The red trilogy, p.25
The RED Trilogy, page 25
Then there was the torch. Pat reached up and flicked the naked flame off the wall, in the direction of the bag, where it met the leaking whisky with a whoosh.
Pat turned. There hadn’t been time to check whether the scarred man was one of their kind as well, but it was a fair assumption and Pat couldn’t take the risk. Didn’t think twice. The chain was up and out once more, catching the guard across the hands and forcing him to drop his rifle. Didn’t mean anything—might just have been the sharpness of the cross. But when Pat lashed out again, and the man caught it—grabbing the chain with both hands—smoke started to rise from his palms. Pat had no choice but to let go, yet at the same time reached for the knife tucked into the soldier’s belt: the one he’d taken from Pat, sticking out handle first. In seconds that was free and being plunged into the guard’s chest. He fell, a look of surprise on a face that was in mid-transformation. With a satisfied grunt, Pat snatched the chain back—but there was no time to grab the pistol he’d also confiscated.
Because the figures at the back were rising, pushing through the flames, and they were being joined by more from below. Not just the colonel then, not just these men, but the entire outpost had been compromised—which was another assumption, but one Pat had wanted to deny until now. It meant one more base was gone, had fallen to them. It meant Colonel Alkins was dead, as well. No time for sadness, though, no time to mourn her . . .
Now was the time for the ‘flight’ part of the plan.
Pat began back up the stairs, had almost forgotten about the other guard there with the stubble until he was coming down them the other way, snarling. Timing it just right, Pat crouched and the man tripped, going straight over and falling headlong down the rest of the steps. Not only did that leave the way clear for Pat to open the door, it would also hinder the enemy in hot pursuit; literally, as a glance back told Pat that a couple were on fire. Now Pat was extremely grateful for the alcohol, gave a silent thanks that it had been Alkins’ favourite tipple.
Locks were undone, the door open again, and Pat virtually fell out into the museum. Legs working, time for flight. Don’t look back, don’t look back . . . But Pat couldn’t help it; couldn’t help casting a glance over the shoulder to see them emerging from the doorway. One, two, three—more. And Alkins changing as she did so, a streak of silver all that was left of her hair colour, marking her out as different from the rest of the pack.
Pat sprinted into the street, looking left and right, looking for a way out of this. Somewhere to hide maybe? Although now they had the scent, they’d simply track that—unless Pat could mask it somehow? But no, better to try and lose them in this maze, fool them into going one way when you were going another. Put enough distance between them that scent wasn’t an issue. A long shot, sure, especially with their noses, but better than admitting defeat. Better than admitting . . .
That you were dead.
That you had been ever since you set foot in the outpost, as dead as everyone else inside that place. Pat was being watched, being stalked. Being hunted. Could sense it, could feel it. And that hunt could only ever end in death.
Left, right, up one alley, down another. Might be able to lose them, might be able to . . . Then Pat realised what had actually been happening; instead of leading them away and confusing them, they’d actually been the ones doing the leading. Doing the herding. Blocking off one route, forcing Pat into another until—
It opened out in front, a large space, much larger than the checking one. Like those gladiatorial arenas of old, illuminated by a full moon that had just poked its nose out from behind a cloud. Pat skidded into the middle, and immediately tried to backtrack—but it was already too late. They were everywhere, forming a circle around Pat; dozens of them now, probably all the ones that had been in 7B waiting. No hiding in closets or under beds; the monsters were out in the open here. All changed, no need for subterfuge. All fur and teeth and red eyes. As red as the blood they were eager to shed.
Not today. Not today . . . But yes, it would seem: today. The time had come. No more flight, but Pat wasn’t going down without more fighting—no matter how hopeless the odds were.
Knife in one hand, chain in the other.
Then . . . something happened. A flash, moonlight glinting off something. And one of the mutt’s heads rolled towards Pat’s feet. There was growling, as the rest of the pack reacted to this. But there it was again, flashing metal. Flashing silver, catching the moon; a swish here, a swish there. Whatever . . . whoever this was, they were fast—maybe even faster than the beasts. Definitely faster than them, because they were falling, dropping like flies. Claws were flashing as well, but not nearly enough; furry legs and arms were flying all over the place.
Blood was spraying everywhere as well, the figure moving from one to another, ducking and rising, the blade a positive blur. Pat watched, open-mouthed, until there was only one monster left. The one with the silver streak, the one who had pretended to be Colonel Alkins. It was clutching the papers in its paw, scrunched up but still readable. It looked for a second as if it would attack—take revenge on this person who’d killed all of its troops. But then it seemed to remember what it was holding, the possibility of decoding whatever was in them.
And it ran, bounding off into the distance. Into the blackness.
Leaving only Pat there. Pat and the man. His shoulders were rising and falling, just as he had been a moment before. He looked over to where ‘Alkins’ had vanished, perhaps thinking about going after her, but instead turned and faced the person he’d saved, a little out of breath. It was only then that Pat saw what the weapon had been: it was a perfectly polished silver axe (battleaxe vs battleaxe, if Alkins had stayed) which even now he was cleaning, wiping off the grue. It was as beautiful as it was deadly, that weapon, and for a moment it was all Pat could see. Before the rest of the man came into focus.
He was wearing dark cargo trousers and boots, his long coat coming down past his knees, over a jumper that had holes in it. He was bearded, and—like the Alkins creature—that was also shot through with silver-grey. There was a patch covering his right eye, long hair poking out from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. The figure took a step towards Pat, who involuntarily raised the chain and knife. Just because a person was human—and that was yet to be established here; Pat had been fooled once that day—didn’t mean your intentions were good. Especially if you were out here alone, when you really shouldn’t be.
“Relax,” said the man, lifting the axe and resting it on his left shoulder, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Pat said nothing in reply.
“They got there way ahead of you. Saw ’em skirt round you, while you were trying to throw them off the first time.”
Saw. . .? Then they hadn’t been the only hunters out there observing Pat; this man had been responsible for at least some of those feelings. That sense of being followed.
“What’s your name?”
Pat still said nothing.
The man laughed. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“P-Pat . . . It’s Pat.”
“That short for Patricia, then?”
Pat frowned. How had he known that? Alkins had, she’d confided in her, but no-one else here. It had been the final reason Pat had suspected her doppelganger.
“We haven’t got all day, boy!”
“Because it sure as hell ain’t Patrick.”
He drew closer, bending, holding out his free hand. Pat tucked the chain in her pocket, reluctantly accepting the shake. Then she looked around again at the devastation; at so many dead hounds. “How . . . how did you. . .?”
“Practice,” replied the man. “Been doing this a long time. Probably even before you were born, girl. Getting a bit slow in my old age, actually.”
Her face soured and she let go of his hand. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? Girl?” She nodded. “Okay, before you were born, Pat.”
The mention of her own name reminded her that she still didn’t have his. “I told you mine . . .” she prompted.
“Eh? Oh, right.” He chuckled again. “It’s Peel,” he told her. Then he turned his back on Pat, began to walk off. She watched him, gaping, and suddenly blurted out:
“Wait!”
He stopped, looked over his shoulder—and waited. Pat just stood there staring at him. The stranger sighed then, and said, “Yes?”
“Where . . . where are you going?”
He grinned at that and pointed in the direction the Alkins beast had fled. “Goin’ hunting,” was the answer, and he turned back around again and carried on.
“Wait!” Pat repeated and rushed to catch him up, to fall in step with him. He glanced across, but said nothing. “Who are you?” she asked again, not wanting his name this time; wanting the rest.
“It’s a long story,” he informed her.
“Tell me,” she said as she hurried to keep up with his strides.
As this man who’d saved her, who she’d only just met, led her away from the field of conflict. From the slaughter. From the pools of blood that looked almost black in the light from the moon.
But were in fact red. A deep, deep shade of red . . .
Chapter One
She was still running.
As fast as she could, arms out in front to bat away the foliage. Escaping through the woodland, through the dense green that surrounded her: the safe path nothing but a distant memory. Breath coming in short bursts, hardly daring to look at what was behind her. Hardly daring to remember what had happened in case she might break down and cry. End up standing stock still when she should be running through—
The estate at night, through streets that were barely lit. Away from what had occurred back there in the small flat . . . No, that wasn’t how she’d escaped. She’d . . . There’d been a vehicle, a van of some kind. A young lad called Peter and she’d been—
Running, back to the motel room. Not away from the chaos this time but towards it, back to try and save the one man she’d loved more than anything in this world. Tom. Hunter. The man she’d just spent the most magical night of her life with except he was—
Back at the cabin, where her Gramma had met her end. Blood everywhere; red everywhere. He’d bought her the time to escape, to flee. Used that axe of his to distract the creature who’d been pretending to be her kin. Sacrificed himself so that she could get away, only the thing had chased her anyway once it was done with him. Chased her through the woods, through the generations, until it found her again. Until she’d come back full circle to the cabin, the flat, the motel room. So long ago, and yet no time at all. Different lives, different times.
It was almost time . . .
All so confusing, so confused. A jumble in her mind. The only thing she was certain of was that she had to run, to get away before—
No, wait, she’d won! She’d defeated the creature . . . hadn’t she? That’s what she thought. Yes, she’d defeated him—taken the monster on and beaten the thing. Only for the whole world to go to Hell after that, their progeny taking over.
She hadn’t stopped anything, hadn’t really won at all. The only good thing to come out of all this was—
Run! Run Little Red, as fast as you can!
And she was, again, through the green with something chasing her. How could it be chasing her when it was dead? When she’d killed it?
Already dead, just too stubborn to admit it. Too afraid.
Should she risk a glance, just a peek? She shook her head, she didn’t want to see because then she’d know for sure. Then she’d have to admit it to herself. That she was losing control, losing her grip. Losing her . . . mind? It was a miracle that hadn’t gone ages ago. Sometimes, moving from place to place—running again—she had to wonder whether she’d already gone stark, staring mad. Wonder whether this wasn’t all some dream, some nightmare she was unable to wake up from. On the run from the authorities, from people she owed money to, from . . . everyone.
Running, always running. Perhaps that was it, she’d been doing that for so long she didn’t know how to stop.
You have to make sure, she said to herself. Take a look and make sure there’s nothing behind you, nothing following. Make sure you’re safe.
So she did. She turned, then let out a breath this time—not because she was exhausted, but through sheer relief. There was nothing out in the darkness, in that dark green through the branches. Nothing following, nothing hunting her.
Then she saw it: Red.
A red spot, a crimson circle. Only small, but it was there. A single red . . . No, not single. There were two of them now, quite close together. A pair of eyes; glowing red eyes. She almost screamed. It was still behind her, was still following after all these years. Wasn’t possible, it couldn’t be possible! She’d—
Two more of them appeared, not far away from the first set. As if they’d only just sensed her, only just spotted that she was ahead of them. Moments later another pair of eyes opened, then another, and another.
She wanted to scream so badly now, long and loud. Wanted to scream at them to stay away, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t find her voice. Ten, twenty, thirty . . . she was losing count now. So many eyes out there in the woods, just staring at her. There were more eyes than trees now, surely? Just watching her intently, waiting for . . . for what? For her to make some kind of move; to even twitch. And then they’d be on her.
They’d strike.
Was she going to give them that satisfaction? Let them just have her? Shouldn’t have stopped running, should just have kept going. But it wasn’t too late, was it? She could turn and start again, try and escape. And that’s just what she did, whirling around as fast as she could, facing front again . . .
Except the eyes were there too. Ahead of her as well as behind. The future and the past. There was no escaping them, there never had been. That had been the real dream, thinking she ever could.
Quickly she looked left and right. Of course they were there as well, the red orbs securitising her, boring into her.
She had seconds, if that. Had to think of a way out of this. Not just stand there trying to cry out, letting them devour her. Like the last time. Like one of their kind had, although that bastard had regretted it in the end. Okay, let them come—she’d fight them. As weak as she was, she’d—
That was when they struck. All of them, all at once. Descending on her, tearing into her with claws and teeth. Ripping her limb from limb, the pain incredible.
She screamed then. The longest and loudest scream she’d ever managed in her life.
Screamed until . . .
. . . suddenly she opened her own eyes, right here, in the real world. If you could call it that. Screaming at the faces that surrounded her, that always did, day after day after day.
Faces that, more often that not, also had glowing eyes. Glowing eyes that were a deep shade of red.
* * *
He was surrounded, those red eyes out there in the darkness.
Not just him, but the others who had also managed to escape. Trooper Andrew ‘Angel’ Southland (named by his mother, who always called him her little Angel) looked about him at what actually remained of those survivors. He could count them on the fingers of two hands . . . barely. All that was left of an outpost which had boasted more than fifty people, most of them fighters like himself; thank Christ there hadn’t been any children at that station! Nobody had been expecting the sneak attack, there had been no warning—their lookouts killed before anything could be done to raise an alarm.
They’d come through the back way, through an underground system they shouldn’t even know about. Clawing left and right, biting and ripping apart anyone who stood in their way until the walls were painted with blood. Forcing the humans there to the surface, into the twilight, where more of their kind were waiting. Angel had been proud of the way his men had fought, in those close quarters beneath the ground, then on the surface; facing an overwhelming number of mutts.
A massacre, that’s what this was. An attempt—a successful one—to totally obliterate 5C. To wipe it off the face of the Earth. He and those who’d crawled away from there, others giving them covering fire—sacrificing themselves so that they could escape—had run. Though he wasn’t leader material or anything, Angel had taken charge of the rag-tag team that was in total disarray; no sergeants, captains or majors left to dish out orders. And they’d tried to get away, only to be chased down the war-torn streets. Their enemy had finally cornered them near a park, where there was really only one place to attempt a last stand: a burnt-out bus. With a nearby bit of metal, Angel had levered open the emergency door at the back (if ever anything counted as an emergency, it was this) and ushered the others inside, waving his arm furiously until there was only him left. Then he’d joined them as they’d taken up positions at the windows—or what had once been windows at any rate. Relieved of their glass, they at least made decent gun placements.
It was from one of those that Angel now witnessed the approach of the dogs. He rushed to the other side of the bus, saw they were there too. A quick glance through the back and front ‘windows’ also confirmed that they were circling the old vehicle. There was no way out, he and the survivors were surrounded—just like in those old westerns he used to watch with his brother. An older brother who’d been killed in one of the first waves of attacks when those freaks rose up. The passing thought made him mad, chased away the fear momentarily.
“Pick your targets,” he called to the other troopers in the bus, knowing they only had a limited amount of ammo left. “Make every shot count. And let’s make these sons of bitches—”
That was where the speech ended, cut off when the wolves—as one—made their move. When they sprang towards the bus and his people began shooting. Some of the silver bullets hit their marks, Angel’s included as he hunkered down and joined them in firing at the sea of fur. But it hardly dented their numbers, more hounds taking the place of their fallen comrades pretty much immediately.
There was a scream, and Angel looked across in time to see one of the troopers get dragged through a window. The top half of his body vanished, leaving khaki legs kicking out, so hard one of the man’s boots came off and was flung back into the bus to bounce off a seat. Then the legs just stopped moving, collapsing against the window as a jet of redness sprayed inside.
