyes, they flashed with green and then dimmed before Jack’s true colour pushed to the forefront again. His words were still unclear to Michael and the others. But then, as if the microphone had been pushed closer, they began to hear the end of his sentence, and hear it very clearly. With eyes blazing and black soot pouring from his lips, Jack Wildeman said his final words.

  ‘I’ll see you later… in some other place, run, Mary, RUN!’

  The shock of hearing Jack ordering his invisible mother to run, his dead mother, was almost too much for Michael – he gasped and banged the table with a clenched fist. ‘Mum!’

  ‘Mikey,’ Tori said, urgently. ‘Mikey!’

  He turned away from the screen and nodded, saying: ‘It’s okay, carry on – I can deal with it, carry on!’ Michael looked back at the show in time to see his father sling the pack onto his back and turn to run towards the void.

  As he ran they heard Mary’s voice, the thin howl would be a sound they would all remember for a long time to come, possibly forever. Her words seemed to come from the inside some long, tinny, metal tube, they were scratchy and distorted but there was to be no mistaking the horror filling the heart-rending plea as Mary screamed at her doomed husband.

  ‘Jack, wait! Jack!’

  The awful cry was almost the last sound they heard as they watched Jack leap over the edge – almost the last sound, but not quite. In fact, the final sound belonged to the words of the Demon, its fear and cowardice, the sudden terrible realisation of the item that Jack had been reaching for, were mirrored in the scream of its wretched voice.

  ‘Get the ship! Get ouuttt! Ohhh, Out! Get out quickly!’

  Then, with its usual bad manners, and without as much as an ‘excuse me’, the screen rudely blinked out. Tori did the honours and they sat in silence as the silver messenger slid back into nothingness.

  She looked up, brushing her hair back with one hand. ‘So, there you have it, my friends,’ she said. ‘There is some…’ she paused before adding: ‘…some additional information, but I think we should discuss it at a later date. For now, the only thing for us to focus on is the fact that we are going back to that place, back to the cave and back to the Demon, but this time there will more than just one of us! We will all go together and confront him. This time we will finish him, no matter what the cost!’

  All of them agreed, as one they rose and looked at each other, from face to face and eye to eye, they stared at each other, not one of their members looked down or turned away. Tori reached into her pocket, produced the flask and placed it in the centre of the table. Jane smiled and went to fetch the glasses.

  Together they raised those glasses high and toasted Jack, and then, once the warmth began to spread, they held their glasses aloft to carry out another toast – one to themselves. Then one more to all the Hunters of the past, of the present, and of the future – they tossed the fiery drinks back in one gulp, chanting out the words: ‘Down with the Demon – Death to the Darkness!’ Their fiery chorus resonated throughout the room as they stood, grinning at each other.

  Red stood next to Michael, his huge forearm draped around the boy’s shoulders. With his own son standing guard on the other side, the three men looked most fearsome. When Tori joined them, her tall grace completed the picture, the vivid colours of their hair standing out like the warning markings upon some terribly-poisonous snake: ‘Danger – do not touch!’

  As Ken stood and watched them, he felt Jane move next to him, hearing her soft voice whisper in his ear. ‘Now then, there’s a full house, if ever I saw one – somebody had better bloody well watch out!’ she said. He clenched her hand and held out his glass for a refill. That damned flask seemed to be almost bottomless tonight.

  6

  Train Hard to Fight Easy

  The party, for which the two young men had provided such a bountiful supply of poultry, was undeniably a grand affair. Almost the whole town came by to join them in their celebration on the farm. The residents of the old place had become well-known in the local community. Maggie’s store, Red’s art school, the outlet for his and Jane’s works, and not forgetting the salon managed by Tori, had all become mainstays of the town. Like well-worn furniture, they belonged there.

  Ken had let everyone know that he and his ‘family’…for that was the way in which he now thought of them all…yes, he and his family were going to be taking a tri
p, one that would necessitate them being absent for quite some time. ‘I’m not sure how long for,’ he would tell anyone who asked. ‘We have some savings and so we just thought we would go and see some places, you know…have a look around?’ That would be about as much as he would say, what else was there?

  The listener would nod and smile in complete understanding. ‘A look around’ was something they understood and understood all too well. What Ken and Jane didn’t know, or understand, and they never really would, not just yet, was that the entire town – all the outlying farms and lonely houses, the whole world in which they currently lived, happened to be filled with people who, like themselves, had made some extreme sacrifices of their own. All of them at some stage or another had been into the Darkness and held the flame of George’s battle-torch high – they, all of them, had been Hunters. A town full of Hunters. It was not something ever discussed, and anyway, only two residents knew exactly who had done what and when they had done it. Maggie and Tori knew all of the details, precisely.

  So, it came as no surprise to any of the town’s local residents when Ken told the tale of his family’s proposed adventure. Many had been on such trips themselves, and even though they had come here on the tail-end of some bloody battle, come to revive their spirits, maybe even to retire, a fair few of them had once more answered the call to battle and had gone back out into the Darkness, gone looking. They certainly knew what ‘looking around’ meant, for sure they did.

  With that in mind, they attended the festivities with wholeheartedness and partied long and hard into the night, in fact it way past the ‘night’, as such, when most of them took their leave, it was well into the next day, if complete accuracy is to be a requirement at this stage.

  Ken and Red had provided meat of such fine quality, the half-a-cow, mentioned previously, was exactly that and it sat side-by-side with another of Ken’s renowned suckling pigs, the sizzling carcasses filling the air with the appetising smell of fat and juices as the wonderful aroma spread across the farm, trapped within the smoke that lifted lazily from the pit filled with glowing charcoal.

  Before their guests had arrived, Michael and Junior were tasked with keeping the meat rotating, a job that involved constant monitoring, and one they relished.

  ‘You’ll have eaten the whole bloody lot before anyone gets here!’ Ken joshed with them as he caught sight of Red Junior, the boy slicing yet another strip of meat from the carcass. Junior, whilst laughing at Ken, wolfed the meat down.

  Ken grinned and shook his head, saying: ‘Give us a hand with this cider, will you, Mikey? This barrel’s too heavy for me.’ Michael jogged over to where Ken was rolling a wooden keg from within the barn. ‘I believe it’s the done-thing, you know… to test a homemade brew before the guests arrive?’ Ken said. ‘After all, we wouldn’t want to poison anybody now, would we, lads?’ Between them they hefted the barrel onto a log trestle, which Ken had made for just this moment. He broke the seal and waited whilst Jane ran across with several glasses in hand.

  ‘Stand back,’ she said. ‘There’s a cider expert in the house!’

  This was true, for without her advice none of them would have had a clue as to what they were doing all those weeks ago, when the idea was first announced. But, with Jane’s knowledge and some trial and error, they had put the abundance of green apples from Mike’s Tree to good use.

  Ken twisted the tap, with a creak and a slight hiss, Jane’s out-held glass filled with the cloudy nectar. ‘Oh, now just look at that!’ she exclaimed, lifting the drink to her lips. She took a sip, rolled her eyes, did a fine imitation of a rather pompous wine taster, and then in total contrast, swigged down the remaining cider in one gulp. Placing the back of her hand across her mouth, Jane belched softly and laughed. ‘Oops, I’m so sorry, boys! Oh yeah, that is really, really, good! Who’d like a…’ In a rush she was jostled to one side whilst the men all tried to get the next glass.

  The concoction tasted quite excellent and was filled with the flavour of all those wonderful apples. It also had a sting in the tail, almost reminiscent of the potion contained within the silver flask. They each had another glassful and then stood there smacking their lips for a while, before reluctantly getting back to the task of preparing for their guests.

  When those guests began arriving, they had, as was usual in these parts, fetched all sorts of wonderful food and drink along; the wooden tables lining the veranda were soon bulging with treats galore. It was a fine scene, piles of food, twinkling glasses and gleaming cutlery sat beneath tall candle sticks holding enormous, homemade beeswax candles. Their yellow glow caused long shadows to flicker across towards the main fire, whereupon they were cast away, like Demons, by the much brighter light of its roaring blaze.

  They ate and drank long into the night, the sound of laughter, tinkling glasses and happy voices filled the air. Those sounds, along with a soft ambience caused by friendship, cider, mellow wines and ice-cold beers, flowed across the courtyard and floated out into the eternity of a darkened night. No Demons would have dared to call on them during that particular evening, not if they knew what was good for them they wouldn’t.

  Not one of the guests mentioned the impending departure of their hosts, only stories of town life, comments on Jane’s flowers, the quality of the cider and other such trivia were discussed that night. The much-spoken-about cider flowed easily, and along with the roasted meat, soon disappeared with remarkable speed. It was a grand evening and many of their friends stayed at the farm until the beautiful, cerise glow, which began climbing into the sky behind the dark woods to the east, signalled the arrival of a new dawn. It was then and only then that they really made an effort to say goodbye – by five-am Ken and the others were alone again.

  Like vampires, all their friends had disappeared before the coming of daybreak. Come six-thirty, the house was deserted, save for Ken and the weary group of helpers who had only just managed to put the last of the tables away and dry the final plate. They were tired beyond belief.

  He took charge. ‘Right, come on then folks – that’s it done, all tidied up and squared away,’ Ken said. ‘Let’s hit the sack, eh? First one up makes the brews, and don’t dare disturb us until noon, at the very earliest…’ He laughed loudly, and with Jane in hand, headed toward the extension.

  Without one word of dissent the rest of them headed for their beds.

  Ken’s prediction of a midday cup of tea was to prove somewhat optimistic, in fact, most of them didn’t surface until well past the middle of the day, whereupon they proceeded to do nothing more than lounge around the farm.

  The following day was to be the first of their training.

  ***

  Ken gathered them all in the kitchen after breakfast. ‘Grab a cuppa and then come and sit on the porch,’ he said, with a grin. Doing as he ordered, they filtered outside to see what it was he had to say. They found him leaning against the balustrade of the patio in his usual manner; he was wearing a black tee-shirt and green, combat-style trousers, which hung neatly over the sun bleached beige of his old desert boots. As he looked down whilst waiting for them all to take a seat, sinewy arms folded across his broad chest, Ken appeared to be the quintessential military instructor.

  He had placed one of the wooden tables from the party on the patio, only this time there were no sausage rolls or chicken drumsticks piled high in readiness. This time the table was playing host to a different kind of thing altogether, items for a party like one they had never attended before.

  The table was covered in a neat array of weapons, guns of all shapes and sizes lay neatly lined up on top of the green cloth which covered the table. Seeing the weapons laying there, the dull glow of their brutish metal flanks glinting in the morning sunshine, his students – for it was now Ken’s opportunity to teach – became strangely quiet. This was real, no more joking, no more grand toasts, just a tall man with big arms and some even bigger guns – lots of guns.

  Ken began. ‘Right, as we now know, we�
�re going back to the place where we saw Mikey’s dad…’ he said, looking at Michael. ‘To the place where we saw Jack having his last stand.’ They nodded. Ken continued. ‘Fair enough, then,’ he said. ‘But if it was up to me, and this bit is up to me, then we’d go back with as many guns and as much training as we could possibly squeeze in!’ Again, they nodded in silent agreement to his words.

  He stared at the table on his left and then back to his watching recruits. ‘With that in mind,’ he growled, ‘I want you all to pay attention and to try to remember a saying that my old Sergeant Major once said to me: “Sweat saves blood, but brains save both!” He was right, and from now on I intend to show you why.’

  And so it began – their transformation into Hunters at the hands of one Kenneth Robinson, a long-time professional soldier and well-practiced Hunter in his own right. Oh, and it must be said, a killer of some considerable experience and repute.

  Over the next week, Ken showed them all he knew about guns, for his was a considerable knowledge and he painstakingly imparted as much of it as he could. How guns worked, what to do when they stopped working, how to clean guns and how to make sure they, his students, didn’t shoot themselves with those very same guns – by the time he had finished, all of them, including Maggie, had become very efficient in the art of weapon-handling.

  Bleeding hands, lumps of skin sliced from knuckles and fingers, painfully trapped by fast-moving working parts; just a few of the ways in which weapons were able to damage a frail, human hand. Ken’s Hunters discovered many more ways along the path of their training – by the end of the week they’d all seen just about enough of Ken and his guns.

  ‘When are we gonna get to fire ‘em, Kenny, huh? My hands are raw, man!’ Red said. He held the heavy weapon aloft as if it weighed no more than a drinking straw, his enormous hands seeming as though they would just as easily have been able to twist the rifle into a knot.