Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

I thought back to the wired encampment. As far as I could fathom, the bastards who ran it had carried out some questionable medical procedure on me. I thought of the woman who had killed the bound man. Why had that been filmed? And then there was the poor guy who had paid with his life for helping me. I had to do something for the other innocent people I was sure were still in the place. If that meant meting out summary punishment to the men on my tail, I was ready.

Lying on the cold ground with the butt of the rifle to my shoulder, I waited for my pursuers. I seemed to be well accustomed to handling the weapon. I tried to remember times in my past when I’d fired one like it, but nothing came. Then a chilling possibility struck me. Was I a professional killer? That would explain my calm assurance. But what kind of killer? A policeman, a soldier, a secret agent? Or an underworld assassin? Or maybe I was just a madman, a psychotic who enjoyed depriving others of life.

I hadn’t reached a conclusion by the time figures appeared at the far end of the meadow. There were three of them, the middle one holding the leash of a large dog. As they got closer, I made out their uniforms and berets, as well as the assault rifles they were all carrying. The men on the right and left of the handler were holding their weapons in two hands, muzzles to the fore. They had to be my first targets.

I filled my lungs and then held my breath, took aim at the leg of the man on the left and fired. Before the others could react, I shot the man on the right in the leg, too. Both stayed down. There was a chance that the shots would have hit the femoral artery, in which case they were finished. I found that I wasn’t too concerned about that. All that mattered was that they stayed down. I drew a bead on the man with the dog, but he had also dropped. His animal was less disciplined, though. It slipped the leash and came howling towards me. As it got closer, I saw that it was a German shepherd. It would have had my throat out, so I had no option. I switched to automatic fire and loosed a burst. The shots went over the dog’s head but were enough to make it stop. The animal let out a high-pitched whine and turned tail. I had bought myself some time.

I got up and ran into the trees. They soon became thicker and I struggled to make progress. The moonlight was almost shut out by the layers of needle-bearing branches. My nostrils filled with the resinous scent of pine and I had to breathe through my mouth. My throat, which had already been parched, was now hurting even more. But I forced myself to run on, my boots making little noise on the blanket of fallen needles. The ground dropped away quite steeply to the left and I headed that way, in what I was sure was the opposite direction from the camp. I seemed to have an instinctual knowledge of location; perhaps I’d been trained.

Eventually my breathing got ragged and I had to stop. I reckoned I’d put at least two miles between me and the meadow, but that wouldn’t be enough if the dog-handler and his hound had resumed the pursuit. I cocked an ear. At first I heard only the light wind soughing through the pines, but I quickly realized there was another sound coming through the trees at a lower level. I walked toward it cautiously, trying to get my breathing under control. Then I realized what it was-water running over rocks. That was exactly what I needed.

The tree line was at the edge of a sharp drop. I scrambled down and stood in the middle of the narrow stream. Although it was only a couple of yards across, the water came up to my knees. It was ice-cold and I felt the muscles in my calves tighten. I bent down and dashed water over my face, then brought handfuls to my mouth. I wondered if I should immerse my whole body in order to obscure my scent completely, but decided against that. It was a cold night and without shelter I would be in danger of hypothermia when I finally stopped running. I filled the canteen that had been on the uniform belt I’d stolen, walked up the stream as far as I could, and then stepped out on the other side. I thought about eating the bread from the luckless inmate, but decided I would keep it till I was hungrier. The ground was less steep and the trees came right down to the stream. I pushed my way through the undergrowth and into the next expanse of pine forest. Then I moved on as fast as I could.

The trees petered out after what must have been about an hour. The ground ahead was open, as far as I could make out in the moonlight that was now filtering through the thin cloud cover. I tried to listen for sounds of pursuit, but my breathing was rapid and loud. I had to get some rest. I walked a few hundred yards from the trees and then headed back toward them at a wide angle. That way, anyone after me would be stranded in the open and vulnerable to my rifle, even if the dog had picked up my trail again. I looked for a tree with low branches and found a good candidate. I was able to get high above the ground and the branches were still wide enough for me to sit with reasonable comfort. I unhooked the strap from the rifle and passed it round both my abdomen and the tree trunk. Gradually my breathing slowed and I was able to hear properly. I didn’t pick up any sounds of man or dog, but my stomach was now rumbling loudly. I ate half of the bread, forcing myself to chew slowly. I was desperate for more, but I had no idea where my next meal would come from. Then I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind for sleep. But, as my body went into temporary hibernation mode, my thoughts went haywire and, at last, I found myself remembering more from my past life…

…I’m on a hillside in the rain, my head down in the bracken and my hands gripping a rifle.

“Don’t make any rapid movements,” whispers the man in the waterproof jacket who is lying next to me. “In fact, don’t even blink.”

We wait there, motionless, as the big stag chews away. He lowers his head to the ground and then raises it quickly. He’s seen men with guns often enough to be extremely wary. But the wind is blowing into our faces, so he can’t smell us.

“Right, line him up,” my companion says under his breath. “Remember where?”

“Chest…above the foreleg,” I gasp, my heart racing. I’m suddenly seized by horror at the prospect of killing the magnificent creature.

I look through the sights and zero in on the stag, then pause.

“What are you waiting for?” the man whispers, his eyes wide. “He’ll bolt any second.”

I take a deep breath and hold it, then tighten my finger on the trigger. I have a vision of the great animal coughing up a lungful of blood, his head with the great array of the antlers dropping as his front legs collapse.

“I can’t do it,” I say, letting the rifle sink into the vegetation. That movement is enough to alert the stag. He leaps away, kicking his hind legs high, and disappears over the ridge.

“Sorry,” I hear myself say feebly. “I…”

“Pillock,” my companion says. “It took us three hours to get up here and you blow it just like that.”

“Sorry, Dave. I just-”

“You chickened out, didn’t you?” He gets up and wipes drops of water from his trousers. Some of them land on my face. “It cost us a bleeding fortune, this weekend. Flights to Inverness, hiring the Land Rover, paying the estate an arm and a leg for the privilege of doing their culling for them. And you can’t even fire one shot in anger.”

I stand up and take in the enraged face. Dave Cummings. Ex-paratrooper, former SAS man, amateur rugby league player-my best friend and tutor in extreme outdoor activities. It was his idea to spend a weekend deer-hunting in the Scottish Highlands. And now I’ve wasted my shot.

“At least I got the practice rounds in,” I say, avoiding his eyes. The day before, Dave and I had taken a rifle up on the moors and blazed away at targets. “At least I know how to handle a rifle now.”