Alex Scarrow - October skies

Tracker’s good for five to ten miles depending on line-of-sight obstructions. That had been Carl’s crisp and businesslike explanation of the gadget’s efficacy as they set out from the clearing after them.

‘Not so good for urban detection,’ he’d added. ‘Lot of walls and electrical interference, but more than good enough for the job out here. This’ll lead us right to them, Mr Shepherd.’

You disapprove?

Shepherd winced at the sudden intrusion of the voice in his head. It seemed a little louder than last time, more insistent, shrill even, certainly so much louder than any others he’d played host to.

We don’t need to kill any more people, he replied. It’s an unnecessary risk. We didn’t need to kill that old woman.

There was no response. He managed an edgy smile in the failing light. If Duncan knew… if any of his campaign sponsors knew, if those millions of voters out there knew that his mind played out such terrible dialogues, that suggestions — malicious ones, spiteful ones, murderous ones… genocidal ones — were quietly whispered to him every day and then cautiously argued down, well… he could imagine spilling it all to Dr Phil or Oprah on live TV.

What a release that would be, to share his burdens with someone.

They will talk.

I can persuade them not to.

Are you a good man?

Yes… yes, I think I am.

You are also a weak man.

The hectoring, disapproving tone in its voice sent a sharp pain through his head.

I’m not weak.

The voice was quiet again.

Several yards ahead of Shepherd, Carl suddenly cursed under his breath and stopped.

‘The damned signal keeps dropping. Hang on a second… we need to let it pick up again.’

While he waited for his tracker to sweep for the signal, he looked out at the wide, graceful valley below them, silently scanning it with sniper’s eyes for any signs of life. Evening was settling across it fast, and amidst the muted tones of dusk he was reassured to see no pin-pricks of light anywhere; just more endless wilderness and no one else around. No one for miles… and miles.

His eyes, however, picked out the artificially straight lines of a man-made construction down by the river.

‘Some buildings down there, Mr Shepherd,’ he called out, pointing towards a horseshoe bend in the river.

Shepherd shook away his thoughts and looked at where Carl was pointing. He could see a dark huddle of huts nestled close to the river’s edge in an area swept clean of trees. He was familiar with the history of this area; he knew what it was. The trees down there had gone a long time ago.

‘It’s a logging camp, closed down like all the others round here, back when they started moving logs on rails instead of along the river.’

Carl nodded, then looked back down at the tracker display. ‘Fucking mountains here are playing havoc with the line-of-sight signal.’

‘I should imagine they’ll be hiding in that camp,’ said Shepherd. ‘It’s where I would head if I was running.’

Carl looked up from the display and nodded. ‘Yeah, I guess that’s where I’d head too. Ahhh… there it is,’ he said, ‘signal’s picked up.’ He studied it silently for a moment and then nodded. ‘Yes, you’re right. They’re in there somewhere, Mr Shepherd.’

‘Good, then let’s not waste any time. If we can run them to ground there, that’ll do just fine.’

‘This is a straightforward locate and terminate, right?’

Shepherd turned to him. ‘I’d like to talk with them first. But if an instant kill is required, then so be it.’

Carl nodded. ‘Understood.’

2 November, 1856

Broken Wing stopped and pointed ahead. Ben understood what he was drawing their attention to.

‘What?’ Mrs Zimmerman asked breathlessly.

The river they were running alongside curled to the left and, where it did, the trees they were so desperate to keep a distance from ran all the way down to the river’s edge.

‘If we want to go any further, we’ll have to go through those trees.’

Mrs Zimmerman stared unhappily at them.

There was no indication whether it would be a short interlude through a thin spur of wood, or whether, from this point on, the safe margin of ground between them and the woods was gone.

Broken Wing still carried his ancient flintlock musket, a horn of powder and some shot. If there was just the one… thing pursuing them, he trusted the Indian’s marksmanship to take a single, quickly aimed shot across open ground, should it emerge suddenly and charge towards them. In amongst the trees, however, should they be ambushed, he suspected the gun would never get to be fired.

Ben cast a glance at the tree line to the left of them, running parallel with the riverbank, and knew it was in there somewhere, looking out at them and urging them to go forward, into the trees ahead. To their right the river flowed swiftly, swollen with freezing water that would numb them the moment they stepped into it. It would swallow them up and certainly kill them all.

Broken Wing spotted his gaze and shook his head. ‘Not cross here.’ He gestured west. ‘Down river… cross. Five day north, to Shoshone.’

‘What does he mean?’ asked Mrs Zimmerman.

Ben understood. ‘He can take us to the Shoshone Indians. But we’d need to cross this river and head north.’

Broken Wing nodded.

‘But’ — he turned to Mrs Zimmerman — ‘we need to carry on through those trees.’

She shook her head vigorously. ‘I can’t… I don’t want to go in th-’

‘Neither do I. But we can’t stay here.’

Broken Wing stabbed his finger impatiently forwards.

‘Yes, we’re wasting time,’ said Ben. He smiled reassuringly at Mrs Zimmerman and Emily. ‘It’ll only be a thin strip of woodland, and then we’ll be out in the open again. We’ll be fine.’

Emily stirred. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Zimmerman,’ she said with a small voice, ‘Benjamin will keep us safe.’ She smiled up at Ben and tightened her grasp on his hand. ‘We should go,’ she added.

Mrs Zimmerman nodded at her. ‘All right.’

They approached the trees cautiously, huddled closely together. Broken Wing was ahead, his musket held ready, loaded with shot, and powder ready in the flashpan.

His tamahakan was tucked into a leather belt. Ben had seen how quickly the Indian could pull it out and use it, during the struggle back at the camp. He wondered, though, if he’d be quick enough this time.

Mrs Zimmerman and Emily followed the Indian, the woman’s arms wrapped protectively around the young girl, both of them staring at the trees with eyes as round as saucers. Ben walked a few paces behind them, Keats’s large knife in one hand and a thick and heavy stick, for what it was worth, held in the other. Together they stepped beneath the darkening canopy of branches, from a bed of crunching snow onto a spongy carpet of dry cones and needles.

Through the gaps in the branches he watched them move with slow deliberation, only a few dozen yards away… so close to him now.

His hot breath blasted back off the bone mask onto his face, warming his cheeks.

Emily.

He missed her, missed her so much. Before everything had changed there had been him and her — just the two of them. Momma only had time for Preston, never for them. Momma didn’t care about them, not as much as she cared for God. Momma didn’t want to know about the games Hearst and Vander played with the children.

It’s always been just you and me, Emily.

But there was Ben. He had shown some kindness. Sam had even let himself believe that come the spring, the three of them might leave the wilderness together: an odd family, like three siblings — big brother, little brother and little sister. Emily liked Ben. She would have adored the idea of doing that, leaving Preston’s temple and exploring the world alongside Benjamin Lambert.