Hunters: A Trilogy (94 page)

However, the one set of training that all the women did attend, and attend religiously, were his lessons on first aid. Ken had been highly trained back in his day – the term ‘Patrol Medic’ had meant a whole lot more than simply sticking some plasters on a cut. Ken’s own instructor from all those years ago, a quiet man who went by the name of ‘Ginge’ – a nickname derived not from the colour of the man’s own hair, he was totally bald, but more from his choice in women – had told Ken and his friends on the first day of their very long course: ‘By the time I’ve finished with you guys, and you’ve spent some time working in the emergency clinics around the country, and then served with your units for a couple of years, well, then you’ll be able to do open heart surgery with a plastic spoon, won’t you?’ It was an exaggeration, of course, but not by much.

Ken taught his students as much as he was able to remember, and it was surprising how much detail he did recall. He had no doubt much of it was well out of date by now, but if it had been good enough back in those days, he supposed that it would just have to do in the present. By the time he was finished with them, all his students felt confident in their ability to help each other in the event of the unthinkable happening.

Ken didn’t allow the thought of something bad happening to become unthinkable. In fact, he preached quite the opposite, positively drilling into their heads the idea that they probably would face such things.

‘Be ready for the worst, stay prepared and then things can only ever get better,’ he said, whilst making Tori redo her tourniquet. ‘Higher up the leg…’ he said, ‘…and tighter, that’s it – well done!’ As usual, he was relentless in his pursuit of perfection. He had plenty of equipment and never shied away from making them redo something several times over to achieve the desired result.

George made sure that Ken had everything he needed.

***

During their initial meeting, Ken had asked the old man about equipment and weapons. George had said that Ken should feel free to ask for whatever he needed, anything he wanted could, and would, be provided by George’s team. He had looked at Ken and then reminded him: ‘You must keep in mind, Kenneth, that there will be a stage when all material weapons will be cast aside; from what we have seen, it appears as though the black veil disallows such things.’ George had raised his eyebrows, looking as though he half-expected Ken to go ballistic again.

Ken had nodded, saying: ‘Yeah that’s fine, I understand that one now, George. But I still need to have some gear for the training, we’ll need some small stuff: AKs, some nine-millie pistols and…’ He’d then rolled a long list of desired items straight off the top of his head.

George had looked at Ken as though he was communicating in some form of alien back-slang from the planet Thragg, or somewhere.

Seeing the blank expression upon the face of his brand-new Quartermaster, Ken had laughed and said, ‘I’ll send you a list, George, oh yeah – will the Communicator work now?’ George had said that it would, and so, after spending some time in working out how the bloody thing operated, Ken had managed to send him a long list – one he reminded himself to keep in plain English.

The delivery of his equipment had arrived in a small box that he found sitting innocuously on the floor of the barn. With a quick push of the big button on the attached zapper, Ken had found himself to be the proud custodian of enough equipment with which to start a small war. He’d stood there in amazement at the time, no matter how many bizarre things he saw in this crazy parallel, Ken would always be filled with awe at the way George and his kind managed to do things.

‘If only it had been this simple when I was in the Job,’ he thought. ‘The boys would have had a field day with all of this stuff!’ Grinning to himself, Ken had started unpacking the gifts that George had so kindly provided.

***

Currently, Ken was nearing the end of his ‘Basic Training’ package and told the rest of the group that they should all have a break, maybe have a lie-in and do some fishing, or whatever took their fancy. They were pleased with the idea. None of them considered Ken’s training to have been basic whatsoever. In fact, they were quite shattered and secretly welcomed the chance of such a well-earned break. So, after one or two more days training, mostly spent on revision and rehearsals, Ken had decided they were done.

Standing before them with his arms folded, he said, ‘Okay, guys and gals! That’s about it, I guess. You’ve done really well and should be proud of yourselves! The shooting has come on in leaps and bounds and I’m reasonably happy with the other things we’ve covered, too!’ He grinned at them, and they saw that he was pleased.

They knew he was more than just ‘reasonably happy’, but they also knew he wouldn’t tell them such things, his constant cajoling during the past weeks had taught them all that Ken was very rarely full of praise. ‘Pride before a fall!’ would be one of his phrases that sprung to mind when it came to feeling as though they had cracked it. He would constantly remind them: ‘You’re never fully ready; it’s all in the training people, all in the training!’ And now they knew that he was right.

Although, secretly, it has to be said that Ken was more than pleased. After a lot of hard work, coupled with good humour and plenty of ammunition, they had turned themselves into a fairly decent group of Demon Hunters, one that was about as ready as it ever would be, especially when it came to travelling up some distant mountain path and having a go at flushing the Dark One from his lair.

They all seemed to have had an amazing adaptability when it came to the training. Red, his son Junior, and young Michael were complete naturals when it came to this game. If he were to be brutally honest, Ken couldn’t remember the last time he had seen such skill – Red and Junior were amongst the most dangerous men he had ever seen on any battlefield, anywhere. Then there was the extraordinary old woman and her young relation, Tori. Yes, they were ready, for sure. Ken knew they were going to have to be.

So, after performing a thorough clean of their weapons and equipment they all did exactly what Ken had ordered. For three days the farm resounded to nothing more menacing than the sound of its own softly-beating heart; birds splashed on the lake in carefree abandon, whilst the myriad of other insects and creatures went about their daily business without the disturbance of gunfire, shouting, and general mayhem which had become so familiar over the past few weeks. The Hunters simply lounged around and waited for the time to arrive when they would have to venture up the mountain path.

Unfortunately, they had forgotten two things. Firstly – mountain paths have, on occasion, been known to travel both ways. And secondly – there was the simple fact that coming down a hill is usually easier than going up one.

Usually it is.

***

The Demon hadn’t forgotten. As its mortal enemies began to indulge in a spot of richly-deserved rest and recuperation, the Dark One decided to carry out some ‘training’ of its own, just a little peek down the hill. After all, it had been a while since they last played together, hadn’t it? Under a crystal clear sky, he assembled his men, told them what it was he wanted, showed them the pile of dollar bills, with which they would be rewarded should they be successful, and then proceeded to point the black ‘zapper’ at them.

The only thing he didn’t tell them, mainly because he didn’t give a fuck, was the fact they were to be nothing more than guinea pigs in the first trial of his very own version of a thing called Shrink Down. He called it ‘Moving’.

With a smile upon his dripping features, he ordered: ‘Just line up there, gentlemen, that’s very good indeed – in a few moments you will be Moved to your destination; once there, you should carry out the task I have set, and when you have completed the job, you will be Moved back to this location – at which point you shall be rewarded!’ He nodded towards the money, smiled in that captivating way of his, and then watched as they shuffled their feet nervously – the smell of their fear was as real as the weapons held in their clammy hands.

With a final reminder of what their task was, and a jovial ‘Bon Voyage’, the Demon pointed his device at them and pushed the button. The majority of them ‘Moved’ without too many problems, one second they were there, and in the next they were gone. Accompanied by a slippery gurgle and a wisp of grey smoke, all but three of his warriors had Moved to the place where their master so desired them to be. He had cheerfully shouted after them: ‘Go there and cause havoc!’

And that was precisely what they did do.

The three who remained at his feet would never be going anywhere ever again – they had been turned into nothing more than some misshapen lumps of twisted flesh, almost mutated in their appearance. Limbs, stripped of flesh, now grew from torsos. Heads, which had somehow exploded into unrecognisable vessels, were now filled with steaming fluids; fingers where eyes should have been, tongues instead of ears, all that remained was a twisted pile of human mincemeat.

He looked down at the puree of their remains and smiled to himself. With yellow eyes now fully unveiled, he said, ‘I do believe that little experiment was mostly a success, yes, indeed…most promising!’ He sniffed deeply.

The foul stench of eviscerated bodies pleased him. He stood amongst the carnage for a while, a slaughter man in the back yard of some primeval abattoir, the steam that rose from the still warm bodies, wisping around his feet like a nightmarish mist. With eyes glowing, he giggled and contemplated his next move, one that would see the woman back by his side.

The thought of having her as his plaything thrilled him.

He turned back to the cave, the wild things, his beasts, would take care of the human hotpot, which his experiment had left steaming on the path behind. The noise of cackling birds and of bones crunching in the jaws of the furry predators was a sound he would enjoy. Who knows, he may even come back outside and have a bite to eat all of his own. ‘Yes, a tasty hors d’oeuvre to whet the palate before the main course, what could be finer?’ With a final chuckle, he motioned at the door with his hand and waited whilst the stone slab rumbled open in obedience.

***

Sometimes a person gets lucky, sometimes no matter how well-prepared you are, no matter how much training has been done, no matter how many guns you have, sometimes you just get lucky. Luck can mean the difference between greatness and abject failure. Sometimes, luck simply arrives on the doorstep unannounced, and then, unlike vengeance and hatred, it’s almost always best to invite it in. Never ask to peer into that particular horse’s mouth, though. Not ever.

One day, Ken’s luck dropped by to say hello, and if he hadn’t been bored then maybe things would have been a lot worse, and that would have been unfortunate because they turned out badly enough as it was.

On the ‘lucky’ day in question, he had taken the men with him into the armoury on an impromptu visit. ‘Look, I know we’re supposed to be taking it easy,’ he said to them, as they sat lounging around on the veranda. ‘But I need a hand with counting the ammo, if you have five-minutes, guys?’

Without a word they had risen as one and followed him over to the barn where the metal cage he and Junior had made stood in the corner. They waited whilst Ken unlocked the door, then formed a line and passed the boxes of ammunition out. He asked them to lay everything out neatly.

‘I just need a quick tally-up, is all, boys,’ he said. ‘I might need to order some more, so let’s have a good look, shall we?’

There was soon a neat pile of the various ammunition natures stacked on the floor of the barn, together they set about counting them. There were also a fair amount of loose bullets, ones they had unloaded from their magazines after their last day on Ken’s range. Looking at the pile, he suggested perhaps they should refill the magazines as it would make their counting and storing easier.

Michael and Red set to it without waiting for any further instructions, whilst Junior gave Ken a hand in the tally-up. After some fifteen minutes or so they were done, all the loose ammunition was loaded and Ken now knew exactly where they stood with their supplies, it appeared that there would be no need to order any further stock.

He grinned at them, saying: ‘We should be able to start a war with this – in fact…we
are
gonna to start a war!’ His wry comment was to come to fruition much sooner than he would have thought, almost immediately, in fact.

As the men started passing the boxes of bullets back into the cage, they all heard the scream. Well, actually it was Maggie who they heard screaming. Her furious shout of rage boomed into their heads.

‘The bastards…they’re here! Run, Jane...Run! Tori, they’re here, Tori!’

It was only the second time that they, as a collective, had felt the weird telepathy – the first being a vision of a certain yellow flower. This time it wasn’t a picture, this time it was Maggie’s shouted anger, and it came into their heads as surely as if the woman had been standing in the doorway with a loudhailer in her hand. ‘The bastards…’

Only, she wasn’t in the doorway, and they didn’t have a loudhailer, either.

Maggie and the other two women were down by the lake, in the windmill, to be precise. They had driven down about an hour earlier. The kitchen was running low on flour, and as was usual, the girls had gone down to do some milling, it was only a low-key affair and mostly done in tribute to Mikey’s wonderful reconstruction of the old mill.

Right now that’s exactly where they were, and yet the men quite clearly heard the angry cry of their matriarch. ‘Run, Jane…Run!’

Without waiting for any orders, the men began to take action. Ken started passing the weapons out of the cage, Red ran to the truck and reversed it into the barn – not one word was spoken. Magazines were clacked into weapon housings and spare ones stuffed into pockets, no time for any assault vests to be fetched from the house.

Ken glanced at the others, seeing they were ready, he said, ‘Mount up! Red – let’s go, now!’ He lobbed his med-pack into the back of the pick-up and clambered in after it. ‘Make ready!’ he ordered, indicating to them by rapidly cocking the action on his assault rifle. ‘Keep them on single shot. Let’s go, Red, let’s go – keep your eyes open, all of you!’ Red floored the accelerator and they hurtled out of the barn and towards the gate, there was no time for stopping and it would just have to be repaired later, if there was to be a later.