Alex Scarrow - October skies

‘And so are you, Sam.’

‘I told you, Sam is not here now.’

‘Let me talk to him again.’

‘No.’

‘Sam? Sam, talk to me.’

‘He is not here now.’ The creature took another step closer.

Ben backed up. ‘Sam! For God’s sake, wake up!’

The creature stopped, its head cocked slightly, listening for a moment.

‘Sam? Is that Sam talking to you?’

The angel ignored him, still listening.

‘Sam, are you there?’

The angel shook its head. ‘No, I am still here, but… Sam asked me to tell you something.’

‘What?’

It was fast. It crossed the ground between them with liquid grace — a blur of movement that left Ben’s sluggish reaction in its wake. The lunge was aimed high, across his chest and throat. Before he had a chance to understand what had happened, Ben was on his knees, looking down and watching ribbons of dark red sputter out onto the snow in front of him.

Keats’s knife fell to the ground, and a moment later he dropped down onto his hands, his mind now caught up with events.

My God… I’m dying.

The angel squatted down so that the shattered jaw of the long skull was inches from his face. It pushed the skull-mask off and threw it on the ground.

Ben stared into Sam’s young face, smudged with dirt and flecks of drying blood from the small shards of bone that had exploded into his face a few minutes ago. It was Sam’s face that, not much more than a week ago, had been full of the silly dreams that young people have. Now it was listless, expressionless, even more terrifying than the skull on the ground beside him.

Ben felt light-headed. The blood, gushing out from his throat, was bringing his life to a rapid conclusion.

‘Sam asked me to say he liked you. You were his favourite.’

Ben fell to the side and instantly felt the press of the cold ground against the side of his face. The angel stepped over him and then was gone, sprinting lightly in pursuit of the others. Then it was quiet, save for the rumble of the river, and a shifting breeze in the canopy of boughs high above. He watched the swaying movement of bare twigs and branches and the featureless white winter sky beyond, calmly savouring his last few moments.

Then finally, in a distracted way, he chastised himself that he’d not been able to bring his journal full of adventures, as promised, back home to Mother.

Sunday

Sierra Nevada Mountains, California

Rose shivered, sitting on the rough wooden floor beside him. ‘I’m freezing.’ She pulled her anorak further down her legs, huddled up inside it like a mini-tent.

‘We’ve just got to sit tight for tonight.’

‘And tomorrow?’

‘Tomorrow? If we stick to the river and follow it down, we’ll come across somebody sooner or later, I guess.’

Rose’s lips twitched with the cold. ‘They won’t find us here?’

Julian couldn’t work out whether it was a question or a statement. ‘No… no way they’ll find us.’

‘I just… I just… I can’t believe they shot Grace like that.’

‘I know.’

‘Jules, I’ve never been so flipping terrified.’

‘I know, I know, but I think it’s going to be okay now,’ he said, squeezing her shoulder. ‘We’ve lost them. As soon as I get a bloody signal on my phone, we’ll call someone — the police, a newspaper — and let them know what happened. Shepherd won’t touch us then. It’ll be all over for him.’

They endured the creeping cold in silence, listening to the gentle breeze play with the loose things it could find around the camp, and the chattering of each other’s teeth.

‘What the hell have we found out here, Jules?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘This story… I get the feeling there’s more to it than we’ve worked out. I don’t understand why Shepherd’s doing this. He’s risking everything just because of some ancestral skeleton?’

‘Maybe he’s got some skeleton of his own to hide,’ he replied.

‘You think?’

Julian shrugged. ‘Who knows? I think it’s safe to say the guy’s unhinged.’

‘Just like his great-great-grandfather.’

‘If he’s happy to see us dead, maybe he’s killed with his own hands before? Who knows what goes on in that guy’s basement… if you know what I mean.’

‘But what about the Rag Man? Lambert?’

‘I don’t know, Rose. That may have nothing to do with Shepherd. So that guy survived? So what? Right now we’ve got a bloody psychopathic preacher who’s running for President, chasing after us with his hitman. I’ll be honest with you: right now that’s my main concern.’

She shivered. ‘You want to huddle up? I’m freezing.’

‘Okay.’ Julian shuffled up against her and placed one arm round her shoulders.

Rose sighed, her tremulous breath blowing out a cloud in front of her. ‘To think someone like that could end up being President.’

‘A very scary thought.’

‘Yeah,’ Rose replied thoughtfully. ‘Another very good reason for us to make sure we get out of these mountains ali-’

Julian grabbed her arm.

‘Ouch!’

‘Shh!’

‘What?’ she whispered.

‘Thought I heard something.’

‘Wind-blowing-stuff-around something or…’

He squeezed her arm tighter. She got the point and hushed. Then, listening intently for any other noises over the clatter of debris being teased by the occasional gust, they heard it. Faintly at first but quickly growing more distinct: two voices talking quietly and the sound of footsteps approaching.

‘Oh shit-shit-shit,’ whispered Rose. ‘How the hell did they find us?’

Julian shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’

It was impossible unless…

Unless there’s some kind of tracking device stuck on either of us.

But there was nothing on them other than the clothes they were wearing, and…

And my fucking BlackBerry.

Carl studied the small screen. ‘Right in this bunkhouse, I’d say,’ he muttered quietly. ‘Yeah, they’re definitely in here.’

He pulled something out of his backpack and, with a click, attached it to the top of his gun. A green glowing light spilled from it.

‘It’s quite a long building. I’ll take point,’ Carl said quietly, ‘and we’ll sweep it from one end to the other. You best stay a few yards behind me, Mr Shepherd.’

‘I understand.’

‘Are you proficient with that firearm?’ he said, pointing towards the rifle Shepherd was holding.

‘I’ve fired a few hunting rifles in my time.’

‘Good. Keep it muzzle down, sir. Unless I shout for back-up fire.’

Shepherd sighed. ‘We’re dealing with a television researcher and a camera girl.’

Carl turned to him. ‘With respect, we’re dealing with two people who saw their friend shot dead. They’ll fight or flee. Either way, we’ve got to be ready to bag ’em.’

Shepherd conceded the point. ‘Yes, you’re right, Carl. Shall we?’

Carl took a step towards the hut’s entrance, his pistol with mounted nightscope raised before him, in his other hand the tracking device, still counting down the distance, but now only tens of yards away. He took a step up into the hut, his boots clunking on the dry wooden floor. Shepherd watched him whip sharply from side to side, checking the corners, checking every angle.

‘Clear,’ he reported quietly. ‘Room full of bunkbed frames. A long bench each side, wood stove at this end, some lockers. The signal’s coming from the far end.’

He stepped further inside, making his way slowly to the middle of the floor between the two facing rows of bunk frames. Shepherd stepped up to the doorway of the hut. It was the only way in and the only way out; as good a place as any to hold position. He knelt down in the doorway, holding the rifle muzzle down as Carl had told him, imagining for a fleeting moment that he was a real soldier doing a house-to-house through some Baghdad back street.