Darkshines Seven Read online

  There was a space of about ten feet before the next car and Hector crouched down by the front wheel of the jeep to assess his options. He could just see the girl if he craned around the bumper. She had her back to him and remained motionless, entranced, it seemed, by the charred field across the road. She was a strange contradiction; plainly beautiful, for sure, but it was impossible not to notice the broken nose in the middle of her face. She had straggly and greasy dark hair tied back with a bright pink butterfly clip, and a lithe and young body but trussed up in black army fatigues, just a little too big for her. The trousers were tucked into boots, but the jacket swung a little loose on her shoulders, despite the thick belt that she wore around it, almost as if she were trying to hold it to her. Nothing about her appearance seemed to fit.

  Hector had met weirdoes before, of course, and he reckoned that, even though he was no fighter, if she decided to attack him he could probably hold his own. But there was the dog he’d seen, he had to think about that. He loved dogs and, he thought, dogs loved him. But who was to say they hadn’t flipped out like the rest of the country? He shuffled forward and then flattened himself to the ground, looking for the girl’s four-legged friend.

  There was no sign of the dog from either back under the jeep or ahead under the next car. But as he moved further forward, coming out from behind the jeep and into the empty space between the cars, Hector saw something else that made his heart leap. From the open passenger side door of the next car, a pair of feet were dangling out, and on the feet were shoes. Black suede loafers, if he wasn’t very much mistaken. Hector managed a self-satisfied smile and then began to drag himself forward towards the door. He had got no more than a few feet though when he stopped suddenly, and then the smile fell off his face. The dog was standing over him and Hector was staring up into a drooling mouth of yellowing fangs.

  ‘Good boy…’ he stuttered through a makeshift, friendly smile.

  The dog’s left paw was raised slightly from the ground as it prepared to advance on him. Hector slowly moved his elbows up and then rested his palms flat on the ground and began to push himself back. The dog took a step forward and a line of slobber dribbled onto the road in front of him.

  ‘There’s a good boy…’ Hector pushed back hard and felt a small piece of glass scratch against his palm. Still the dog advanced. ‘Goooodddd booooy.’

  Hector could feel the front tyre of the jeep, that he had not so long since hidden behind, touch his bare right foot. He wondered if one quick shove from his hands would get him under the jeep and out of the way. Two maybe? Could he just scream stupidly and scare the dog away and then roll over and shuffle under the vehicle? It was all wishful thinking. He knew it. The dog had him cornered and any sudden move and it would be on him in a flash. In one last desperate bid for safety he started to move his head to the side and look for the girl. She had seemed lost in some deep trance when he first saw her, staring out into that cornfield like some sort of crazy woman, but maybe if he shouted loud enough, pleaded long enough, she would snap out of her reverie and call the beast off. As he pushed his right cheek to the road and raised his eyes up to the girl, what he saw made the pleading words stick in his throat, and all he could do was whine slightly out of his nostrils.

  A man was stood to the side of the girl, a rifle raised up in his hands, the butt drawn back to his shoulders. Yet still she didn’t move. Hector could feel the dog’s breath coming at him, could hear the raspy growl of its final warning, and then, just as the man knocked the girl’s legs from under her with one quick swipe of the rifle butt, the dog’s growl broke into a thunderous cacophony of barking.

  7

  For a moment there was nothing, and then, when Hector’s vision returned, the scene that played out before him came through stinging, blood stained, eyes. At first he thought it was sweat that was prickling his pupils, but then he felt a droplet at his lips and he rolled his tongue over it and remembered that old steely taste. The sun seemed to be directly overhead now, its unrelenting groping covering his aching bones, its wretched heat grinding through him.

  He was lying on his side, no more than a foot or so from where he had faced off with the dog, but now, instead of four furry paws, he was looking at two faded army boots. Above him, Galton had his rifle in a steady grip, the barrel aimed directly towards Hector’s ear.

  ‘How you doing, kid?’

  Hector didn’t look up and didn’t respond. He knew what sort of person wore such boots. He didn’t need to put a body to the boots, or a face to the nasty, little words.

  ‘Hope I didn’t slug you too hard there. Nothing broken I hope? You would tell me, wouldn’t you? If I had…you would be good enough to tell me that, right, kid?’

  Hector mumbled something incomprehensible that he hoped sounded like agreement.

  ‘Then you can tell me everything you two talked about. Every word. I want to know everything this bitch has said to you. You don’t miss anything out. You give me what I want and you might just walk away from this.’

  Hector tilted his head and looked beyond the boots. The girl was lying face down on the cracked tarmac of the road, the faded white lines running underneath her splayed arms. She was breathing heavily, muttering silently, her hands clutching at air as if trying to find something to hold on to and haul herself up with. The dog was pacing in a circle around her, his pure hazel eyes fixed on another pair of legs. His curled muzzle now flashing its warning to this new stranger. Babbidge stood a few yards back watching the dog intently, curiously, with a wide smile on his face. As the dog passed the girl’s head for the third time he momentarily moved his snout downwards and jabbed at one of her cheeks with his nose. It barely registered. She muttered her gibberish a fraction louder, but that was all, and then the dog carried on around her, turning his bony head back to the stranger and pulling up the curtain of his jowls again to flash the fangs.

  Hector suddenly found enormous love for that dog. The selfless instinct it had to protect its master, the growl that translated as a stone cold promise that he would fight to the end in defence of the person he loved. He remembered his old flea-bitten mongrel back in the old country, that great soppy sod that he loved so much, and he remembered what his mother used to say: “Such perfect animals they are, what humanity could learn from the dog, if only we had the ability to learn like a dog.” How true that was.

  The dog stopped its pacing and moved into attack stance, that left paw off the ground again, those eyes boring into the stranger before him. Hector had seen that look so many times before on his own dog. Every time there had been a thunderstorm his dog would create that very same pose at the front door. Not for hiding under tables and shivering, his old boy. His dog just seemed to get angry at whatever lunacy was going on in the heavens above him. He wouldn’t move from the door, would barely shift an inch, standing there, ready to fight and to protect his loved ones from whatever was outside.

  ‘Here, fella. Come here.’ Babbidge was clicking his fingers toward the dog and attempting a wet and sloppy whistle. ‘Come on, lad.’ Dropping to a crouch, he held a hand out for the dog.

  ‘What you doing?’ Galton snapped. Hector could feel him move away and a second later saw his boots drawing up alongside his colleague.

  ‘I’m good with dogs.’

  ‘I’m good with a gun. Get back on your feet and stop embarrassing yourself.’

  ‘No. Don’t you dare! We’re not shooting down a dog. I like dogs.’

  The dog gave a long, slow, scratchy growl, placed its left paw down and then took a small, delicate step forward with the right.

  ‘You sure about that?’ Galton said with a barely concealed laugh. Hector saw the rifle rise slightly in Galton’s hands.

  ‘No!’ Babbidge shouted, and jerked a hand up to stop his colleague. ‘I’ve told you, I’ve got this. I’m not shooting a dog.’

  ‘Hey, tramp. Scumbag. This your dog?’ Galton barked across at Hector.

  ‘No, no sir,’ came the mumbled r
eply.

  ‘Don’t call me sir, scumbag.’

  ‘Sorry. It’s hers…the dog…it was with her.’

  ‘Decision made then.’

  Galton swung the rifle up quickly then stepped back and moved into the shot. But the dog was ready for him and was already in motion. Babbidge, who had managed just one more warble of protestation, was now tumbling off his haunches and waving two chubby hands of submission. Galton fired off a wild shot that zipped over the dog and smashed through the side window of a truck further along the road, and then, before he could sweep the rifle around to the advancing beast, the dog was in the air, using Babbidge’s hefty bulk as a launch pad, and lunging straight for Galton’s left arm. The dog’s teeth clamped onto the arm, sunk down deep, and then Galton was stumbling backward, screaming in pain and the sheer affront of the action. Galton moved the rifle around in his right hand and fired off two quick shots, the first thudding straight into the cracked tarmac of the road, just beyond Hector’s head, and the second slicing clean through the right cheek of Babbidge.

  Galton tripped and landed flat on his back, the rifle slipping out his hand. Now free of the weapon his right hand became a fist, raining blows at the dog’s flank. Still the dog bit down, shook its head, drew more blood, and still Galton screamed. He rolled over onto the dog and started to reach for its throat. His probing fingers ran through the dog’s hair, searching, digging into the skin, moving up to its jaws. Galton had no sooner found his target, had barely felt his fingers close around it, when a heavy boot swished through the air behind him and struck him hard on the back of the head. Galton lurched forward with the impact, struck the jeep’s bumper with his forehead and then spun around in a daze. The girl was standing over him, blocking out the sun. She looked like a shadow.

  ‘Don’t ever touch my dog,’ Mia Hennessey said and then swung her boot into Galton’s face. Galton thudded into the jeep once more and then slipped down to the ground. With one clean whistle from his master, Blarney released his hold on Galton’s arm and trotted back to Mia’s side, wagging his tail as he went.

  ‘Mia Hennessey…’ Galton mumbled, before spitting a glob of bloody mucus onto the tarmac.

  ‘You’re Party Plod?’ Mia asked, her voice gentle, playful even.

  ‘Lot of people want to speak to you, Mia.’

  ‘Are they in City 17?’

  ‘They’re everywhere. No way you’re getting away from us.’

  Galton slowly pulled himself up to a seated position, resting his back against the jeep. He looked from the bloody mess of his arm down to the prone body of Babbidge and then back up to Mia.

  ‘Your friend is dead. I’m sorry about that,’ Mia said, bending down to Blarney and running a hand over his bony head.

  ‘You are?’

  ‘There’s been enough killing.’

  ‘You should know. How many was it at The Hill? How many did you and your friend Sullivan kill? How many of my friends and colleagues are dead because of you and him?’

  ‘I would tell you the truth, but I don’t think you want to hear it.’

  ‘You going to kill me now, Mia? Why don’t you get on with it?’

  ‘I told you, there’s been enough killing.’

  Mia turned towards the cowering body of Hector Frost and Blarney twitched his bloody beard and gave one long, slow growl.

  ‘What’s your story, haircut?’ Mia asked casually.

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all. Please…’ Hector stuttered in response.

  ‘You Party?’

  ‘No. No, I’m nothing. I’m just a thief. I’m nobody.’

  ‘Got a name, nobody?’

  ‘Hector. Hector Frost. Please…’

  ‘Got a car?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I could use a ride. That all right with you?’

  Hector gently moved up onto his knees, his arms up over his head in surrender. ‘Sure. Sure, why not.’

  ‘Put your hands down, it’s embarrassing.’

  ‘You don’t want to hook up with this girl, thief.’ Galton’s words chased a small bitter laugh. ‘People die around this girl.’

  Mia was already approaching Hector and gesturing for him to stand. Blarney was matching her step for step, the threatening growl coming to Hector like a low rumble of thunder. Hector got up, his hands still over his head, and then turned to lead them away, down the grassy incline towards the car park. They had got no further than the rear of the jeep when Hector stopped them suddenly and turned back to Mia, nodding his head to the car beyond the jeep and the pair of feet dangling from the passenger side door.

  ‘Shoes. Would you mind?’

  ‘Put your hands down, Hector.’

  Hector did as he was told and then looked down at his bare feet like a pupil who had just been scolded by his teacher. Mia laughed, and in that moment the laugh sounded alien to Hector and almost made him jump.

  ‘Of course I don’t mind, Hector,’ Mia said through a smile, before gesturing him to the car.

  Hector scuttled over to the passenger side door, slipped the shoes from the corpse’s feet, and, without looking any further into the car, offered a quick apology before running back to Mia and Blarney and leading them down the grassy incline towards his car.

  The shoes were a perfect fit.

  THE CITY

  1

  At the southern entrance to City 17, four army utility trucks were parked in a line across the road. A small patrol of armed guards moved between them, weaving in and out of the vehicles and each other’s path, in neat precision. The road was quiet, eerily so, and trigger fingers were itchy and waiting for action. The broken buildings, the shops and offices, and places people once called home, either side of the road, held long shadows and ominous shapes, but the patrol were, at least on first impressions, the only people there. The sun passed behind a lonely cloud and for a moment the sharp definition of the jagged buildings softened as the temporary shade passed over them like a shawl.

  Sitting on the open tailgate to the first truck, Jack Raizbeck stared off along the main road into the city, back out to the scrapheap of car parts that littered the tarmac. He had been watching the hooded man approaching the entrance to the city for what felt like an inordinate amount of time. The man walked with precision and poise, his overdramatic coat flapping gently around his stick thin legs. From time to time the man would bend down to examine the debris at his feet, sometimes picking something up and scrutinising it before placing it in an old, tanned pouch hanging by his side. By the time the man had finally drawn up alongside the open tailgate, the smell of soup had begun wafting from the neighbouring truck, aggravating Raizbeck’s hunger. Two guards were leaning from the back of the truck, trying to catch his eye but Raizbeck didn’t turn to them, merely raised a hand and waved them on.

  ‘Ring the dinner bell, boys.’

  ‘What other currency is there at the end of the world?’ the hooded man asked as he took position directly in front of Raizbeck’s legs. ‘A delicious tactic, Mr Raizbeck, I approve. But tell me, does it really work?’

  ‘Does what work?’

  The hooded man took a crumpled poster from inside his pouch and held it up in front of Raizbeck. ‘I see these posters everywhere. Hundreds of them. Tell me, does it really work? Have the stragglers really lost all sense of trust?’

  ‘They’ll come. They always do.’

  ‘You would have thought some things would have been learnt from recent events. Stupidity, such an ingrained human trait.’

  ‘Stupidity and trust.’

  ‘One and the same, Mr Raizbeck, one and the same. Quite a collection you must have now. Tell me, how many will be enough? How many must you collect before you have enough up there at The Hill?’

  In the next truck a guard was banging a ladle onto the underside of a metal tray, the sound echoing out between the buildings like hollow gunfire. The guards at the front of the trucks were grouping together in a long practiced formation, their guns primed to the doors and broken
ground floor windows of the shops and offices nearest them.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Raizbeck said to the hooded man.

  ‘Your information, it seems very precise.’

  ‘We’ve been close, we’re pretty sure she’s coming.’

  ‘Which leads me to the obvious question.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Why do you need me? Do you not trust your men, Mr Raizbeck?’

  ‘They’re not good enough. Not for this. I’d put each of them in front of ten stragglers without losing any sleep, but I can’t trust them with her.’

  ‘An eighteen year old girl is what I hear. Tell me, do I hear correctly?’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Then do I despair of the talent of your charges or the strength of your paranoia?’

  ‘I need her alive.’

  ‘Ah, I see. You believe the bloodlust of your men is far greater than my own?

  ‘I need a noose, not a battering ram.’

  There was movement in the building next to the truck – an old barber’s shop, its window already smashed open, the red and white barber’s pole long since snapped in two and dumped on the pavement – footsteps were crunching over glass somewhere inside, but neither Raizbeck or the hooded man moved or turned. The ladle continued to hit the tray in the next truck, the smell of soup now overpowering as it wafted out into the still, sweltering air. A guard approached the barber’s shop from between the soup truck and Raizbeck’s, his rifle trained towards the shop and the encroaching footsteps.

  ‘Answer my question and I will ask no more,’ the hooded man continued, as if he and Raizbeck were the only people there.