Scott Mariani - The Doomsday Prophecy

‘Catch you later,’ Ben muttered under his breath.

Miss Vale took his arm as he joined her. ‘Isn’t this just wonderful? Look at all the people.’ She beamed up at him. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’ She turned to two of her assistants nearby, a thickset woman with ginger hair standing talking to a petite and very attractive Japanese girl in her early twenties.

‘Harriet, where’s young Carl?’ Miss Vale asked anxiously. ‘It’s quarter to twelve. It starts in fifteen minutes.’

‘I think he just arrived,’ the ginger-haired woman said.

‘He’s cutting it a little fine. I shall have to scold him.’

The Japanese girl caught Ben’s eye and smiled at him.

‘Let’s go meet him,’ Miss Vale said.

They started walking towards the parking field. Harriet and the old lady were deep in conversation. Ben followed behind, and the Japanese girl walked with him.

‘I’m Maggie,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Ben,’ he said. ‘You work for the Vale Trust?’

She nodded. ‘Miss Vale has been telling us all about you,’ she said.

‘Really? So who’s this Carl we’re going to meet?’

‘One of Miss Vale’s protégés,’ Maggie replied. ‘The Trust puts a lot of young kids from underprivileged backgrounds through college. The aim is to support and empower them. Carl Rivers is only nineteen, but he’s already a champion rifle marksman. The Trust has been paying for his training, and we’re hoping that one day he’ll represent the USA in the Olympics.’

‘Impressive,’ Ben said.

‘Miss Vale has organised a special sponsorship event for this year’s match,’ Maggie said. ‘She’s put a hundred thousand dollars of her own money in the pot, and she’s persuaded a whole lot of wealthy folks to back him too. He’s up against pro shooters from five states, but we’re hopeful. If he wins the fullbore rifle class, we’ll have raised about half a million for the hospital. It’s really important.’

‘Miss Vale told me about the children’s wing,’ he said.

Maggie nodded sadly. ‘So sad.’

They reached the parking field. Away from the rest of the cars was a section cordoned off closer to the ranges, for competitors only.

‘That’s him over there,’ Maggie said, pointing.

Ben looked. A young black kid was standing next to a badly beaten-up old Pontiac. He had a friend with him, a gangly, gawky-looking white teenager with jeans ripped at the knees and thick glasses that magnified his eyes so much that they almost filled the lenses. The friend was unloading a long black rifle case from the back of the car.

‘I don’t suppose Carl Rivers is the one with the glasses,’ Ben said.

Maggie laughed. ‘No, that’s Andy; I don’t think he’d be much of a shot.’

Carl was in the middle of an animated discussion with his gawky-looking friend, and hadn’t seen them approaching. He was leaning with his right hand against the side of the car as Andy laid the rifle case down on the grass. Whatever they were joking about, Carl suddenly threw his head back and burst out laughing. Andy was laughing too, his big eyes creased up with mirth behind the glasses. Then he reached up quickly and slammed the car boot lid shut. Right on Carl’s fingers.

Carl’s laughter suddenly became a scream. He thrust his injured hand between his legs, hopping around in a circle.

Miss Vale went rushing over to him. ‘Dear child, let me take a look.’

‘Shit, what happened?’ Maggie said in alarm.

Carl was obviously in a lot of pain. Ben examined the damage. The first three fingers of his right hand were mashed and bleeding.

‘Can you flex them?’ Ben asked.

Carl tried, and whimpered.

‘Could be broken,’ Ben said.

‘There’s a first-aid tent not far away,’ Miss Vale said, shooting a look at Andy, who was standing to one side biting his lip in distress. ‘They can take a look at it, but I think you need to get this seen to by a doctor.’

‘She’s right,’ Ben said.

‘Yeah, but I’m supposed to be shooting here today,’ Carl protested.

Just as he said it, there was an announcement over the loudspeakers that the fullbore rifle event would be starting shortly, and would the competitors please make their way to the firing line.

They walked him quickly to the first-aid tent, where a nurse examined the fingers as best she could, bandaged him up and told him he needed to get to a hospital soon for an X-ray.

‘I can’t. I’ve got to shoot,’ he argued.

‘Not with those fingers, you can’t,’ the nurse said, tight-lipped. ‘Unless you can learn to shoot left-handed, son, you can forget it.’

Carl left the first-aid tent almost in tears with pain and frustration, and they headed back towards the car. Andy trailed in their wake, all penitent and full of useless suggestions. Miss Vale was calm, though the disappointment was clear in her eyes. ‘The important thing is that you get to the hospital and get that seen to.’

‘But the money,’ Carl said. ‘The money for the charity.’

‘Nothing you can do, child,’ she said resignedly. ‘We’ll see if we can reorganise it next year.’

‘Is there nobody else who could shoot in his place?’ Harriet asked. ‘What about Carl’s friend?’

‘Andy couldn’t hit the side of a house at twenty feet,’ Carl muttered. He kicked a stone in disgust.

The percussive detonations of rifle shots were coming from the direction of the range, as the shooters started warming up and making their last-minute zero adjustments.

‘They’re starting,’ Carl groaned.

‘Maybe I could help,’ Ben said.

Carl turned and looked at him.

‘You, Benedict?’ Miss Vale said in astonishment. ‘Can you shoot?’

‘I’ve done a little,’ he replied.

They were nearly back at the Pontiac. The rifle case was still lying on the ground behind the car, and Ben walked over to it.

‘The range goes out to a thousand yards,’ Carl said, nursing his hand, frowning. ‘Any idea how small a target is at that distance?’

Ben nodded. ‘Some idea.’

‘If you want to give it a go, I have no problem with that,’ Carl said. ‘You’re welcome to use my rifle. But you’d be up against guys like Raymond Higgins. And Billy Lee Johnson from Alabama. He’s an ex-Marine sniper school instructor. These are world-class shooters. They’re gonna walk all over you.’

Ben unslung his bag and dropped it on the grass. He squatted down next to the rifle case and flipped the catches. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got in here,’ he said.

Ben opened the case and peered down at the scoped rifle inside. ‘May I?’

‘All yours,’ Carl said.

Ben lifted the weapon out of the foam lining and checked it over. It was a bolt-action Winchester Model 70, chambered in.300 H &H Magnum, an extremely potent calibre that launched its slim, tapered bullet at well over two thousand feet per second. The kind of rifle that, in the hands of a gifted shooter, could reach out to incredible distances. A top-flight instrument, with probably hundreds of hours invested in bringing it as close to perfection as was humanly and mechanically possible. It had a heavy competition-grade barrel. The action was slick, and the scope alone was worth as much as the Chrysler he was driving.

He took out a cigarette, clanged open his Zippo and thumbed the wheel. It had run out of fuel. He swore softly and patted his pockets for the book of matches he remembered taking from the hotel. Finding it, he struck a match and lit up. ‘Anything I need to know?’

‘Trigger’s awful light,’ Carl said. ‘Watch out for accidental shots.’

‘What’s it zeroed to?’