Hunters: A Trilogy (4 page)

The door seemed to pulse with heat.

‘Oh, bollocks, now I’m dead, man!’ The thought was almost too much for him.

The desire to get out forced its way to the front of his mind. He had a sudden moment of panic, just the one, and then leapt into action like a madman. His first thought being not one of escape, no, it was the thought of the ammunition and grenades that spurred him into action. A metal trunk lay next to the pile of water and it was filled with all sorts of things, amongst them a stack of ammunition and at least ten hand grenades.

Ken stumbled across to the trunk, desperately fumbling with the sizzling clasp; he used his wet cloth to grasp it, flipping the lid open. The smell of hot metal and gun oil filled his nose; he choked and then started pouring water into the box. Although the contents were hot, they weren’t yet up to the temperature of the box’s sides, which hissed as water filled the interior. In seconds, he had drowned the contents. He slammed the lid shut, and then started searching for the pile of empty sandbags.

‘They’re in here, somewhere…’ he said, as his hands scrabbled.

Finding the Hessian sacks, Ken wrapped several of them around his head and body, pouring water onto them as he did so. He crawled into the back corner of the container, thankful that its metal side was not yet too hot, yards of solid earth outside protecting it from the source of awful heat. He lay flat on his back and made sure his steaming body was covered by as many of the wet sacks as possible. The heat was now at a steady level.

Not rising. Not falling. A hot and airless, steady heat.

He peeked out from under his wet canopy. No fires anywhere and the bunker in darkness. He watched the door where the strange exterior light still flickered, weaker now, its beams strobing through the cracks and swirling amongst the thin layer of smoke that clung to the ceiling. He breathed more deeply, the acrid air burning his throat. He coughed and spat out a lump of coal-tasting phlegm.

It didn’t sizzle upon landing.

‘Good,’ he whispered, ‘at least the heat’s not rising – I wonder how long the air’s gonna last?’ He coughed again, the taste of burning plastic catching in his throat. ‘How long am
I
gonna last?’ Ken lay still, breathing softly, trying to conserve oxygen. A slow drip of warm water found the hollow of his neck with maddening regularity. He dozed in the heat, the noise outside sounding like an open blast furnace, roaring in anger. Heat, steaming heat and blackness surrounded him; he thought of Mike. ‘That fire outside, no-one could’ve survived it, I...
I’m
gonna be lucky to survive!
’ Pushing the dark thoughts away, he tried to focus his mind on more positive things. ‘I’ll get the door open in a bit – it’ll be cooler soon.’

Then he slept. It may well have been unconsciousness or it may well have been the precipice. Either way, it was dark and silent.

Ken only had one dream whilst he was in the silent darkness.

In the dream he was carrying a strange spearhead. He heard the sound of Mike calling his name, Ken couldn’t see the Australian as his friend was too far away, much too far away, standing and screaming in the middle of a burning desert, a green and fiery desert.

With an aching head and fear in his heart, he tried to call his friend’s name. But, no matter how hard he tried, the words simply would not come out of his parched throat. He felt himself spinning, strange, powerful sensations of blackness and sliding began to smother him, he forced them away and looked for Mike again. The fear was almost too real, it filled him with the desire to cry out and yet he was unable to move or to speak. All he heard was the sound of Mike screaming. In silent horror, Ken Robinson watched the fire as it raced towards his friend.

A flare of agony sliced into his mind. He eased his crust-laden eyes open and then nearly screamed as the blood flowed into his hip, forcing a dry-throated curse from his mouth. ‘Ahh, Christ – cramp!’ He jerked the leg from under him, gritting his teeth as the blood flowed back into the quivering calf muscle. His head was killing him, thumping on the walls of his consciousness like an angry neighbour. Unable to recall the last time he’d felt such pain, Ken groaned, levered himself into the sitting position and then sat still in the darkness, picking the sandbags off his slightly-damp body, one by one.

The container was almost pitch-black. It felt like the inside of a coffin. He pushed that particular thought away and sat there rubbing his head, sniffing at the air, grimacing as a strange smell entered his nostrils. The air smelt like dried fish, or maybe something else, something rotten. And it was cold...
colder.
The sudden recollection of heat came back to him. He glanced around: the smoke was gone, the light outside faded.

Just blackness now, blackness and...and he was alive.

The reality of his thoughts was shocking. ‘Am I alive...what just happened – a nuke? The Russians, maybe they’ve gone and...China? No way, it’s more likely to be the Iranians. Maybe it’s Pakistan and India; maybe they’ve finally had the big punch-up! Maybe Israel, they’re not shy when it comes to…’ One thing was for sure – something had definitely happened, something big.

‘Maybe there’s just been an accident…’

With that armada of unanswered thoughts and possible theories floating through his mind, Ken ran a set of weary fingers over his face. He was surprised by the heavy layer of stubble that it seemed had sprung up overnight.

‘Overnight?’ The realisation leapt into his mind. There was more than one night’s growth sprouting from his face. ‘How long have I been asleep, what the hell is going on?’

He desperately tried to figure out a way in which to find the light-switch in his head. Ken felt like his mind was stumbling around in the darkness and knew that if he didn’t get some coherent thoughts going, and soon, then he was maybe going to lose that very-same mind. He peered at his watch, it didn’t appear to be working but he couldn’t really see, vision blurring in the blackness. He reached for his glasses, patting the empty pocket.

‘They’re in the bloody Land Cruiser, bugger!’ His whispered words didn’t seem to help. He shook his head in frustration, still half asleep. ‘Damn it, Ken – get a grip!’ He eased himself to his feet, groaning as his calf protested again. ‘Shit, I must’ve slept for twenty-four hours!’

He stood in the darkness for a while, just to let his body wake up and to gather his thoughts. Feeling slightly more coherent, he limped over and looked up at the sky through the gap above the door. The sky was dark and the strange red hue had faded somewhat compared to the last time he’d looked; things seemed slightly more normal.

The thought alarmed him. ‘Normal, huh...yeah, we’ll just have to wait and see about that, won’t we?’ He reached out gingerly and touched the door. Its warped metal surface was cold, corpse-cold. Something wasn’t right, so he waited, thinking. ‘Stay inside, wait a while – just wait...’

Mind made up, he turned and made his way back to the metal trunk. It contained all of their weapons: pistols, assault rifle and lots of other useful things, which they’d stored for that ‘just in case’ moment. Well, that moment had now arrived, big time. Ken dragged the soaking medical pack out and dumped it on the floor; water pooled around its sodden and blackened canvas bulk. He delved into the box for his Kalashnikov. There were two of them in there, plus his prized Dragunov sniper rifle, along with a couple of Glock 9mm pistols, and the grenades.

Only, they weren’t there.

Ken rummaged around the box like a burglar, hands scrabbling once more. That was bad, he’d never ‘scrabbled’ in his life, and yet he’d done it twice today, at least. He took a breath and knelt before the box, like a man in prayer. He whispered: ‘Come on, Kenny, get your act together, mate – they’re in there, just calm down!’

But they weren’t.

The box was empty and the only thing remaining in the bottom of its swampy interior was a thick covering of a paste-like substance. It felt like wet foot powder. But there were no guns. ‘Mike must have moved ‘em,’ he grunted, in a failed attempt of self-reassurance. Then another, slightly more alarming, idea entered his head – it just slipped in and sat down quietly in the back row of his mind.

‘Mike would
never
have moved those weapons, never ever – no way!’

He heard the sound of that dark thought, sitting and sniggering, as it started to applaud his gradual realisation. ‘Welcome to the show, Mr Robinson, welcome to the show!’ The sound of a slow handclap echoing around the inside of his empty head was almost too real to cope with. He peered at the paste, scooping up a fingertip of the stuff, sniffing it. Gun oil, metal filings...

Ken couldn’t stop the exclamation. ‘Shit! What the hell is happening to me?’ ‘Bugger this!’ he said, wiping a hand on the thigh of his trousers. ‘How can they have just disintegrated?’ He ran his hands around the inside of the box, the half-light of the container not blinding to his fingers. The only thing they found was a thick stack of gloop, a pile of wet powder sitting exactly where the grenades had been stacked. Ken shook his head in dismay. ‘You’re losing it, my old son. It’s time to visit the head-doctor – come on, wake up!’

He touched the cut on his cheek, letting his fingertip trace the wound. It had scabbed over and seemed to feel as though it was in the shape of a triangle, pointed like an arrow, or maybe even a spearhead. Ken kicked that thought right out into the night. The memories of that horrible dream were still fresh.

He whispered: ‘No way, you’re just letting this get to you! You’ve inhaled too much smoke; this is all in your mind, get a grip!’ His own words calmed the racing thoughts a little. Ken imagined Mike’s reaction when he was told that his best friend and partner had turned into a raving loon, one who had started seeing green sand and a pile of desiccated weapons...‘Yeah, great, that’ll go down just great!’ he thought, in dismay.

Looking at the trunk once more, he knew it wasn’t concussion and the awful realisation didn’t make him feel any better, whatsoever. There had been a lot of weapons in there, there had been! Well, up and until he’d woken with a headache and a dry mouth, there had been. With his position becoming weirder by the second, Ken took a seat on the metal box and tried to make sure he stayed calm, knowing that perhaps he should just relax and take two minutes to think. He desperately wanted to go outside, but there was just something stopping him. The sensation was like a voice in his head. ‘Wait, just wait ten minutes – wait!’

Ken breathed deeply and tried to let his mind think of other things.

He’d learned to become more patient as he grew older, previously he had been more impulsive and many of his bosses had chastised him about it over the years. Ken put it down to the fact that his brain worked more quickly than theirs, especially when the situation was getting sticky. ‘It’s either that, or perhaps I’m just a crusty old bastard…’ he said, sighing to himself as the stinging truth of his own loud admission echoed around the container.

Lately he’d learned to be calmer, more patient, and a lot of that he had to put down to his wife. She’d taught him to stop and smell the roses, to enjoy his life whilst he still had one. Yeah, she’d made him a better person and he missed her, but it didn’t stop him from wanting to get the hell out of here, and right now. He lit a smoke and sat there, thinking. The fact that he was able to sit still and think amazed him. In days gone by he would’ve most likely burst through the door with all guns blazing, there was always a time when the thinking had to stop and the trigger-pulling needed to begin.

‘Mind you, I would need some guns for that, now, wouldn’t I?’ he thought, wryly. Then he thought about how weird it was that only his weapons seemed to have disintegrated, why not everything else, why not him – why? Ken shook his head in confusion, he was sure that even the empty box beneath his backside would be having a little laugh at the mess he was in.

After about ten minutes, he rose to his feet and went across to check on the damage to the shelves. All their contents were littered across the floor; anything plastic was now just a twisted and charred, unrecognisable mess. Ken didn’t even bother looking for his phone. Instead, he walked over to the door and forcefully yanked the locking arm upwards; with a decent shove and a quick bit of encouragement from the toe of his boot, the door swung open with a slight moan.

He took a breath and stepped out into the silent night, pausing at the bottom of the stairs to listen for a few seconds before moving up to ground level. The metal staircase was twisted, warped by the heat. He clambered up the steps and peered over the lip of the pit, scanning the area as far as the dark night would permit his eyes to see. After a while he began to realise that there were no lights on anywhere and that he couldn’t hear a sound, either. The air was warm and dry and the smell of burning was a lot stronger out here. He was almost able to taste it in the night breeze that wafted over the bunker.

On a normal evening the base would have been humming with activity, the sound of generators, vehicles, aircraft and people would have been filling the air like white noise. Nothing stirred tonight. Even the everlasting barks of the almost wild Afghan dogs, which roamed constantly outside the wire, were totally absent.

Nothing, not a single damned thing, stirred in the blackness.

His old buddy, Geordie, would have said something like: ‘It was so quiet that you could’ve heard a mouse fart!’

Ken grinned to himself at the thought of Geordie’s stupid face, but it wasn’t a mirthful action and his own face felt like it was cracking. In truth, Ken was half hoping to see the sturdy gait of his thick-set northern friend, ambling over through the darkness with those huge hands of his giving them all the wanker sign, deep voice berating anyone stupid enough to have screwed up.

Ken smiled at the thought. ‘Yeah, that would be good, old Geordie Mac and me, yeah – we were usually able to sort most things out!’ It was a shame the guy had been dead for nearly ten years now, a real fucking shame.