The red trilogy, p.11
The RED Trilogy, page 11
Rough? Rough didn’t even come close to describing it.
* * *
“Here he comes, Batman returning to his cave!” The voice echoed throughout the deserted warehouse, their temporary base, finally reaching Hunter as he slid the door closed again.
“I’ve had enough of wisecracks for one day, thanks,” he replied as he made his way through what had once been a storage area, to the offices with the broken windows near the back. There he saw Craddock first, sitting just outside the boxed room, perched on a chair that he’d turned around: leaning forwards on the back of it and proudly displaying his tattoos. The man was apparently allergic to shirts, preferring a vest so people could admire what he called the works of art which ran the length of each arm. Down the left, Popeye competed for space with the likes of skulls and snakes, while on the right he proudly displayed a character from that well-known horror movie who had all those nails banged into his head, alongside the crest for the particular branch of the army he’d been in: a long-handled bayonet (which didn’t look dissimilar to the knife Hunter always carried with him, tucked into the lining of his jacket) with a ribbon wrapped around it. But that had been a long time ago, as well. Now a lot of his muscle had turned to flab, and yet he was still a highly skilled, very dangerous man.
A good person to have around in a fight: it was just a pity he was such a dick sometimes. “What news from Gotham?” Craddock asked.
“I said enough,” growled Hunter, in a voice that wasn’t a million miles away from the Dark Knight’s. He saw Duncan rise from one of the desks in the office then, holding up a hand in greeting. Duncan may have looked like some kind of ape, the hairiest person Hunter had ever come across outside of a ’shifter, but he was also the cleverest. It had been Duncan who’d jury-rigged the electricity in this place, setting up the computers there in the office which he’d been monitoring off and on pretty much since they got here. He was the one who found them these gigs, the electronic detective work he did—looking out for unusual news stories, cross-referencing suspicious deaths . . . Such as that one recently where the husband claimed he knew nothing about his wife’s murder in the toilets of a fancy restaurant (in spite of an eyewitness swearing blind they’d seen him attacking her). He’d made it a lot easier in the past couple of years to hone in on their targets, made it easier to hone in on this particular target.
Zoë, as always, was by Duncan’s side, standing up to join him and taking out her earphones—probably listening to music on her phone again as she worked. She wore large-rimmed glasses, raven hair drawn back, which gave her the appearance of a librarian Hunter always thought. Either that or the Baroness from G.I. Joe. She’d been working on a way recently of detecting the ’shifters other than the standard mirrors, something to do with their body temperature being higher than humans. With Duncan, she’d been in the process of building hand-held detectors for on the ground—which looked like something out of Ghostbusters to Hunter—and fitting monitors to Craddock’s jeep (their version of Ecto-1, though Craddock would probably insist on calling it the Batmobile) which could sweep much larger areas.
If Hunter and Craddock were the brawn of this outfit, then those two were certainly the brains. But everyone here had lost someone at some point to those fuckers they chased. It was how he’d found them on his travels; it was how they’d become a team.
“But it’s my sense of humour that makes me so lovable,” Craddock argued.
“Not today it’s not,” said Hunter.
Duncan and Zoë stepped out of the office. “How did it go?” asked the former.
“The incident’s definitely related.”
“I figured,” said Duncan, echoing Hunter’s thoughts.
“Got a couple of names,” Hunter told him. “If you can find me an address, I’ll go and have a chat with the carer tomorrow.”
“No problemo,” Duncan told him.
“And what do we do until then?” This was Craddock again.
It had been a long few days, the longest Hunter could remember in a while. “We rest up,” he informed them. “Save our strength. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”
“We should be out there, patrolling. In case.”
“Trail’s cold for now, that thing’s gone to ground,” Hunter reminded him.
“Can’t say I’m surprised after the stink it kicked up,” said Zoë.
“Should’ve taken it out when we had the chance,” Craddock said, and Hunter was beginning to wish he’d go back to the jokes.
“You think we should have openly attacked it, in a crowded pub?” He said the words as if it would have been the worst idea in the world, but in his heart Hunter actually agreed with Craddock. If they’d nailed it there and then, none of the events of last weekend would have happened.
Or maybe they’d just have had a bunch of different people’s blood on their hands?
“We didn’t get the chance anyway,” Duncan reminded them. “That fight broke out before we could make a move. And the landlord was talking about phoning the police.”
That was true. It would have been impossible to do anything once that fracas had started up. They would have put too many people at risk by showing their hand too soon . . . As opposed to what? Waiting until all-out war had been declared between that gang and the creature on the streets of Greenham Estate?
They should have been there that night. He should have been there!
How could they have let it slip through their fingers like that? Let it slip away again that night before they could take it down. That was their job and they’d failed, lost the damned thing after they’d been fortunate enough to stumble upon it in a routine trawling of the city’s pubs and clubs. But, he reminded himself, they also needed to be discrete; that’s why they had to wait until the timing was right. If the authorities got wind of what they were doing, they’d be arrested on the spot—or carted off to the asylum! And if the general populace were aware of the things that walked amongst them pretending to human, there’d be mass hysteria. Then the ’shifters really would go to ground, just like they had done in the past. Better that only a handful of people knew, people who could do something about it.
Hunter walked across to a nearby table, looking over the array of weapons they had amassed in their time together. Handguns, machine-pistols, rifles, grenades—most of those from contacts Craddock still had in the military. Hunter had to admit, he preferred the old-fashioned methods—like his knife. And like the weapon he’d favoured since he started up this quest—this vendetta—so long ago.
He took hold of the axe, silver polished to perfection; blade so sharp and accurate it could have cut an air molecule in half. Hunter swung his ‘best friend’ around in an arc, as if to test that theory.
“Don’t worry,” he said, looking over at the trio. “We’ll get another shot at it.” He smirked then, a sly grin he couldn’t help whenever he thought of killing those monsters.
“I promise you that,” he finished with another swish of the blade.
Chapter Three
He wasn’t running. He was hiding.
No, not hiding—he’d never hidden from anything in his life!—he was sheltering. Doing what he always did: surviving. He’d virtually crawled inside here, into the darkness, out of the cold. Away from the snow and the ice covering this world, that looked set to remain for a long time to come. It had almost finished him, that harsh weather. If it hadn’t been for . . .
Maybe he was running, maybe he was hiding after all. From what he’d done, from the terrible thing he had done. He could still taste the flesh, the human flesh he’d devoured. It had been the only way to make it, to . . . to survive.
No shortage of water, you just shovelled the snow into your mouth—though that did little to warm you—but food. . . ? There simply wasn’t any. Nothing out here at all for a hunter like him. You can’t live without food, that was just a fact. Sooner or later you’d die. But the meat had given him enough energy, more than enough, to make it to this place.
He warmed his hands on the fire he’d made; it had taken some doing, but he’d managed to find bits of moss in this cave, right at the back where it narrowed away to its end. There were plenty of rocks to bash together to make a spark, so he’d done that. Now he was enjoying the flickering as the flames danced and played in front of his eyes. Their motion made him drowsy. He shook himself awake, couldn’t afford to sleep—you slept, you might never wake up.
It was one of the reasons why, even though he had a fire now, he’d kept his furs on. Because if he did happen to drop off, not even the protection this cave afforded him would save him from freezing to death.
He thought again about the strength that meat had given him, though he tried not to think about how he’d come by it; tried not to think about his brother. It had been an odd sensation, unlike anything he’d ever felt—certainly not like eating animal flesh. That gave you sustenance, but this—
He’d felt . . . powerful. For a short spell at least. But then oh so weak again by the time he reached the cave. It had been a good while since he’d felt weak.
Since he’d felt . . . human.
He shook his head again. What did that mean? He’d always been human, hadn’t he? Always would be? No—something was different now. But it would be more so in the years to come.
What years? What was he talking about? There was only this place, wasn’t there? Only here and now? What was to come—he’d leave that for the medicine men who feigned their trances, purported to be able to do magic and see into the future. For now he felt contentment—of a kind. He was warm, safe.
But no sooner had he thought that than he heard it for the first time. The growling sound . . . To begin with he wondered if it was his stomach again, for there was no doubt he was hungry once more. His last meal, as distressing as it was, had been days ago. He even clutched his belly to rule it out. No, this was coming from outside the cave. A rumbling sound he’d never heard before, and he’d heard most of the noises that creatures of the wild could make. The thought crossed his mind that he might not know all the beasts that roamed these parts, that as the white had covered the land he might have wandered into territory foreign to him.
In any event, it sounded big. Huge, in fact.
And it sounded close . . .
He snatched up his spear, fingers through his thick mittens curling around the wooden shaft. He’d almost used this as fuel for the fire, the only wood he had to hand, but was glad now he hadn’t. If he was attacked, it would be the only thing standing between him and being eaten himself, the sharpened tip glinting in the light from the fire.
Shadows were being cast on the wall, granting him a hint of the thing out there: its bulk; its size . . . though it was hard to tell with any kind of accuracy, as they tended to distort things. Maybe it was bigger still? He hoped not. Even if he wasn’t in this weakened state he might well not stand much of a chance against something like that.
He waited, as the thing paced about outside the mouth of the cave. Indistinct, perhaps waiting for him to make his move—but that would simply tip it off. If it wasn’t going to enter, if it wasn’t going to attack, then at some point it would have to sleep as all things do, he reckoned (it was probably loitering in the hopes he would do the same; but he wasn’t that stupid). And then . . .
He realised though, as he watched the shadows, as he listened to the beast, that he was neither running nor hiding.
At the moment he was stuck. The cave led nowhere and he could not escape through its mouth, because there was another one waiting there for him if he did.
One with razor-sharp teeth filling it.
The elements—and what he had done—had driven him in here, but he’d found himself trapped inside. No way out.
But that wouldn’t, couldn’t, last forever. When the beast, when his guard slept, he would make a bid for freedom. When ‘she’ slept again—and somehow, he wasn’t sure how, he felt certain she was female—it would be his time.
He would eat again.
Finch would be free.
Chapter Four
It was so nice to be needed again.
Had been such a long time since she’d felt that—as a parent, as a mum. As a friend. But she had been today, that was for sure. Her baby girl had been in such a state. First Kathleen had made that tea, with added sugar, sitting her daughter down on one of the kitchen chairs and encouraging her to drink it while it was nice and hot. Then she’d set about tidying a bit, in spite of the pains in her legs; picking up the plants, hoovering a little—before Rachael joined in with some of the heavier stuff. She righted the table, sofa and lounge chair that Kathleen couldn’t manage—and the woman had raised an eyebrow at how easy her daughter seemed to find that task. Rachael didn’t used to be so physically strong, but then that was probably down to lifting all those old people day in, day out.
Kathleen had said nothing about the crimson stain—she’d just got out the Vanish. Might have been wine, or maybe even blood from that injury just under Rachael’s hairline she was doing her best to try and conceal (questions for later). In any event, Kathleen had run Rachael a nice hot bath, good and soapy like she used to love when she was a kid.
By the time she’d got out, Kathleen had made them both a bite to eat—though Rachael did little more than pick at the peanut butter sandwich her mother had prepared. It was only then, with everything back to relative normality, and armed with another cup of tea, that she began quizzing Rachael again about what had happened of late.
And it had all come out, or as much of it as Rachael said she could remember—yet even then Kathleen felt like she was holding back to prevent her from worrying. Rachael began with Mike’s infidelity, through to the night out she’d had with Steph that had ended in him causing a fight, and how she had indeed been at the Greenham Estate when all the violence had kicked off last weekend.
“I . . . I forgot Tilly’s medication,” Rachael told her mum, tears welling in her eyes again. “I had to go back . . . and . . .” She’d touched that wound on her head at that point. “I think I must have banged my head somehow . . .”
“Dear Lord in Heaven!” Kathleen had exclaimed in shock and surprise. “Anything could have happened to you, sweetheart! Have you seen a doctor?”
Rachael thought for a moment, then nodded. Yes, she was certain she’d been checked over at the hospital and given the all clear. “Looks worse than it is, they said. I remember that.”
“No wonder you’ve been having nightmares! Oh, you poor thing, you’ve been through so much.”
It was during this chat that Kathleen started to steer the conversation towards perhaps returning with her, to her real home. “You’ve done your best, love. Made a good go of it. Time to come back now, eh?”
Only then did Kathleen see a flash of the old Rachael, that feisty and determined Rachael. “I can’t, Mum. You know that. I have a life here . . . I . . . I have a life . . .” She stared off into space, though, as she said this, only refocussing when Kathleen touched her knee. “I still have my job. At least I think I do. The acting. I have Steph and—”
“Darling, I know that Stephanie was very good to you when you first moved here . . .” Kathleen spat those last few words out like they were poison. “But I really don’t think she’s your kind of person.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Kathleen shuffled about uneasily in her seat. “Well, from what you’ve told me she doesn’t have the best . . . morals.” What Kathleen actually wanted to say was, ‘Let’s face it, the girl’s a tramp’ but she didn’t think that would go down very well with Rachael. She’d been on the receiving end after criticising some of her daughter’s friend choices in the past, not to mention the boys she’d insisted on going out with—or thrown herself at might be more accurate.
“Steph’s the best,” argued Rachael. “She has the biggest heart of anyone I know and—”
“So where is she?” asked Kathleen.
Rachael looked at her, said nothing. She’d tried calling her, once they’d connected the phone line again, but the girl wasn’t answering either her mobile or her home phone.
“Your best friend and where is she while you’re going through all this?” Kathleen had pushed.
“I . . .” Rachael chewed her bottom lip. “I don’t know.”
The buzzer had gone then, breaking the tension, and Kathleen had been more than a little surprised to find Mike on the other end of the speaker. But, at the same time, it had given her no small amount of satisfaction to tell him to get lost.
“Please! I just want to see that Rachael’s okay, y’know?”
“No, I don’t. Now go away!”
Rachael had placed her hand on her mother’s arm then, asked her to let Mike in. “I need to do this myself, Mum,” she told her. And, against her better judgement, Kathleen had admitted him.
She’d hovered in the background, looking daggers as Rachael stood talking to him at the front door. He looked just her daughter’s type—more’s the pity—scruffy, messy hair, that stupid bit missing from his eyebrow. In other words, a no-hoper. “I just wanted to make sure you were all right, after . . .”
“Yeah,” said Rachael. “I’m fine.” She didn’t sound very convincing.
“I was so worried when Steph told Elaine and . . . Anyway,” he looked down at the floor, shuffled about, “I just wanted to say I was sorry.”
“About what, kissing that woman I caught you with?”
“I tried to explain about that a billion times. She kissed me, Rachael. You know how some of these gigs get, especially towards the end when people have had a few. It meant nothing.”
Kathleen harrumphed loudly behind them. “A likely story.”
