Jean Preston: Sledgehammer

A glass thing was smashed and the Mother Superior cried out, then she went back to quietly weeping. It was a horrible sound. Kirwyn’s eyes began to well up in the dark, he clenched his teeth and pulled again at his plastic bindings. His breathing was ragged, full of pity and hatred. One of the strange voices grew deeper and angrier. Hectoring, threatening. The chanting munk stopped and stared at Kirwyn in confusion. Rivers of blood poured down from Kirwyn’ wrists – he was breathing through his teeth, eyes leaking in streams. The munks in their fashion, either in gesture or whisper bade him to stop, begged him. One rested his head upon his Kirwyn’ shoulder, trying to comfort him. Kirwyn was deaf and blind to them now, with all his strength he pulled.

The pain was exquisite, annoying, tantalising, in flashes it was breath-taking, blood pooled round his knees, the plastic shackles, in a moment – snapped, and he was free – it shouldn’t have been possible.

With the quiet grace of a geisha he rose to his feet. The munks shuffled around in a whispered frenzy, begging him to sit down, Kirwyn seemed to be in a dream, walking silently towards the door that contained them. Another crack startled the munks, Kirwyn, with both bloody hands turned the doorknob – it was unlocked. They didn’t even bother to lock it. He slowly opened it, just enough to slip out.

The Mother Superior was tied to a chair, her head lowered. A fist smacked into it, knocking her hair up. Two of the bikers stood either side of her, talking gibberish to one another, they were in a circular room, surrounded by pillars. The other two bikers were either side of Kirwyn, guarding the door. They had taken off their helmets and were leaning on the wall casually.

The one on the right he elbowed in the chin and snatched his rifle – the man fell back, hitting his head badly on the stone wall. Kirwyn twisted and fired into the other one, ripping up his chest.

A shot whizzed into the back of Kirwyn’s shoulder, he felt the force of the impact but it was painless – he sprinted behind a stone pillar. He heard footsteps approaching. He peaked a glimpse of two figures, crouch-walking, weapons drawn. Kirwyn saw that the man he had elbowed was crawling to his feet. Kirwyn squeezed the trigger and blew holes into the man’s terrified face.

Kirwyn peaked out again behind the pillar. A shot narrowly missed his head, he winced and fell back, the Mother Superior was silent, head bowed, tied to her chair. The two remaining men made their steady approach. Kirwyn leant round and squeezed the trigger, but no bullet came forth, just an echoing chup . He ducked again -a shot was fired at his pillar, splaying stone dust into the air and into his wrist wounds.

He had no time to think – into the cloud of dust he leapt, taking a biker by surprise. The man had a throaty guttural scream. Kirwyn wrestled for the gun, but he was losing strength, the stranger pinned him against the wall. Kirwyn yelped like an animal, squirming, bare feet on the tapestry wall he pushed against the man, tipping him off balance, sending him tumbling backwards to the ground. Kirwyn snatched the gun and looked up – he was shot in the bladder.

The leader twisted some mechanism on the revolver with his thumb, Kirwyn raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger, unloading the full magazine. The man’s chest and arms were ripped apart, he fell back and clung to a tapestry, ripping it from the wall and staining it with blood.

The man below Kirwyn kicked his foot – Kirwyn lost balance and slammed his forehead onto the stone floor. The world went black. He lifted himself up in the darkness. He opened his eyes to see the man staring down at him, light behind his head, he swung his fist into Kirwyn’s face. All sound disappeared, Kirwyn stumbled back, then stepped forward.

The man coiled his body back and threw another punch. Kirwyn caught it. He grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted it till it snapped and the man shrieked in agony. Kirwyn punched the man’s snout, crunching it inwards, the man fell back on the stone floor. Kirwyn leapt upon him and slammed bloody fists into the pulpy mess of the man’s face, again and again, bones crunched, both in the man’s skull and in Kirwyn’s fingers.

Kirwyn rolled off him, hyperventilating, the pain of his wounds returning to him, he crawled over to look for the Mother Superior, she looked away from him sadly, Kirwyn collapsed.

Rangers had no access to satellites, just old maps, many years out of date. Sometimes a river would be in the wrong place, a great building completely vanished, a pathway that shouldn’t have been there – was there. These impressions were noted and would be attended to by the Cartography Kor when the area was scouted fully, and some form of permanent base of operations established.

They were the first wave, they were Rangers. A lot of kids signed up for Ranger duty, wanting to escape the tedium of the farms and the factories – a lot of kids never came back to them. At least it was better than standard infantry conscription, there was more freedom in it.

They rode side by side, they didn’t talk much in the day – and when they did it was done softly, this was potentially dangerous territory. At nights they lit no campfire – it would give away their position. Instead they had heat packs that lay on their horses sides collecting solar energy in the day. These would be placed in their sleeping bags at night.

Their food was not unpleasant, standard army rations – these would last weeks. Their only shortage was water, but this could usually be found in clear rivers and lakes that dotted this part of the island. At night they would lay their sleeping bags next to each other and trade whispered stories. Robin was still a boy, he had a naivety about him that made Alana smile sadly. He still whispered the Ranger’s Pledge every time he dismantled and cleaned his gun.

I am a Ranger. My weapon is the long rifle and my aim is true. I do not fight for money or for glory. I fight to protect the meek and the innocent. I do not run from my enemies, I face them. I do not fear my enemies, I pity them. I do not hate my enemies, I mourn for them.

He had never fired a shot in anger, this was his second expedition. Alana had lost count of hers years ago.

They followed a road that was cut into the side of a mountain, it gave them superb vision of the surrounding areas. Robin took to talking, he would always tell stories of his life on the farm, his many brothers and sister, the curious characters that inhabited his village. Alana, by contrast, only spoke of her days in the Ranger Kor. Or occasionally – she would tell him some old world stories – history or legend, or some combination. They reached the end of the mountain trek and were sent back down to earth. They decided to re-enter the forest, following the path of the road, but keeping a distance from it.

They had been riding some hours when Alana spotted something large in the road. They dismounted, tied their horses at a safe distance and approached on foot. Looking through her scope, Alana saw some kind of vehicle. It was armoured and had six gigantic wheels, and a small turret. It was splayed across the road, completely still with no sign of life around it. It must have been put there fairly recently, every other vehicle had long since degraded or been destroyed – this looked like it was still driveable.

They waited in silence for 20 minutes, walked in a large perimeter around it, and still saw no sign of life. At the back of the vehicle – the hatch was ajar. And the front windows appeared to be damaged, cracked and white, though not destroyed. Apart from this, the vehicle seemed fine.

“What do you think, Robin?”

“Chester Militia?”