by Matt Drabble
Sam lay on the ground gasping for air as he struggled back to his feet. He finally calmed down enough to load another round in the rifle and only then approached the prone man carefully, albeit with shaking hands.
He gagged as he looked down through the heavy rain and saw that one of the shots had taken most of the man’s face with it, exploding out the back of his skull, showering the ground with blood, bone fragments and grey brain matter.
Sam marvelled at his own capability for survival and felt a primal surge of triumph, but it was a triumph that was short-lived and almost immediately gave way to gut-wrenching shame.
While the man’s face was destroyed and unrecognisable, there was no denying the ostentatious belt buckle at his waist.
Kelvin Moore was one of the few men to have ever ventured off the island, a trip to America of all places. Kelvin had returned from a Texas relative visit sporting the flamboyant belt buckle. The golden steer skeleton face, complete with ornate horns, had been shown off to - and made of fun by - everyone in town. Now it was around the waist of a man that Sam had just killed.
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Cooper Fox ran until he felt his lungs were going to burst. Every now and then behind him, he heard the angry cries of fighting, swiftly followed by screams of pain.
He had no idea who was still left alive out here. He was only concerned with getting the hell away from the bloodshed.
The storm was raging hard now, and several times he lost his footing in his haste as the ground became wet slippery mud beneath his boots.
Those monk bastards had been far more than he’d expected and that giant monster who’d assaulted him at the fruit and veg stand had been leading the charge. He still shuddered every time that he thought about the mania splitting the old man in two with some kind of giant axe.
While he was terrified beyond belief, his own sense of self-preservation was still keen, and like a scared animal, his instincts took him along a path of safety. While the others had all run in straight lines along the hiking path through the woods, he had veered off into the thick trees for cover.
The heavy storm meant that the sky was full of dark clouds to better aid him in his concealment.
Thick undergrowth was making it difficult for him to move quickly now, but he pressed on, ignoring the cuts and scratches on his arms and face as he forced his way through thick brambles.
He knew the island as well as anyone, but now, inside the dark storm and with his heart beating hard enough to burst out of his chest, he just couldn’t think straight or catch his bearings.
Dimly, he still caught the odd cry from the woodlands, enough to make him certain that shelter was what he needed. He had no idea just how many men already lay dead, but he was sure that he didn’t want to end up counted among their number.
Suddenly, he burst through into a clearing and spotted a cabin up ahead. He didn’t recognise the place, but right now, that didn’t matter; all that mattered was that he got somewhere safe and out of sight.
The Niners might be heading for town. There were only about a dozen of them but those bastards were crazy, and right now, he wouldn’t put anything past them.
The people of Clayton didn’t know what was coming for them. If they did, then they would already be running.
A flickering thought occurred to him, one that said he should make it for town and warn the others, but it was only a flicker that died quickly. In real life, the brave tended to die quickly and he was certainly nobody’s hero.
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Eight men in all lay dead in the woodlands surrounding the town path. Eight men hacked into bloody pieces and lying dismembered throughout the tall trees.
The Niners had their fill of gore, and one by one they started to falter in their venom, adrenaline wearing off and bodies starting to sag.
One by one they started to wander back to the centre of the woodlands - several wandering, seemingly in a lost daze.
They were holy soldiers, warriors of the gods, and today had been a great success. They had turned back the heathens and won the day for the righteous, and yet… and yet, no one seemed to be in the mood to celebrate.
Large beefy men with blood on their hands looked down at the handmade metallic weapons in their hands and it all seemed a little unreal.
One by one they found themselves drifting back towards the monastery on autopilot. Feet moved step by step as they all shuffled in silence like hulking gorillas with the current turned off.
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Dale Clayton enjoyed the mid-morning shot of whiskey. He’d never been much of a drinker at the best of times - father had frowned upon those who partook - but now he felt like he deserved a little freedom.
Casey’s Bar was empty save for him, but he didn’t mind drinking alone; the rest of the usual hard drinkers were otherwise engaged.
He checked his watch and figured that the men would be at the monastery by now. It shouldn’t take them long to scare the monks away. He guessed it might get a little bloody up there, but he didn’t mind: you couldn’t make an omelette, and all that.
“Quiet day?” A voice startled him and he looked around to see his father standing behind him.
Multiple thoughts ran through his head at breakneck speed, but he was a changed man now, and as shook as he was, he didn’t panic.
“Hello, Dad; you’re looking well.” He nodded.
In fact, his father did look well - a lot better than when he was alive. He appeared to be far younger and healthier, perhaps by 20 years or so.
“Feeling fine, Son.” Haider Clayton nodded back.
“Still dead?”
“Quite so.”
“Well, it certainly looks like it agrees with you,” Dale said honestly.
“You really think that those morons are going to get the job done?”
“Maybe, maybe not. But they’ll certainly get the ball rolling.”
“Quite the Machiavellian, aren’t we?” Haider smiled with a touch of appreciation.
“Hey, I learned from the best,” Dale replied, raising a toast.
“Well, not exactly. I’m not being funny, but I’d have been out there, making sure things went the right way.”
“Ever the supportive parent.”
“You want unconditional support, Son, then buy a dog.”
“So what are you then? My guilty conscience?” Dale asked.
“Hey, I’m your vision - you tell me.”
“Quiet day?” a voice asked him for the second time, and Dale jumped this time.
He turned around and saw Haynes come wandering over. He turned to the stool next to him and, of course, his father was no longer there. Instead, the developer walked up to the bar and took the same stool.
“For a man about to watch his town die, you don’t seem that bothered,” Haynes said as he poured himself a shot from Dale’s bottle.
“Effective management is all about delegation.” Dale smiled back as he lifted his shot glass in toast while he took a surreptitious look around for his father again.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Haynes replied as he took a drink.
“Should have some good news about the development soon.”
“Really? And the Niners?”
“Things are... in hand as we speak.” Dale smiled back.
“I don’t know. That old buzzard didn’t look like he’d be up for any kind of deal.”
“Trust me, Mr Haynes. It’s all taken care of.”
The two men fell into an uncomfortable silence. Both thought they knew everything that was going on and that the other had no idea, but unbeknownst to each other, they’d effectively had the same plan to oust the Niners.
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Quinn drove quickly towards Dr Simmons’s surgery. The raging storm outside made it undoubtedly more difficult, and she kept having to slow down because of the weather. The road, such as it was, threatened to crumble in several places as it became more and more wet and slippery and she was having a hard time kee
ping the car straight.
Caleb had gone quiet and that didn’t seem like a good sign, but he was big and he was strong, and she could only hope that however severe his wound looked, it was superficial.
He was slumped forwards in the passenger seat, and when she risked a quick look over, she could see that the knife was still sticking out of the back of his shoulder. The blade looked ornate and hand-carved. She would have admired the craftsmanship if it hadn’t been currently embedded in her friend.
Much like anywhere on the island, the drive didn’t take long and soon she was screeching to a halt outside Simmons’s building.
She hit the horn long and hard as soon as the car stopped, the sound blaring out through the storm.
She leapt out and had to work hard to pull Caleb from the other side. She slapped him hard around the face a couple of times before he started to stir, and she really didn’t like how much blood had stained his shirt and still looked fresh.
Together they staggered through the howling gale, covering the steps up to the surgery in an awkward stumble before banging loudly on the door for attention.
Simmons took a few moments before she appeared behind the double glass doors, and Quinn could tell that the woman hadn’t been expecting company. The doctor looked a touch peaky and wore battered old comfy clothing, clearly not accepting patients.
“What?” Simmons muttered, a little drunkenly to Quinn’s ears.
“Open up!” Quinn yelled as she kicked the bottom of the door in anger as Caleb’s weight started to drag her downwards as he faltered.
Simmons finally got the door open with trembling hands as Quinn and Caleb continued to get soaked from the rain. The three of them worked to get inside, and Simmons slammed the door shut against the wind.
“What happened?” Simmons slurred as she tried to focus.
“He’s got a bloody knife in his back!” Quinn shouted, her voice rising with panic. “Sorry,” she said with a deep breath when Simmons flinched and started to back away.
“Well..., umm,” the doctor hesitated.
Quinn barged past her and half dragged Caleb over to the nearest chair with the last of her strength. Once she had him seated and slumped forwards, she turned back to the doctor and slapped her hard across the face, once - then once more.
“Better?” she demanded. “Good,” she said when Simmons nodded and her eyes cleared a little. “Now get to work.”
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The storm that hit the island was the worst seen in many a year, maybe ever. The mainland was being battered by strong spiteful winds and rain flying in at an almost horizontal angle.
Many an old-timer made comments that the storm was nothing worse than they’d seen in their day, but that sort of talk was practically a reflex action for those of a certain vintage. Any subject - when viewed backwards through time - would always be distorted. Things were never as good or as bad, depending on the circumstance. But in reality, this was the worst weather to hit them in many a decade and mainlanders were either running for cover or hunkering down.
The sea was empty, or almost so. No one with half a brain would be out in such a storm. No one with any sense would dare venture outside, let alone hit the water. No ordinary man would believe themselves capable of surviving such odds. But Calvin Morrison was no ordinary man.
The boat was being thrown around mercilessly, but his men remained stony-faced, no matter how green they might be feeling.
There were seven of them in all: Morrison and six associates. These men might not have been as well trained as Rollins, but they were well armed, well paid and - most of all - loyal.
He knew now that he’d made a mistake in hiring Rollins. The man was too damn smart for his own good, and Morrison was sure now that his former right hand had made plans of his own for the future.
He looked around the small boat at the faces opposite him. None of these men would ever even have the thought to betray him and set up their own shop, but their lack of intelligence was his burden to bear.
They were the sort of men who would carry out his orders to a tee, but they did not excel when they had to think for themselves, which was why Morrison himself was currently fighting off the waves of nausea as the boat was thrown around.
“HOW MUCH LONGER?” he yelled to the captain above the storm.
The heavily bearded man raised his fingers to his ears and shook his head to indicate that he couldn’t hear.
Morrison swallowed his anger and had to remind himself that if he heaved the old bastard overboard, there would be no one to take them home again.
The boat suddenly reared up higher than ever and they seemed to be looking down on the horizon, before the waves shifted and they plummeted downwards at an alarming rate of knots. In the middle they seemed to be airborne, suspended above the water and floating in the sky before they hit the ocean hard and the boat threatened to spill over and drown them all.
For the first time, he thought that he might have made a mistake by insisting on making the journey.
The boat captain had tried to tell him that it was too dangerous but Morrison hadn’t been for dissuading and when money hadn’t tempted the old man, threats of violence against him and then his family had finally done the trick.
The boat heaved up and down on the raging waters and Morrison gripped the side of the boat with whitening knuckles. All the while, he kept the face of Rollins in the forefront of his mind, aiming his anger and targetting it at the man who’d betrayed him.
As the island finally reared into view, he felt in his heart that there was going to be a reckoning, one full of blood and fire, and he’d show the world just who really sat on the throne.
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Torvan hosted the party. His men deserved a chance to receive the adulation of the Order. They had struck a blow to the invading hordes and turned back the tide.
The gods would undoubtedly be looking down on them and rejoicing in their victory, one struck against the rising evil that threatened to swallow them whole, but they had been wrong - so very wrong. However, the battle had not come without a cost.
Solomon Abel had been struck down by an enemy blade; at least that was the story Torvan was telling the rest of the Order.
His men understood that they were to follow him and his direction without question. Torvan Abel was now the leader of The Chosen Order of the Nine Divines. It was his bloodline, it was his destiny, and there was no one to stand in his way. He was the anointed one, selected by the hands of the gods, and sometimes that required sacrifice.
“SOLOMON!” he cried as he raised his glass in toast.
The rest of the room raised their glasses in unison although not all seemed to share his enthusiasm or vigour.
Torvan looked around the room as he sat on his throne and that wasn’t a metaphor. The chair was large and dominated the room. The ornate and hand-carved wooden piece of furniture was over 200 years old and had sat at the head of the table seating the leader of the Order ever since.
As he surveyed his troops, he was also evaluating them at the same time, spotting who could be trusted and who might be a liability in the war to come. But most of all, he was watching Gwendolyn. After all, every king needed his queen - whether she wanted that status or not.
He kept two sentries at his side at all times now. He didn’t believe that anyone in the Order would betray him, but the devils on the island could not be underestimated. While he was infused with the love of the Nine Gods, the black hearts of the heathen devils were everywhere just waiting for him to slip up.
He sipped from his goblet and watched them all with increasing paranoia. His father had been weak, too weak to lead and too weak to live. He had no regrets about slaying the king and only felt righteous in his decision to spill that blood.
Eyes were all watching him now. He could feel them as he drank more deeply, peering over the rim of the gold goblet. There were threats here, there were threats everywhere, and if he wasn’t careful, he could
end up like his father.
Maybe he would have to thin the herd here: remove those whom he couldn’t trust and spill the blood of the black hearts. Yes, that was right. He nodded to himself: thin the herd and weed out the disbelievers before they were able to take him down. He was the emissary of the gods now and he had to serve them justice and sacrifice in equal measure.
Only he had the strength to wield the word of the Nine he thought as he held the battleaxe across his lap. The blade edge was still stained with his father’s blood and it gave him power to keep it close. He could feel its hunger, its thirst for battle, and soon it would sate its appetite - as much as it could handle.
CHAPTER 15
Isolated
Quinn left Caleb in the growing capable hands of Doc Simmons, but she stayed until she was sure that the woman had sobered up enough.
Caleb came round enough for a spell to speak to her. His voice was strong enough but his face was deathly pale. Simmons had done a decent job in stopping the bleeding, but there was a lot of it - too much, Quinn had thought.
She had wanted to stay with him but he’d insisted that she went out to the truck and radioed into Dottie at the station in order to raise the alarm on the mainland.
The wind had still been fierce enough to make walking across the road difficult but at least the rain had subsided for the moment.
She ran to Caleb’s truck and jumped inside. She picked up the radio mic but it was dead in her hand. She flicked through several frequencies but there was only empty static and no sign of any voices out there.
After a few moments of self-debate, she started the engine as the keys were still dangling from the ignition. Caleb had drifted back to sleep, and he was right; they needed help, and fast.
She drove back into the main part of town, keenly watching the road and the woodland beyond it for any sign of the Niners.
A long river of water was running quickly down Main Street as the rudimentary sewer system backed up and then overflowed. Several of the trees along the street were now leaning at precarious angles, threatening to fall into buildings.
O’Brien’s general store had its large window blown in, and shards of glass littered the pavement outside. Both Casey’s Bar and Pearl’s cafe were boarded up, the women obviously wise enough to take precautions.
