Hunters: A Trilogy (17 page)

‘You know, Ken, just to make sure you didn’t screw up any of that fragile electronic shit with your gorilla hands!’ He laughed as two fingers from one of the accused hands appeared in a rigid reply. Continuing, he said, ‘As I drove along I saw a lot of people rushing around the base in a big hurry. Most of them were either heading for shelter or lashing things down, there was stuff blowing all over the bloody place, it was just crazy!’

Ken nodded in agreement, the memory of the storm still very fresh in his own mind. Mike said that he had seen people on the roofs with extra sandbags, piling them against the equipment in an attempt to stabilize their satellite communication dishes and other receivers, which were now starting to take a battering from the increasing force of the storm.

As he approached the SD building, Mike said that he had been unable to get past in his pickup because the road was blocked by two of the large Ford trucks, which the spooks were using. Both the big trucks had been reversed up to the front door of the building and there were several of the hard-eyed Afghan guards there, too.

They were standing in a cordon around the white pickups and all of them had been armed with rifles. It didn’t appear to be good – the Afghans were definitely acting very fidgety and giving the drivers in the traffic, which was now backing up along the dusty road, a hard time. This was highly unusual as the Afghan guys were always pretty low-profile and generally kept themselves to themselves whilst on the base.

‘But, there they were, pointing loaded weapons at people and mouthing abuse at us!’ Mike said, shaking his head. ‘They were acting like a bunch of pricks!’

He told Ken that he’d been on the verge of doing a U-turn and going back to the office, when a commotion had broken out right in front of him. Four Afghans and one big American had come running out of the SD building’s front door carrying two large containers between them. It was difficult to see exactly what had happened next as the dust was really starting to whirl everywhere. What Mike did see was the tall American turn back from the vehicle. Then, and whilst grinning like a madman, the giant drew his pistol.

Mike said, ‘It was one of those moments where time slows down and you’re just a passenger, like watching a movie, you know?’

Ken did know – he knew about that one for sure.

Mike had observed two men rush out of the open doorway and head straight for the grinning gunslinger. They were mouthing something and their faces were filled with an expression that spoke of sheer horror. Mike said that he had never seen anything quite so deliberate as what the tall man did next. Peering through the dust, he saw him wait until the last second and then casually, but extremely quickly – so the two reports rolled into one sound – he shot both of the onrushing men in the head.

Mike’s eyes widened with the recollection as he said, ‘He was so quick that I didn’t quite believe what I was seeing!’ His sharp-voiced description cut deep into the scene. ‘He practically blew their heads clean off,’ he said. ‘It just wasn’t necessary; there was no need to do that, the bastard!’

According to his memory, it was right about that time when the shooting had started in earnest. Without warning, or seeming to have received any orders, the Afghans opened up on everything. Mike told Ken there had been one of the men standing on the back of the second Ford truck, manning a machinegun. Mike didn’t think the gunner took his finger off the trigger. ‘He just ripped those rounds into us!’ he said, and then also told Ken of how he remembered the unreal sight of the muzzle flash roaring from the barrel of the man’s weapon. He was mesmerised by the twinkling acrobatics of the tumbling empty cases as they cascaded away from the shuddering weapon. The sight transfixed him, a dream.

He looked up, eyes focusing on the present. ‘There was lead flying everywhere! Then the Hajjis with the AKs joined in and people were going down all over the place.’ Mike grimaced, saying: ‘Everyone within fifty yards was whacked! It was like something straight out of the movies...And there I was – sitting like a dummy and watching whilst they wasted everything in sight!’

He paused, before saying: ‘Then the vehicle behind me took some hits, I heard the rounds smacking into it. The next thing I know is that it rams into the back of my wagon and shoves me into the truck in front. My engine stalled and...well, it was about then that they all decided to make me their focus of attention, like it was personal!’ Mike breathed heavily with the traumatic memory.

He whispered: ‘That ginger bastard was standing there, just laughing and firing off his whole magazine straight at me!’ Mike’s nostrils flared.

Ken saw the slight reddening in his stubbled cheeks. ‘Did he have a ponytail, did you notice or not, Mike?’ he asked.

‘Yeah, he did, halfway down his back like some bloody, red-necked fashion victim!’ Mike said, staring unbelievingly at Ken. Then he added: ‘How the hell did you know about that...you had the dream as well, didn’t you?’ Mike shook his head. ‘Don’t tell me that you had the dream too, the one where he’s running on the spot and gets that thing out of his pocket, and then he blows him...
blows all of us to hell
!’ His blue eyes looked deep into his friend’s face as he received the nodded affirmative. ‘We had the same dream, huh?’ he whispered.

Ken nodded again.

‘Jesus, this is crazy!’ Mike said, in horror.

After taking a moment to recover his composure, he then said that the weight of fire his pickup had been receiving was incredible and that he was amazed he hadn’t been hit. ‘There were bullets flying past my ears, past my nose...rounds everywhere. I decided to get the fuck out of that truck!’

Mike had dived from his seat, hit the floor of the cab and then crawled towards the passenger door, feeling the gear lever snap as he did so. He told Ken that he remembered the hammering ‘
spang-spang’
noise of the incoming rounds hitting the engine block and other, solid metal parts on the truck. The sound was accompanied by similar thwacking noises and the sound of the truck’s safety glass breaking, its tiny pieces flying through the air and showering him with their shattered crystals. Mike now had a faraway glint in his eyes and Ken saw him jumping back into his previous, ghastly reality.

He told of how he’d managed to get out, crashing to the ground next to the truck in a plume of dust and broken glass, rolling and crawling, trying to get his bearings, his adrenaline pumping. ‘Shitting myself!’ was how he described it.

‘There were rounds winging off everything, I remember looking at the front tyres as I hit the deck, they were both flat and there was fuel pouring out underneath the middle of the wagon, you should have seen me move my arse then...I was out of there like a rattlesnake on nitro, crawling so fast that my knees and elbows were nearly on fire!’

He’d almost made it to the wide drainage ditch, which lay on the opposite side of the road to where the fire was pouring in from. It was a good position, well below ground level and kept his perforated pickup between him and the shooters. Then, just as Mike was inches from safety, the storm had hit him. He said that he’d smelt the terrible swirling sand, it had filled his nose and mouth with a horrible burnt taste. Mike wrinkled his nose at the memory, then said he’d remembered screaming, screaming really loudly.

Such was its power that the wind had almost lifted him to his feet. ‘I felt like one of those crazy bastards who go into a vertical wind tunnel and practice skydiving…’ he said.

Then the wind had sucked him completely off his feet, like a giant wild-eyed puppet, and left him there dangling helplessly in the dust. That was when he saw the two white pickups blurring past him, they seemed to be huge and were moving at a speed that didn’t seem possible.

They hurtled past him, through him, and he felt as though he had been miniaturised, or they had been swelled. They were like bloated, white, metal boats, like ships, such was their size compared to him. The dreadful, burnt electrical smell filled his mouth and nose as they rocketed past him. As he was thrown up onto his back and into the howling melee of wind and dust above, Mike had heard the firing again and this time it was a lot closer. So close that he’d felt the muzzle flash burn against the back of his legs and his lower back.

He looked at his friend with a desperate light in his eyes. ‘Then I took a hit, and I was hit really badly,’ he said. ‘It felt like I had been whacked by a lump hammer, it just knocked the wind right outta me – I couldn’t breathe!’

Silence descended over the friends, both of them locked in the scene.

Mike breathed out. ‘My legs went numb and I lay there in the air swirling around like a leaf,’ he said. ‘It was weird because I felt kinda...er...well, kind of calm. It was definitely weird, I looked down and saw pieces of my liver sticking to the front of my shirt, there were bits of white bone in there as well, it felt like my spine had been blown through my guts.’

Looking in amazement at Ken, he murmured, ‘I was in shit-state, but...but, I felt okay, almost as though I knew it wasn’t the end, there were things in my mind, memories of things, I felt like I had done this before, I was…’ He looked away, as if to gather his thoughts somewhat.

Then he said, ‘The last thing I remember was spinning around in the dust and trying to sit up, I really tried hard to sit up, and then the blood started pouring out of my mouth and nose. I think it was about that time when I must have flaked out, I guess.’ He shrugged his broad shoulders.

Ken shook his head and looked at his friend. ‘So that’s what you were on about with George, was it?’ he said. ‘Let’s have a look at the scar!’

Mike unzipped the front of his flight suit, it made a strange hissing noise as it opened. Seeing Ken’s surprised look, he said, ‘Ah, don’t ask, mate. I’ll tell you about it later, it’s another story all on its own, is this suit.’ He peeled the suit off his shoulders, the shimmering material hung down over his waist to the rear with the sagging arms dangling onto the floor, then he stripped off the white vest he had against his skin and tossed it onto the couch, before turning around so that Ken was able to see his back.

There was a thin scar running right across his lower back, it ran from hip to hip and had a slight reddish appearance, like all scars in the weeks after post-op. In addition, there was a scar running directly up the line of his spine. It ended about eight inches above the bigger scar and looked like a very thin, upside down T on his finely muscled back.

Ken said, ‘That looks really good, I doubt you’ll be able to see it in a couple of years, yeah, they’ve done a really neat job.’

With that, his friend turned and showed Ken his bare stomach. Below his sternum was a large triangular scar. The wound, although very neat, did have a certain thickness around some of the edges, and looked as though the flesh had been torn slightly before being repaired. The pointed end of the scar touched the base of Mike’s breastbone and then flared downwards so the two lower edges were about three inches below his nipples. All-in-all it was about the size of a man’s clenched fist. The scar was in exactly the same shape as the one Ken had on his cheekbone – it had the same shimmering, green metallic appearance, and looked exactly like a triangular spearhead. Ken blinked at the sight and then looked up at his friend’s face.

Mike grinned. ‘Now, that’s an exit-wound for you!’ he said, jokingly, and looked down at his own stomach again.

Ken laughed, shook his head and absently fingered his own little souvenir. Mike asked him how he’d been left with the scar on his cheek, and also about what else he knew. Ken explained about being trapped in the container and the subsequent adventure he’d been on, he kept it brief and didn’t elaborate too much as he was more concerned about the fact that Mike had been shot, terribly injured, and yet somehow was now back with a seemingly miraculous recovery. When he heard of the chaos and complete lack of people on the base, Mike paled and took a long drink as he listened to Ken’s edited story. Upon finishing, Ken said, ‘Pretty tame compared to your story, though, eh, Mikey?’

Mike looked at him sternly. ‘All things are relative, Kenneth…’ he said.

Ken was just about to get up and run, when, with a mischievous glint in his eye, Mike said, ‘Call me George, my boy – call me George!’ and then cracked up, his burst of hysterical laughter reverberating through the room.

Ken joined his friend’s mirthful noises, but only half-heartedly. The joke was a bit close to the bone for his liking, far too close. Waiting until Mike had stopped laughing, he asked if his friend knew about the writing in the Dutch Church, and was surprised to learn that the Australian had no memory of those events.

Ken told him about the painting and the hole in the floor, and also of his strange ‘hotel’ room. He finished his tale and then looked at Mike with the light of madness in his eyes, shaking his head in utter disbelief as he did so – sometimes the madness was just too real.

Mike, looking equally insane, said, ‘And what’s with all this stuff from your past, you’re a bit of a dark horse aren’t you? I mean, fuck me sideways, have you killed enough people, or what?’

Ken shrugged. ‘What’s there to say?’ he said, with a sigh.

Mike shook his head. ‘You never mentioned any of that before,’ and then, almost like an afterthought, said, ‘I wouldn’t worry too much about it, mate. It’ll be cool, you’ll see.’

Ken shrugged again, saying: ‘I have no idea what he wants me for; George said something about me being a ‘Hunter’. What the hell does that mean?’

Mike shrugged and shook his head.

Ken said, ‘Whatever it is, I’ve got a feeling that it’s not gonna be good for somebody, and I hope that it’s not me who gets the bad news…’ He leaned forward and took a decent swallow of his latest beer, before continuing. ‘What I find most strange of all,’ he murmured, ‘is how we have almost come to terms with this, I mean, ask yourself this – we’ve been told that the entire population of Earth has been annihilated, yes?’ He looked at Mike, waiting to see if his friend was catching his drift.

Mike had definitely caught the drift, he nodded vigorously, saying: ‘Yeah, except for about two hundred or so, according to George.’