Hunters: A Trilogy

by Paul A. Rice

  Ken had nodded, saying: ‘Yeah that’s fine, I understand that one now, George. But I still need to have some gear for the training, we’ll need some small stuff: AKs, some nine-millie pistols and…’ He’d then rolled a long list of desired items straight off the top of his head.

  George had looked at Ken as though he was communicating in some form of alien back-slang from the planet Thragg, or somewhere.

  Seeing the blank expression upon the face of his brand-new Quartermaster, Ken had laughed and said, ‘I’ll send you a list, George, oh yeah – will the Communicator work now?’ George had said that it would, and so, after spending some time in working out how the bloody thing operated, Ken had managed to send him a long list – one he reminded himself to keep in plain English.

  The delivery of his equipment had arrived in a small box that he found sitting innocuously on the floor of the barn. With a quick push of the big button on the attached zapper, Ken had found himself to be the proud custodian of enough equipment with which to start a small war. He’d stood there in amazement at the time, no matter how many bizarre things he saw in this crazy parallel, Ken would always be filled with awe at the way George and his kind managed to do things.

  ‘If only it had been this simple when I was in the Job,’ he thought. ‘The boys would have had a field day with all of this stuff!’ Grinning to himself, Ken had started unpacking the gifts that George had so kindly provided.

  ***

  Currently, Ken was nearing the end of his ‘Basic Training’ package and told the rest of the group that they should all have a break, maybe have a lie-in and do some fishing, or whatever took their fancy. They were pleased with the idea. None of them considered Ken’s training to have been basic whatsoever. In fact, they were quite shattered and secretly welcomed the chance of such a well-earned break. So, after one or two more days training, mostly spent on revision and rehearsals, Ken had decided they were done.

  Standing before them with his arms folded, he said, ‘Okay, guys and gals! That’s about it, I guess. You’ve done really well and should be proud of yourselves! The shooting has come on in leaps and bounds and I’m reasonably happy with the other things we’ve covered, too!’ He grinned at them, and they saw that he was pleased.

  They knew he was more than just ‘reasonably happy’, but they also knew he wouldn’t tell them such things, his constant cajoling during the past weeks had taught them all that Ken was very rarely full of praise. ‘Pride before a fall!’ would be one of his phrases that sprung to mind when it came to feeling as though they had cracked it. He would constantly remind them: ‘You’re never fully ready; it’s all in the training people, all in the training!’ And now they knew that he was right.

  Although, secretly, it has to be said that Ken was more than pleased. After a lot of hard work, coupled with good humour and plenty of ammunition, they had turned themselves into a fairly decent group of Demon Hunters, one that was about as ready as it ever would be, especially when it came to travelling up some distant mountain path and having a go at flushing the Dark One from his lair.

  They all seemed to have had an amazing adaptability when it came to the training. Red, his son Junior, and young Michael were complete naturals when it came to this game. If he were to be brutally honest, Ken couldn’t remember the last time he had seen such skill – Red and Junior were amongst the most dangerous men he had ever seen on any battlefield, anywhere. Then there was the extraordinary old woman and her young relation, Tori. Yes, they were ready, for sure. Ken knew they were going to have to be.

  So, after performing a thorough clean of their weapons and equipment they all did exactly what Ken had ordered. For three days the farm resounded to nothing more menacing than the sound of its own softly-beating heart; birds splashed on the lake in carefree abandon, whilst the myriad of other insects and creatures went about their daily business without the disturbance of gunfire, shouting, and general mayhem which had become so familiar over the past few weeks. The Hunters simply lounged around and waited for the time to arrive when they would have to venture up the mountain path.

  Unfortunately, they had forgotten two things. Firstly – mountain paths have, on occasion, been known to travel both ways. And secondly – there was the simple fact that coming down a hill is usually easier than going up one.

  Usually it is.

  ***

  The Demon hadn’t forgotten. As its mortal enemies began to indulge in a spot of richly-deserved rest and recuperation, the Dark One decided to carry out some ‘training’ of its own, just a little peek down the hill. After all, it had been a while since they last played together, hadn’t it? Under a crystal clear sky, he assembled his men, told them what it was he wanted, showed them the pile of dollar bills, with which they would be rewarded should they be successful, and then proceeded to point the black ‘zapper’ at them.

  The only thing he didn’t tell them, mainly because he didn’t give a fuck, was the fact they were to be nothing more than guinea pigs in the first trial of his very own version of a thing called Shrink Down. He called it ‘Moving’.

  With a smile upon his dripping features, he ordered: ‘Just line up there, gentlemen, that’s very good indeed – in a few moments you will be Moved to your destination; once there, you should carry out the task I have set, and when you have completed the job, you will be Moved back to this location – at which point you shall be rewarded!’ He nodded towards the money, smiled in that captivating way of his, and then watched as they shuffled their feet nervously – the smell of their fear was as real as the weapons held in their clammy hands.

  With a final reminder of what their task was, and a jovial ‘Bon Voyage’, the Demon pointed his device at them and pushed the button. The majority of them ‘Moved’ without too many problems, one second they were there, and in the next they were gone. Accompanied by a slippery gurgle and a wisp of grey smoke, all but three of his warriors had Moved to the place where their master so desired them to be. He had cheerfully shouted after them: ‘Go there and cause havoc!’

  And that was precisely what they did do.

  The three who remained at his feet would never be going anywhere ever again – they had been turned into nothing more than some misshapen lumps of twisted flesh, almost mutated in their appearance. Limbs, stripped of flesh, now grew from torsos. Heads, which had somehow exploded into unrecognisable vessels, were now filled with steaming fluids; fingers where eyes should have been, tongues instead of ears, all that remained was a twisted pile of human mincemeat.

  He looked down at the puree of their remains and smiled to himself. With yellow eyes now fully unveiled, he said, ‘I do believe that little experiment was mostly a success, yes, indeed…most promising!’ He sniffed deeply.

  The foul stench of eviscerated bodies pleased him. He stood amongst the carnage for a while, a slaughter man in the back yard of some primeval abattoir, the steam that rose from the still warm bodies, wisping around his feet like a nightmarish mist. With eyes glowing, he giggled and contemplated his next move, one that would see the woman back by his side.

  The thought of having her as his plaything thrilled him.

  He turned back to the cave, the wild things, his beasts, would take care of the human hotpot, which his experiment had left steaming on the path behind. The noise of cackling birds and of bones crunching in the jaws of the furry predators was a sound he would enjoy. Who knows, he may even come back outside and have a bite to eat all of his own. ‘Yes, a tasty hors d’oeuvre to whet the palate before the main course, what could be finer?’ With a final chuckle, he motioned at the door with his hand and waited whilst the stone slab rumbled open in obedience.

  ***

  Sometimes a person gets lucky, sometimes no matter how well-prepared you are, no matter how much training has been done, no matter how many guns you have, sometimes you just get lucky. Luck can mean the difference between greatness and abject failure. Sometimes, luck simply arrives on the doorstep unannounced, and then, unlike
vengeance and hatred, it’s almost always best to invite it in. Never ask to peer into that particular horse’s mouth, though. Not ever.

  One day, Ken’s luck dropped by to say hello, and if he hadn’t been bored then maybe things would have been a lot worse, and that would have been unfortunate because they turned out badly enough as it was.

  On the ‘lucky’ day in question, he had taken the men with him into the armoury on an impromptu visit. ‘Look, I know we’re supposed to be taking it easy,’ he said to them, as they sat lounging around on the veranda. ‘But I need a hand with counting the ammo, if you have five-minutes, guys?’

  Without a word they had risen as one and followed him over to the barn where the metal cage he and Junior had made stood in the corner. They waited whilst Ken unlocked the door, then formed a line and passed the boxes of ammunition out. He asked them to lay everything out neatly.

  ‘I just need a quick tally-up, is all, boys,’ he said. ‘I might need to order some more, so let’s have a good look, shall we?’

  There was soon a neat pile of the various ammunition natures stacked on the floor of the barn, together they set about counting them. There were also a fair amount of loose bullets, ones they had unloaded from their magazines after their last day on Ken’s range. Looking at the pile, he suggested perhaps they should refill the magazines as it would make their counting and storing easier.

  Michael and Red set to it without waiting for any further instructions, whilst Junior gave Ken a hand in the tally-up. After some fifteen minutes or so they were done, all the loose ammunition was loaded and Ken now knew exactly where they stood with their supplies, it appeared that there would be no need to order any further stock.

  He grinned at them, saying: ‘We should be able to start a war with this – in fact…we are gonna to start a war!’ His wry comment was to come to fruition much sooner than he would have thought, almost immediately, in fact.

  As the men started passing the boxes of bullets back into the cage, they all heard the scream. Well, actually it was Maggie who they heard screaming. Her furious shout of rage boomed into their heads.

  ‘The bastards…they’re here! Run, Jane...Run! Tori, they’re here, Tori!’

  It was only the second time that they, as a collective, had felt the weird telepathy – the first being a vision of a certain yellow flower. This time it wasn’t a picture, this time it was Maggie’s shouted anger, and it came into their heads as surely as if the woman had been standing in the doorway with a loudhailer in her hand. ‘The bastards…’

  Only, she wasn’t in the doorway, and they didn’t have a loudhailer, either.

  Maggie and the other two women were down by the lake, in the windmill, to be precise. They had driven down about an hour earlier. The kitchen was running low on flour, and as was usual, the girls had gone down to do some milling, it was only a low-key affair and mostly done in tribute to Mikey’s wonderful reconstruction of the old mill.

  Right now that’s exactly where they were, and yet the men quite clearly heard the angry cry of their matriarch. ‘Run, Jane…Run!’

  Without waiting for any orders, the men began to take action. Ken started passing the weapons out of the cage, Red ran to the truck and reversed it into the barn – not one word was spoken. Magazines were clacked into weapon housings and spare ones stuffed into pockets, no time for any assault vests to be fetched from the house.

  Ken glanced at the others, seeing they were ready, he said, ‘Mount up! Red – let’s go, now!’ He lobbed his med-pack into the back of the pick-up and clambered in after it. ‘Make ready!’ he ordered, indicating to them by rapidly cocking the action on his assault rifle. ‘Keep them on single shot. Let’s go, Red, let’s go – keep your eyes open, all of you!’ Red floored the accelerator and they hurtled out of the barn and towards the gate, there was no time for stopping and it would just have to be repaired later, if there was to be a later.

  As they raced towards the windmill, Ken was shouting orders to them.

  ‘Junior, you and your Dad cover the left side, stop the truck when I bang on the roof, get into the front and tell him!’

  Junior climbed across and slid expertly through the passenger door, he shouted the instructions at Red, who proceeded to hold up a giant thumb in acknowledgement to Ken through the back window.

  Ken looked at Michael – the boy was as cool as ice.

  ‘Mikey, you and I will take the right side, okay?’ he said.

  Michael nodded and balanced himself against the swaying of the truck, his eyes were clear and the whites of his knuckles shone with the tight grip he had on his rifle. They saw the girls’ truck; it was moving at speed and zigzagging like crazy. The vehicle appeared to be driving in circles, loops of dust showed where it had made several passes back towards the rear of the old mill.

  Then they heard the sound of shots firing in the distance, barely perceptible over the roar of the engine and the rushing of wind in their ears, but they heard them all the same. Ken would have recognised that distinctive sound anywhere.

  ‘That’s an AK firing,’ he shouted. ‘Stand by, fellas – this is gonna get hot!’

  Junior opened his door in readiness for the dismount, bracing a boot against it to prevent the door from slamming shut in his face. The occupants of the other truck saw them. Ken watched as the vehicle swerved violently, almost turning-turtle, and then raced towards them. The two trucks closed at an alarming rate, and as they did so, the first tracer rounds started to hurtle past them.

  ‘Crack, crack, crack…’ The noise of the sound barrier being broken by the speeding projectiles was not one to be forgotten in a hurry, if ever.

  Ken banged loudly on the roof and waited until Red had slid the truck to a halt, before shouting: ‘Out, everybody out, get behind something solid and cover your arcs,’ he ordered. ‘Mikey, get into that ditch, if anybody comes this way then let ‘em have it!’ He leapt down from the pick-up and sprinted toward the second vehicle, which was still speeding towards them.

  As it neared, Ken saw that it was Jane who was driving; she had Tori in the passenger seat. Both women’s faces were sheer white. Jane swung the vehicle hard left, skidding to a halt at right angles in front of Ken’s truck, the position providing them some much-needed, temporary cover from whomever, or whatever, was down by the mill, down by the mill and currently in the process of getting the range to them just about right.

  He heard some more sharp ‘cracks’ and a solid metallic whacking noise as one or two rounds started to find their mark. ‘Get behind cover, take cover!’ he screamed, wrenching Jane’s door open and dragging his wife onto the ground.

  Tori needed no second bidding – keeping flat, she slithered her way across the seat to land in a heap next to Jane. Kneeling next to them, Ken asked, ‘What the hell is going on?’ He looked at the two women in desperation.

  Their reply was drowned out by the crash of Red’s AK as he opened fire from less than ten feet away. The red giant screamed: ‘Here they come; the muthafukas are in the ditch!’ His rifle spoke again and was rapidly joined by the sound of his son’s weapon.

  The time for Jane’s explanations would have to wait, Ken reached into the truck and retrieved the Beretta from the door pocket, cocking the pistol he handed it to Tori and then passed Jane the 9mm Glock which he’d hurriedly stuffed into the waistband of his trousers before leaving the barn. ‘Keep in cover and let me figure out what the hell is going on around here!’ he said, looking towards the windmill. ‘How many and who are they?’ Ken asked, listening as Jane told him there were about a dozen armed men, who seemed to be foreign and had arrived as if from nowhere – then she gave him the bad news.

  ‘I think they’ve taken Maggie,’ she said. ‘We couldn’t find her, we went back three times, but they started shooting at us, I heard her screaming, in my head, I heard her – Ken, they’ve taken Maggie!’

  He looked at Tori and she nodded in silent affirmation of Jane’s tale.

  ‘Right,’ he sa
id. ‘You two stay put here, use the pistols if anyone comes near, but just stay here!’ They nodded, he was right, now wasn’t the time for heroics and two pistols against a dozen men armed with assault rifles probably wouldn’t be a good idea.

  Ken turned and crawled away to where Red was taking cover by the front wheel of the truck. Within two minutes he had delivered his plan to the other men. The enemy seemed to have gone quiet for the moment, probably as a result of having at least two of their number killed by Red. Ken saw the bodies lying on the bank of the ditch over to the right. After making sure they all had fresh magazines fitted, he gave them a nod and turned toward the windmill, they followed him in single file up that same ditch, ten yards between each of them, rifles held in the alert position, fingers on triggers, blood pounding in their ears.

  Ken had underestimated the amount of casualties that Red and the others had inflicted upon their invaders. Advancing along the ditch, they passed three bodies and also saw at least another two decent-sized, blood trails. When he saw the patches of blood smeared on the grass, Ken turned to the others and gave them a thumbs-up sign – their grinning faces made him feel a lot better and took some of the gut twisting concerns for their safety away. Perhaps the training had been good enough after all.

  He stopped briefly to stare down at one of the bodies, the man looked like an Afghan, but not quite, he seemed bigger in stature and his skin colour was too dark, just as they had been in the Funny House.

  Ken shrugged to himself. ‘Who gives a toss?’ he thought. ‘Just as long as they die in the same way as everyone else does!’

  The man was dead all right, the lump of meat missing from the side of his neck gave proof to the fact that these guys were just as subject to the devastating effects of high-velocity bullets as was anybody else around here. Ken pushed past the blood-spattered corpse and continued heading towards the windmill. As they neared, the group of Hunters began to hear the noise of men shouting.