by Ron Ripley
Shane nodded his thanks and slowed down. His footsteps became silent. He blended in with the darkness. The women were loud, obscenely so. Their feet cracked twigs, legs and arms pushed aside branches, and they spoke in low but clearly audible voices.
“This is ridiculous,” one said.
“I know,” the other agreed.
“Come on, we couldn’t just push him towards the One?” the first asked.
Before the second could reply, they stepped into a shaft of moonlight.
Shane let off two quick shots, and the women dropped. He waited a moment for his night vision to return. When it had, he moved forward. Both women were down, the slugs from his .45 having punched through their breastbones. He stepped in, drew one of their 9 mm pistols, and stood up. He put two more rounds in each woman's head, just to make sure.
Shane wiped his prints off the 9 mm, and dropped it onto the stomach of the closest body.
“Ready?” Courtney asked.
“Yes,” Shane replied, and she took off again as he continued down the trail.
It took her longer to return, and when she did, it was with grim news.
“Two more teams, three each,” Courtney said. “They’re in a glade ahead of us.”
“Are they stationary or moving?” Shane asked.
“Stationary,” she answered.
"Good," Shane muttered. Within a few minutes, he could see the tree line and the glade beyond. They were speaking, but their voices were muffled, making it impossible to decipher what was being said.
But it didn’t matter.
Shane left one round in the chamber, ejected the magazine, and slipped a fresh one in, giving him a full eight. He edged up to the tree line, got into a good firing position and took control of his breathing. The shots would be long for a .45, but not impossible. Not if he followed the old Marine mantra of ‘slow is smooth and smooth is fast.’
And Shane followed it.
The pistol barked six times, shell casings ejecting into the darkness.
When Shane had finished no one remained.
He walked out to the bodies, mindful of the two rounds he had left. Several of the Watchers were still alive. One, a younger man, was even attempting to draw his weapon.
Shane did it for him, and like the first two he had put down, he finished off the rest.
He cleaned the weapon as he had the first, dropped it down, and looked at the bodies. There was no sense of guilt. No feeling of remorse.
"I've killed better men than you," he whispered to the dead and headed out once more for the home of Samson.
Chapter 60: Alone
Clair threw the handset out of the SUV with a snarl. She ignored the way it smashed into Gordon's car, and she stepped out to stand in the night air.
She had lost contact with all of her teams.
Whether they were alive or dead, she didn't know, although she was certain most of them had been killed. She had heard gunfire and lots of it. A heavy caliber weapon, possibly a .45, followed by the higher pitched report of a 9 mm.
Clair felt certain that the .45 belonged to Shane, and she doubted any of her people had managed to shoot him. Especially since the heavier pistol had been fired first. Eight times. And then single shots from the lighter pistols. Those sounded more like people being finished off than the mad rush of fire from a prolonged gunfight.
Muttering to herself, Clair went to the lead SUV, opened the trunk. She removed a sidearm for herself and a Daewoo shotgun. She slapped a 20-round drum magazine into place, each round loaded with 00 buckshot which consisted of nine small iron balls.
Clair took out a second magazine, placed it into an ammunition bag, and then slipped the strap over her shoulder.
She was going to have to go in after Shane.
He couldn’t be allowed to get to the One.
The situation, she felt in her heart, was still salvageable. She, if no one else, could still come out on top. The One would see to that.
He would see her fealty. The One would know.
All Clair had to do was stop Shane.
She could do it.
She had to do it.
And she knew she should have done it before.
Armed and braced with fervent devotion, Clair went into the woods.
Chapter 61: The Chestnut Tree
Shane felt an electrical current run out of the woods on the other side of the glade in pulsating waves. He knew the sensation. He had felt it before.
Standing amongst the dead in Jonathan Engberg’s house.
Their energy had infused him with a renewed determination to see the job done. It had expelled all doubts.
And as he drew nearer to his relative’s house, the energy increased.
He knew it for what it was, the power of the innocents trapped by Samson. The dead boy had fed off it for centuries, and the Watchers wanted him to have more of it. Shane didn’t.
It was as if the innocents knew Shane was approaching. For every step closer to the opposite tree line gave him increased strength. By the time he left the glade, Shane felt as though he could have leaped the distance to Samson's house if he had only known where it was.
As he passed along the trail people appeared in the woods on either side.
Young and old. Male and female. They were from every period of New England's history, and they watched him. In their eyes, he saw a desperate hope, and Shane knew he would either kill Samson or remain with the innocent, although he could not count himself among that number.
Courtney was beside him, a comforting presence of bitterly cold air. On her delicate features was an expression of grim determination, and Shane knew she would stay with him until the end.
He wished he could take her hand and hold it.
Shane holstered his .45 as he drew nearer, the darkness becoming deeper as he crossed under the boughs of a magnificent chestnut tree. Soon he could see only a few feet in front of him.
He didn’t slow down.
He knew the path would be clear.
Samson wouldn’t want there to be any obstacles for his victims to trip over.
Shane was glad for that.
When he reached the trunk of the chestnut, a strange, green tinted glow appeared. It illuminated the front of a battered house, and the stones of a small, colonial burial ground.
The light also revealed bodies. Some sitting upright, others prone upon the ground.
And Samson sat among them, smiling like a beneficent king.
“Hello,” Samson said, his voice sweet and pleasant to the ear. “Who are you?”
“I’m Shane.”
“Shane,” Samson said, nodding. “What a nice name. I do not believe I have heard it before.”
Shane didn’t respond to the statement.
Samson evidently didn’t expect one. “Will you come and sit with me, Shane, and keep me company?”
Shane nodded and moved forward. Courtney went with him.
He sat down in front of Samson, and the little boy smiled at him.
“Isn’t this nice?” the boy asked.
“Sure,” Shane replied. He twisted the iron rings on his fingers.
A perplexed expression flitted across Samson’s face.
“Are you not happy to be with me?” Samson asked, a playful, hurt tone in his voice.
“I don’t care if you’re happy or not,” Shane replied.
The pleasant smile vanished from Samson’s face as he demanded, “What did you say to me?”
“Pretty sure you heard me,” Shane said. “Unless you’ve gone deaf after all these years, Uncle.”
Samson opened his mouth to reply, and then closed it, a confused look on his face. “What did you say?”
“You’re my uncle,” Shane said. “Many times removed, but an uncle still.”
“We are not related,” Samson spat. “All of my relatives are dead. You lie.”
Rage blossomed on the dead boy’s face and he whispered, “I shall smother your falsehoods and you will chok
e to death upon them.”
Samson’s body began to dissipate, the edges of it shifting into a dark mist, a fog that grew around the dead child.
“I don’t lie, Uncle,” Shane whispered, and he drove an iron-ringed fist into Samson’s face.
The mist that had built up around the boy snapped back into him, and the child himself didn’t disappear. He tumbled backward, jumped up and snarled, “How dare you? How can you?!”
“Because, and because,” Shane said, getting to his feet.
Samson sprang forward, striking Shane in the midsection and sending him tumbling over an emaciated man.
Shane let out a curse as he got up. Samson stared at him, surprised.
“Why didn’t I go through you?” Samson asked, looking at his small hands. “I should have plunged them deep into your innards.”
Shane didn't respond with words. Instead, he moved forward and tried to grab Samson. The boy slipped away, passing through a seated person. Shane watched as the stranger shuddered and collapsed.
“That’s what should have happened,” Samson hissed. “You should have died. Everyone I pass through, dies. Why are you different?”
Shane answered with a kick, driving his foot into Samson’s thigh and sending him spinning backward. The dead boy passed through a trio of headstones and shrieked, “Answer me!”
Shane grinned.
Samson howled and jumped at Shane, who caught him easily and threw him through the wall of the house.
The boy reappeared in the doorway a moment later, with several ghosts behind him.
“Now,” Samson spat. “Kill him!”
The ghosts rushed at him, and Shane’s hate brought a grin to his face.
Samson’s dead were why he had worn the iron rings.
His fists smashed into them, casting them back to their bones.
In silence, Shane advanced on Samson and wondered what the boy might do next.
“Save me!” the dead boy screamed, and those who still lived clambered to their feet.
And that was something Shane had not expected.
Chapter 62: On the Move
Clair had come across multiple bodies, the last remnants of the Watchers, stretched out in death. Some had been slain by ghosts, the marks obvious to one who had spent so much time with the dead over the years.
The rest had been killed by Shane Ryan.
She found the last of the bodies in the glade, six of them.
He had murdered them with a cold and brutal efficiency that Clair both admired and despised. Each one he had killed had been dropped by a single shot to the chest, with another to the head to make sure they wouldn’t get back up.
Clair considered, for a moment, what an asset he would have been for the organization.
And then she was out of the glade and into the woods. She could hear yelling in the distance, the voice of a child, outraged and furious.
Shane had reached the One.
A sense of panic welled up in her, and she sprinted down the narrow, dark path.
Someone lunged out at her and Clair staggered to a stop as she brought the shotgun up. The weapon roared in her hand, the iron buckshot dissipating the ghost that had sought to stop her.
Others appeared as well, but the shotgun was up, and she pulled the trigger again. She fired as quickly as she could, shooting anything that was potentially threatening.
In less than a minute, she had taken down nine ghosts, and there was silence around her.
Clair waited to see if any more would appear.
None did.
With her heart thundering in her chest, she moved on.
Chapter 63: Out of Options
Shane backed away from the living who were under Samson’s spell.
Some walked towards him, others crawled, and a few dragged themselves across the earth. All who could, obeyed, and those who couldn't and were still alive filled the air with moans of anger and sadness.
Shane knew some of the people who approached him had to be Watchers, those caught within the snare of Samson’s voice. Others would be innocents, and Shane could not bring himself to draw his weapon and fire at them.
A woman stumbled into him, her eyes feverish in the dim light, her skin hot to the touch as she grabbed hold of him.
Shane tried to shake her off, but in spite of her frail appearance, she was strong. Her fingernails dug into his flesh, and she opened her mouth. Fetid breath engulfed him as he peeled back her fingers. Several fingers broke in his hands before he was able to free himself and push her to the side.
By then the others had reached him.
They clawed, and bit, and punched at him, and Shane replied in kind, with greater strength and violence. Ghosts came at him as well, their blows more powerful and far colder than that of the living.
In the doorway Samson stood, watching with a smirk on his face.
Someone or something struck Shane in the back of his knee, and he dropped down, the joint crashing into the ground. The living defenders of the One tried to swarm over him, and he drew his pistol.
He reversed the weapon in his grip and used the butt of it. Again and again, he smashed it down on noses and cheeks. He shattered teeth and broke jaws. Some fell to be clambered over by their brethren, others continued to fight on. Shane felt himself losing control, lashing out with greater fury, giving way to his inner rage.
Skulls cracked, and the living died, shuddering heaps of skin wrapped bones.
Chapter 64: A Brief and Exuberant Joy
When Clair reached the house of the One, she felt a wave of joy wash over her. Not from the scene in front of her, which she enjoyed, but from being in the presence of the One. Of knowing that she had done right in coming to Him.
But the battle she found herself witness sent a thrill of excitement through her.
Shane Ryan was on his knees, being beaten by both the living and the dead.
His dying would be long, painful, and well deserved.
Yet as she watched, her belief in his eventual demise faded.
He was beating them. All of them. Body after body hit the ground, and the dead vanished beneath his blows. They returned within moments, but never long enough to press the attack.
Clair looked past Shane to the house and saw the One in the doorway.
He was the most beautiful child she had ever seen.
The grunts and curses of the battle disappeared. Even the sight of it vanished.
Clair saw nothing except the One, and He saw her.
He spoke, and His voice, clearly that of an angel, rolled out to her.
“Will you help me?” the One asked.
“Yes,” Clair whispered.
“Then kill him,” the One said, His eyes large and breathtaking. “Before he kills me, dear one.”
Clair dropped the shotgun to the ground and reached for her pistol.
A cold hand took hold of her own and wrenched it away. The pain was enough to force her attention away from the One, but not to drive his command out of her head.
She twisted around to face her attacker, trying to wrench her hand free and failing.
Clair found herself facing a ghost. A small woman with elegant features, her head at a curious angle, the neck with a disconcerting crick in it.
In a vague way, Clair felt her hand going numb and she understood that the ghost’s touch was destroying her flesh, one cell at a time.
Clair tried once more to pull her hand free and couldn’t.
She brought her left hand up and struck at the ghost, the iron ring on her index finger missing her as the dead woman dodged the strike.
Clair tumbled to the left, off balance from the blow and the sudden disappearance of the dead woman’s grip.
With a hand disturbingly numb, Clair reached again for the pistol, and again she was stopped.
Surprised, Clair looked and saw the same dead woman.
“No,” the ghost said. “You’re not going to hurt him.”
And Clair screamed as her
arm was twisted and pulled from its socket.
Chapter 65: His Distant Relation
Shane fought in silence, clubbing the living down and battering away the dead. His mind registered a scream, but he didn’t give the sound any attention.
He regained his feet, kicked a woman away and felt waves of pain undulate through him. Parts of his body burned, and others were moist with blood. Yet like the scream he had heard, Shane ignored his body.
Instead, he focused on Samson.
The boy in the doorway of the house.
Samson pointed a small finger at him, a foul, wretched sneer on his face as he said, “You’re going to die here.”
A man struggled to stand, and Shane shoved the man aside.
“Speak to me!” Samson hissed.
Shane remained silent as he stalked forward, his eyes locked onto the boy.
The dead child took a step back into the doorway.
Again the ghosts of the Watchers appeared, advancing on Shane.
Yet from the headstones and around the chestnut tree more ghosts appeared.
Shane recognized Jonathan Engberg and Amelia, as well as the others who he had met on the abandoned street. Other ghosts joined them, and together they attacked the dead Watchers.
The path to the One was cleared for Shane, and he walked along it as quickly as his damaged body would allow him.
When he crossed the threshold of the doorway, he felt energy ripple along his skin. His heart stuttered, missed a beat, and then kicked into overdrive. Samson was waiting for him, a light blue luminescence pulsating around him.
The boy stood in a corner in the center of a pile of bones and rotted clothes.
“You cannot touch me,” Samson declared.
Shane stepped closer.
The dead boy bared his teeth and shouted, “I have killed hundreds!”
When Shane was less than a stride away from Samson, the dead boy charged at him, and Shane caught him by the arms. Samson kicked out, each blow strong and powerful, deadening Shane's thighs.
Shane stiffened his legs, refusing to allow himself to fall. Samson snarled and grabbed hold of Shane’s chest, twisting the fabric of Shane’s sweatshirt in his small hands.
