Paul Johnston - Maps of Hell

“No,” I sob, “please, Sara…don’t do this.”

She steps back, out of the light.

“Go on, Matt. I’m not in your way.”

“No,” I squeal. “I can’t…I can’t move. My knee…”

She loses her patience and stamps over. Then I see her boot heading toward my injured leg. I scream the instant it makes contact and keep screaming.

“Shut the fuck up, you pathetic shit,” she says.

I disobey the order, keeping my voice as high as I can.

Sara’s face looms over me, but she keeps too far away for me to strike at her. “No one can hear you. All you’re doing is pissing away what’s left of your strength.” She bends nearer. “Strong man,” she says with bitter irony, launching spit onto my face.

I let out a long moan, then close my eyes and do the best impression I can of fainting. She doesn’t buy it and lands her boot in my gut. I expel air rapidly, but stay supposedly comatose.

“Asshole,” she says, her breath on my cheek.

I reckon she’s as close as she’s going to get. I think of the training I had from Dave. He always said, “Decide on a course of action and follow it through-no hesitation.” Without looking, I whip my head forward and hear a crunch as my forehead smashes into her nose. I don’t risk getting up but grab the knife that drops from Sara’s hand and start crawling to the door. When I get there, I look back and see her trying to get to her feet, blood trickling between the fingers of the hand covering her nose. I should go back and finish her, but I’m committed to getting away.

In agony from my knee, I find an elevator at the end of a long corridor. I press the button, but before the doors close I see Sara coming toward me, her nose still fountaining blood. She empties the small pistol in her right hand into the elevator. I’m on the floor as the bullets narrowly miss my head. At last the doors close and I head down. When it stops, I haul myself up and stagger to the exit door. I find myself on a city street, all the buildings around as derelict as the one I’ve just left. But, amazingly, there’s a taxi approaching. I stumble out into the road and force the driver to stop. He’s wearing a turban.

“My God, sir,” he says, after I’ve told him to take me to the nearest police station, “what is it you have been doing?”

I’m struggling to catch my breath. “Fighting…fighting with my girl,” I say, stowing the combat knife in my pocket. Then there’s another stab of pain in my knee. I wonder if I should go to a hospital first, but decide against it. The police need to know where the Soul Collector is, though she’s probably already on her way out of the place.

I look out the window and catch a glimpse of an immensely tall building covered in silver light, an elegant needle pointing to the night sky…

It comes to me that this encounter with my former lover took place in New York City and she was dressed as a member of the New York Police Department…

I reached the top of the tree-covered incline and stopped behind a pine. The forest continued down the slope on the other side, and the narrow valley between the mountains wasn’t far ahead now. My foot was aching, but I could bear it. The injuries that Sara had given me must have been several months back, if not more. I tried to remember more about the scene I’d just relived. What had I been doing in New York City? Where was New York City? I had the feeling it wasn’t in the country that I lived in, nor was it in Scotland. I kicked the ground in frustration. I had been hoping that the longer I was out of the camp, the more frequently memories would return. That was happening, but it was taking too long. I needed more information about what had happened to me if I was to stay free.

I drank from the canteen and listened out for sounds of pursuit. The rain was heavier now and it was hard to distinguish individual noises. If the transmitter had been consumed by a bird or animal, maybe I really was on my own. I should have been encouraged by that thought, but instead I felt a terrible sense of isolation. The forests and mountains were huge and I was on my own against a ruthless enemy whose numbers I didn’t know. If I failed to find food and shelter soon, I’d be easier prey than the snail I’d unshelled.

I moved off and achieved a reasonable speed going downhill. The trees thinned and I came to a track of sorts. The wheel ruts were covered in grass, so there obviously hadn’t been any traffic along recently. I decided to risk using it-the day was almost over and I wanted to find shelter before the light faded completely. I jogged along the side of the track, prepared to dive into the undergrowth should anyone appear. I knew I was making a target of myself, but the trees on both sides were fairly high. Besides, my strength was almost drained. Taking risks was the only option.

I made it to the beginning of the narrow pass, rock faces rising up sheer to my right and left. I drank the last of my water and looked around. I didn’t see or hear much apart from the fading light and the sunset song of the birds-my eyes were continually wet with rainwater. I had to hope that my pursuers hadn’t gotten ahead of me. Maybe they had gone around the mountains by some other way. I took the rifle in both hands and stepped on down the track.

Heart pounding, I made it to the far end of the defile. There was an outcrop of rock on the left and I dropped down behind it. Wiping the rain from my eyes, I looked around the edge at the country ahead. The ground opened out from the narrow pass and sloped downward more gradually than on the other side. There were still plenty of trees, but I made out gaps between them. Then I blinked and stared. About a mile ahead, at the side of a clearing in the forest, was a low wooden building. There was no sign of activity in the vicinity and no smoke from the chimney. It was too good to be true. I told myself to be even more careful and set off again, following the line of trees and ready to slip between them.

After about half an hour, I made it to within three hundred yards of the building. It looked like a hunting cabin or the like, the eaves of the roof covering a railed veranda at the front. The windows were shuttered, which was a good sign. I waited for as long as I could in the wet, but saw no other signs of occupation. I had to go for it.

At the edge of the clearing around the hut, I turned to the right and approached from the rear. I leaned against the log wall and listened. Nothing. Creeping around to the far side, I checked that no one had been lurking out of my view. It was clear. At the front of the building, I saw tire tracks that were hard to date. They definitely hadn’t been made in the last day or so, as the muddy surface caused by the rain wasn’t churned up. I looked up at the sky. The light was almost gone, the clouds low and black, and I was shivering. It was time I got inside.

The door was locked, a heavy padlock fastening it to the frame. I smashed the rifle butt against it, but it held fast. I could have shot it out, but that might have attracted attention. Arms aching, I pounded away. Eventually cracks appeared around the metal panel the padlock was attached to. I slid the barrel of the rifle in and wrenched the panel away. It sheared off with a crack, leaving a patch of wood that was more lightly colored than the rest of the door.

I put my shoulder to the door. There was a loud crack and then I was in. I slumped to the floor, panting for breath. I was soaked, cold, exhausted, starving and on the run. Surely things couldn’t get any worse.

The shop wasn’t much more than a five-minute walk north from the U Street-Cardozo Station in northwest D.C. When talking on the phone to potential customers Monsieur Hexie played up his proximity to the hip bars and clubs on U Street, omitting to mention that his own street was less then safe after sunset. Not that he’d ever had a complaint. After all, he was in the business of selling supernatural power.