Jean Preston: Sledgehammer

This gave the trooper pause.

“We’re sticking together, if we get lost, at least we’ll be lost together.”

“What about Santiano?”

“Fuck him, you look for him! Let’s go.”

A trooper put his hands to his mouth. “Santiano!” he bellowed. His fellow troopers slapped his mouth shut and hissed him into silence. The sound of Santiano’s name echoed through the maze of concrete, unable to be shushed into silence. But the dragging sound did stop. The troopers looked at one another, unwilling to move.

Then the dragging began again, faster now, in earnest.

“We’re getting out of here, follow me.”

None argued.

Alana ran quietly through the forest. Every few minutes she would stop, weapon drawn, baring it for all the world to see, but her enemy was aloof, missing. Every snap of a stick, every rustle of leaves would have the hairs on the back of her neck standing up. Apparitions squiggled in the corners of her eyes, but when she turned to face them they disappeared. She was sure there was someone behind her, but when she swivelled around she was alone, and then she felt it above her – but there was still nothing, it was forever just out of view, if it existed.

She wanted to cry out, but kept her teeth gritted instead, breathing raggedly. She thought of Robin, imagined his final moments, ambushed by the golem. She remembered her mother and sister. Something sharp and black looked at her and screamed and she shot the branch it flew from. It was a crow, she gave away her position for a crow . Her hands were shaking, more from exertion than fear. She was soon at the bushes where their horses and supplies were tethered.

The horses were destroyed. Their necks were snapped, and their legs were twisted inwards like a dead spider’s. Alana held her breath – even though her body screamed for oxygen. The packs, all their supplies, their maps and food – missing. She slid the bolt of her rifle, sending a scrap or metal into the grass. She finally exhaled and jogged away.

She would be travelling back to Retragrad by foot – the expedition was over. She had lost her partner, her supplies and her horses. Not only were there foreign mercs in the area, but golems from fuck-knows-where. Big feral ones by the looks of it. She felt a stinging pain spread through her abdomen, she slung the rifle on her back and squeezed the area tight with both hands, continuing to jog. She had 3 chargers – 24 rifle cartridges-no, 23. She had 6 bullets in her revolver. She had a canteen full of water – that was everything of use. All the food, all the maps, all the extra ammo, all were gone. It was getting dark, she could not run any longer. Her lungs were on fire and her legs were dead. She had to walk.

She was not used to navigating without her map. On foot, in the dark, the forest lost its familiarity, the canopy and clouds made it impossible to judge direction from the stars. She had to wing-it. Soon it was difficult to see more than a few trees ahead of her, but she soldiered on, hands outstretched, stumbling over roots and stones.

In the distance she heard the rustling of leaves. She stopped – slid down with her back to a tree and drew her pistol from her waist in one smooth motion. Something was moving in the forest, some animal or –… Its breathing was deep and heavy, it clumped along over stones and branches. It stopped for a moment. Alana held her breath.

The beast inhaled through its nose several times, paused, then clumped along, away from Alana. Alana waited in perfect stillness and perfect silence for a very long time, long after the beast had passed out of earshot.

But the sound returned, stumbling, sniffing, heavy breathing. She rose up from the tree and walked away, every kick of a stone, every slip on a root was like a cymbal crash in a graveyard. She broke into a run, hands stretched before her, branches swiping at her face, she fell into the soil, twisted her ankle. She dragged herself up by her elbows and limped away. The trees began to dissipate, she was entering a clearing. A meadow, with a lake, and a large square silhouette – a house.

It was black and wooden, the bottom windows were smashed but the top ones were intact, the whole place was soiled with soot. She limped to its open door, entered, and finding a chain there, bolted the door shut. She walked to an adjacent room with black furniture – she stared out of the window into the forest – she could see very little. With her revolver drawn she limped through all the rooms on the bottom floor, looking for another entrance – or some other occupants – but could find neither. She ascended the creaky wooden staircase, found a room and closed the door. She looked out the window to the forest again but could see nothing.

She pushed a heavy black wardrobe to cover the door, the dragging and scratching was like an aircraft taking off, in that silent house, in that silent meadow. She placed her rifle on the floor. She looked out the window again – on her knees – and saw only the forest.

She leant back on a wall, sliding down to a sitting position. She put the revolver down. She put her head in her hands and sighed wheezily. She swigged the last of the water in her canteen. Her body was slick with sweat, her skin and clothes doused in dirt from her fall. She was beginning to cool down, she had no heat packs and dared not light a fire. She sat motionless, then gradually slid further down till she was lying on the floor. She lay awake for what felt like hours, but eventually exhaustion beat her into restless sleep.

Her eyes opened in the darkness. Something was trying to open the front door.

It was twisting the door handle and now pulling and pushing. Alana groped for her revolver and then pushed herself up against the wall. She checked the bullets – 5 for it, 1 for her. Using both hands she closed the gun up, not making a sound. She wanted to look out the window, but the floorboards of the old house were creaky in unpredictable patterns, so she preferred to sit.

The gentleness with which the door handle was twisted – disturbed her. The intruder was trying to be quiet. There was a long creaking and then a metallic snap. She heard heavy footsteps below. She closed her eyes and opened them slowly, resigned. The intruder stepped into each room and paused a while. In the room below Alana’s – it seemed to pause an awful long time. Then at last, it moved on. It left the house. Alana exhaled. But she stayed perfectly still. She could not be seen from the outside – from this position.

The intruder re-entered.

Alana raised her jaw up like a bulldog. The intruder went up the stairs, the wood creaked in pain under its weight, she heard something snap – she flinched at the sound. The thing gingerly walked across the upper hall, floorboards groaning. It explored the room adjacent to hers – its every footstep deliberate, slow. It closed the door. Then it tried for her door. The handle rattled. Alana rested her pistol hand on her left forearm and aimed at the door. The intruder gently tried to push, but the wardrobe held its place.

BANG – the intruder smashed at the door, and then BANG a second time.

Alana flinched, but took advantage of the noise to adjust into another position. Kneeling, pistol still aiming at the door, within reach of her rifle.

BANG. The intruder had beaten a hole through the broken door. The wardrobe was caressed, fat fingers felt it up and down. There was a silence. Alana held her breath.

Then, after a few seconds, the intruder walked away, down the creaking, cracking stairway, clumped along the lower hall and was gone.

Alana was shocked, confused. She exhaled, still remained in position. What had just happened? Had the intruder given up? Gone to call reinforcements? Did it even know she was there? All of this she contemplated through the chaos of an exhausted and adrenalized mind.