Abomination (The Pathfinders Book 1)

by Jane Dougherty

  They picked their way back to the deepest blackness, prepared to let the nothingness engulf them again.

  “Hold it!”

  Tully and Carla started and spun around to face the shrill, imperious voice.

  “You came out of the hole of the Abomination.”

  The speaker had his back to the light. His features were indistinct, but he was about four feet tall and carried what looked like an assault rifle.

  “And we’re going back into it, if that’s all right by you,” Tully said shortly.

  “Nobody goes back through the hole. The gods don’t permit it.”

  Carla opened her mouth to argue, but Tully grabbed her arm and yanked her into the darkness that had expanded to fill all his angle of vision. They plunged, eyes closed, holding one another tightly. Tully braced himself against the horrible sensation of disintegration and dispersal as they entered the void. Instead, he felt the air knocked out of his lungs as they hit an invisible barrier that projected them violently backward, to fall in a heap at the feet of the small soldier.

  “Like I said, the gods don’t permit it. Now, get up!” A booted foot shoved them roughly.

  “Keep your bloody feet to yourself!” Tully struck out behind him and received a sharp slap from the butt of the rifle.

  “Ace wants to see you. Now!”

  Tully touched his head gingerly. His fingers were sticky and his head throbbed. Anger welled up and he clenched his fists.

  “What if we don’t want to see Ace?”

  Carla put a hand on his arm. “It’s okay. We’re coming. Just put that thing away. It might go off.”

  The small soldier pointed with the rifle. “That way.”

  “We’d rather worked that one out for ourselves, Rambo,” Tully muttered as he picked himself up.

  “And bring the gear.”

  “Don’t worry, we weren’t planning on leaving our things,” Carla said, picking up her rucksack.

  “Correction,” Rambo said, “Ace’s things.” And in the darkness they could hear him sniggering.

  Chapter Six

  They stumbled through the devastation for what seemed like hours. The eerie landscape was silent, except for a distant rumbling that came from deep within the earth and the pop of gas bubbles on the surface of scummy ponds. Nothing moved except rubbish that flapped or swung back and forth in the gusts of wind, and the unsettling flocks of heavy-bodied black birds that hopped about, digging and scratching in the rubble.

  They passed close to a particularly large flock and the child soldier pegged a stone into the middle of it. The birds lifted themselves clumsily on their huge, ragged wings, squawking irritably and revealing a pale mound, something dead. Rambo pegged another stone at the mound. It hit its target with a soft plop, and Carla screamed as a swarm of flies rose from holes in the carcass with the noise of angry hornets and swirled about it in a dense cloud. The boy chuckled.

  The cold found its way through their clothing, tensing up their muscles and numbing their features. The boy soldier—who Tully persisted in calling Rambo, to his complete indifference—was thin and wiry with hollow cheeks and eyes that were too big for his face. He was the size of a runty ten year old, but his eyes were the world-weary eyes of an old man.

  He wore an extraordinary assortment of clothing—a too-big jacket with sagging pockets and a broken zipper, too-short cotton trousers fraying at the hem and through at one knee, layers of jumpers, and an incongruous red woolly bonnet suitable for a five year old. The ensemble was worn out and faded and stiff with dirt. Rambo didn’t smell too fresh either.

  Despite his frail appearance, like one of Fagin’s urchins, he forced a relentless pace along narrow paths between what looked like towering slag heaps, pausing when they lagged behind. “Don’t try running away,” he warned. “This is Gouge territory. If the rats don’t get you, the Gouge will.”

  “What’s Gouge?” Tully asked, curious despite himself.

  “Who,” Rambo corrected him. “Tribe, Gouge. Their specialty? Eyes, usually.”

  “And what’s your tribe?”

  As soon as Carla asked, Tully wished she hadn’t.

  “Flay.”

  Tully didn’t have to look. He just knew the boy was laughing silently.

  * * * *

  Carla tripped on a piece of the skeleton of a lorry and banged her knee. She limped to her feet, her limbs stiff with the cold. Rambo turned with an impatient snort.

  “Please,” she pleaded, “it’s so cold. Can I just put on an extra layer of clothing? I won’t be a minute. Please.”

  Rambo was about to shake his head.

  “Aw, come on!” Tully stopped too. “We’ll walk a lot faster if we’re warm.”

  “You’ll walk even faster when the rats smell you.”

  Carla’s face went white, but she insisted. “Please.”

  Rambo looked around, visibly nervous. “Make it quick then.”

  Carla shot a warning glance at Tully as she rummaged in her pack. Tully watched her, fumbling in his own pack as he tried to work out what she was about. A thick jumper came out, a scarf then her fingers closed around a slim object. Suddenly Tully got the message and shifted position so that she was out of Rambo’s line of vision. The penknife disappeared inside her left boot.

  Tully smiled to himself in admiration and continued his own rummaging, with a purpose this time. “Ah, here it is.” He shifted around again brandishing a glove. Carla shuffled past him, buttoning up her jacket clumsily, arms flapping, forming a screen for Tully, who profited to hide his own knife and a box of matches.

  “Get a move on!” Rambo’s head turned left then right, peering into the gloom. He was getting jittery.

  “Okay, just the bonnet…” Tully straightened up, grinning. “My dad always says you lose most heat through your head, so—”

  “Move!”

  Tully slung his pack on his back. “Just thought you’d be interested,” he muttered, feigning offense.

  Carla shot him a glance that was almost a smile.

  * * * *

  They plodded on in silence, saving their energy for combating the icy wind that seemed to circulate beneath their clothes like cold water. The light did not alter. They peered through an almost tangible veil of murky twilight that cast no sharp shadows and gave no relief to the dust-covered landscape. Gray ash and ice crystals stung their eyes, and the brief feeling of triumph at duping Rambo had long ago given way to one of gloom and utter exhaustion.

  They were startled into watchfulness when Rambo let out a sharp yipping noise and waved his free arm. Two khaki-clad figures moved from what had once been a petrol station and picked their way across the debris in their direction. Suddenly the commando types called out a warning and broke into a run. Rambo darted a look over his shoulder, and his face drained of the little color the biting wind had lent it.

  At the same time, Tully became aware that something was behind them, something that he only glimpsed out of the tail of his eye, but something that was gaining on them with every second.

  “Run,” Rambo shouted, and the cocky self-assurance of his voice now had a faint ring of panic to it. Tully and Carla ran without having to be asked twice, as the shaggy-coated shapes leaped silently from their cover behind an overturned oil tanker. Four dog-like creatures pounded over the treacherous ground. Brindled black and gray, they were tall and heavy as wolfhounds but with the small unfathomable eyes and massive jaws of fighting dogs. With the cunning of natural survivors, the dogs fanned out to cut them off from the two sentries, who had split up and were crouching down, one at either side of the track.

  “C’mon!” Rambo’s face was livid with fear now. Tully just had time to wonder why none of their new friends used his weapon when he was yanked forward, and the track behind him erupted into a tangled web of razor wire and jagged pieces of beaten metal. The creatures raced into the trap, hoisted into the air by barbs that tore deep into their flesh. Snarling in pain and rage, the massive bodies twisted
and writhed, struggling in vain to free themselves. Rambo’s expression turned from one of utter terror to unspeakable relief.

  One of the sentries who had triggered the trap called out, “Got you this time, didn’t we, you stupid bastards!” Choosing a piece of twisted metal from the debris that had once been a supermarket car park, he swaggered over to the nearest slavering animal. The creature lunged, its lips curled back in a snarl that revealed a double row of long yellow teeth. Blood poured from its neck as the razor wire bit deeper, pulling it up short.

  The commando guy, grinning from ear to ear, plunged his weapon into the creature’s belly, and with a savage twist, ripped it open. He laughed as the stinking contents fell about his feet, and spat into the furious yellow eyes that were gradually glazing over.

  Rambo watched, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He had almost fainted with relief and now looked as though he wanted to turn and run.

  “Here, Little’un.” The laughter was mocking now. “You have a go. Go on. Take it!” And the khaki-sentry-commando thrust the bloody piece of metal into the child’s hand. Rambo walked, dragging his feet, to where a second animal hung quivering on the wire. Tully saw the boy’s hand tremble as he raised the weapon, then he closed his eyes. There was a bestial shriek, followed by a roar of laughter. Tully opened his eyes to see Rambo splattered in gore and tears streaming down his face.

  The second commando came running over and snatched up a twisted car bumper. “Save one for me,” he yelled, and attacked the third animal that hung limp and resigned, too famished and weak from loss of blood to put up a fight. The fourth had threshed itself free in a frenzy and loped off into the gathering darkness, leaving a bloody trail and several chunks of bleeding flesh on the wire.

  Carla had backed away from the butchery, and Tully watched helplessly as tears of horror slithered down her cheeks. He ran to her and took her hands, but she seemed unaware of his presence.

  “We’re there,” Rambo announced, the triumph in his voice a desperate attempt to recover his spirits. “The biggest shopping mall in the territory.”

  The two sentries led the way across a jagged terrain of broken concrete slabs and twisted car wreckage. They pushed Carla and Tully through openings in an intricate system of defenses and pulled the razor wire barriers back into place behind them.

  “Expecting trouble, are you?” Tully asked. No one replied. “It’s just that my dad said bits of Belfast looked like this once when—”

  This time, one of the sentries, a thickset twenty year old with big, square fists punched him in the stomach. “Shut it!”

  Tully fell back coughing, bent double in pain. “It wasn’t meant as a criticism,” he muttered when he could speak again. “It’s quite stylish in fact. Post-modern, even.”

  He caught Carla’s eyes, full of longing for him to stop. But he wasn’t trying to prove anything to her. It was his way of keeping going, not giving way to despair. He wanted her to think he was strong enough to make a joke of it, because he was all she had left now, the only stable point in the incomprehensible nightmare they were caught up in.

  Chapter Seven

  “So these are the two that dropped out of the hole.”

  Tully opened his mouth to speak, but a sharp punch in the side made him close it again. It was not a question. Ace never had to ask anything. What Ace didn’t know, he could find out simply by flicking the blade of the long, narrow flaying knife he carried at his belt. They were in what had once been the office of a supermarket manager. The tacky catalogue furniture looked about a hundred years old, dented and scuffed. Tins and packages of all kinds were stacked against the wall and the cold was kept at bay by the simple but inadequate expedient of blocking up the window.

  Ace leaned back in a tatty executive swivel chair with his boots on the managerial desk and his arms folded. He was a thin, rat-faced individual in his early twenties, hollow-chested and frail looking. His features were sharp and angular, and his eyes were the color of the ice that covered the pools of filth in the rutted paths. Like Rambo, his clothes were colorless and shapeless, but might once have been army surplus.

  Standing stiffly to attention behind him was a boy of about Tully’s age, short and spindly with a completely blank expression. He wore a terrible golfing sweater with a big diamond design, and army trousers, but instead of a jacket, he was wrapped in the brindled skin of a giant dog, the shriveled, heavy-jawed head serving as a hood. The smell he gave off was a heady mixture of unwashed human and decomposing canine.

  The two sentries had returned to their duties, taking Rambo with them, or rather pushing him roughly out of the door in front of them.

  “And scrape some of that filth off him,” Ace shouted after them, “or he’ll attract every rat in the sector.”

  Rambo’s voice came to them through the open door, shrill and frightened. There was the sound of scuffling then a sharp cry followed by laughter. Ace’s personal bodyguards stepped into the room and closed the door behind them. Both wore filthy khaki fatigues. One also sported dark glasses, despite the gloom. He turned his invisible eyes to Carla and a wave of fear washed over her. But worse than the obvious menace of the bodyguards was the sinister, disquieting aura that hung over Ace. He looked unprepossessing, but he reeked of danger and barely restrained cruelty.

  Carla took all this in as Ace looked her over. It was a brief assessment that lasted no more than a second before the colorless gaze moved to Tully. Carla felt her face burn with shame and frustration. Ace had not looked at her. He had not seen Carla, just a female. If he wanted to know any more, he would make her take her clothes off. Other than that, she was of no interest whatsoever.

  She looked at Tully, tried to catch his eye, wanting him to have felt the same pain and humiliation. But he wasn’t looking her way. His eyes were fixed on Ace, and he had not even noticed the glance that had crushed her into the dirt, hadn’t seen her squirm in shame. Carla was beginning to feel adrift. She didn’t even try to take Tully’s hand. He had them both stuffed in his pockets.

  “There are only two kinds of men who come out of that hole,” Ace said.

  “The hole of the Abomination,” specified Dog Skin. His voice was as flat and lifeless as his eyes.

  Ace went on, “Either warriors or sacrificial offerings. Which of them are you?”

  “I think,” Tully said slowly, as if weighing his words, “that what we have here is a case of mistaken identity. You see, where we come from, to get to be a warrior, you have to have spent years at Warrior Academy, and at our school, armed combat wasn’t even on the program. And as for sacrificial offerings, they’ve been off the agenda for about two thousand years.”

  The slightly mocking expression disappeared from Ace’s face. He might have been slight, but he was half a head taller than Tully, and, Carla suspected, a dab hand with the nasty-looking little gadgets she could see dangling from the thick army belt. Ace’s cold eyes glinted.

  “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you? With your facetious little remarks about back home and, where I come from. Well tell me, Mr. Smart Arse, just where in the name of fuck do you think you are?” Ace’s face was inches from Tully’s and his eyes glittered with a feverish light.

  “My first guess would obviously have been a lunatic asylum,” Tully rattled on in a matter-of-fact type of voice, “but I don’t see any white coats, so I think I’ll go for a really bad disaster movie.”

  Ace’s fist darted snake-fast. Tully clutched his stomach and grunted in pain.

  “How about an open prison then?”

  “Tully, stop it!” Carla shouted. “Look, we don’t know where we are. We were in Paris and there was an earthquake, the building collapsed on top of us and we fell through this weird hole. This is like nowhere on earth, those things that chased us are like nothing on earth. This is a nightmare. It can’t be real.”

  Ace turned his attention to Carla, and slowly and deliberately slapped her face. Stunned and hurt to the core of her bein
g, Carla put a hand to her cheek, as much to hide her face as to ease the pain.

  “Hey!” Tully struggled to straighten up. The two bodyguards grabbed his arms. “You keep your mitts to yourself!”

  Ace gripped Tully’s chin and pushed his head back until it hurt. “If you can’t keep your woman quiet, let those who can, do it for you.”

  “I’m not his woman, stronzo,” Carla shouted.

  Ace didn’t even bother to turn. His hand just flicked out, catching her hard on the other cheek. Tully stared, for once at a loss for words. Carla knew he was trying to catch her eye but she wouldn’t look at him. She turned away, hunched over her hurt. Ace sat down on the scuffed and rickety desk.

  “You want to know where you are?” He leaned forward confidentially, his thin lips pulled back in a grin without warmth. “You are back home, or what’s left of it. Out there, is all there is. No more Paris, London, no more blue skies and birds singing, no more springtime. All that finished five years ago. The hole spat you out”—his face twisted into a scornful sneer—“now that it’s all over.”

  “What d’you mean, five years?” Tully spluttered in disbelief. “It was all there when I left home this morning. I’ve even still got bits of that bloody quiche stuck in my teeth.”

  “I mean, fuckwit, exactly what I said. The wormhole’s a shortcut through time. Five years’ worth. You missed it all—the Abomination, the quakes and the dust clouds, the poison rain and the firestorms. But we lived through it. We survived! This is Ace the Flayer’s land now. No one lives here but Ace and his Tribe. So, I’ll ask you again, are you a warrior or a sacrificial offering?”

  Tully took a deep breath. “What I said about warrior school, I was only having you on. In fact, I was pretty good in handgun class, though I say it myself. And the saber and cutlass instructor said I showed great promise.”