to such a claim, it is Smith. He and his target’s fates were intertwined by loss and death. Like it or not they are both bound by the laws of nature, the simple and ancient act of vengeance. They are bound together until one of them dies.
************************
Man is woken by the cries of a baby girl and the broken snarls of the balding Hound. Man counts to himself, out loud and closes his eyes. Slows his heart rate for what he knows is coming. Fate? Destiny? No, he knows such things don’t exist. Not anymore. Not in this New World. It’s nothing more than bad fucking luck, and it is forever chasing him. Now, in this shittiest moment, with multiple foes descending on upon him, he knows he has little chance of winning. He must try to play the long game, survive for as long as possible until the time comes to exact his revenge. No matter how much it hurts him to not end it.
Man jumps out of bed, runs to the window and peeks outside. Torch beams flutter up and down like Hollywood floodlights, signalling the big event of the evening. He counts six torches but knows there will be more. By the side of the bed sits his karambit and hunting knife; propped up in the corner, next to the wardrobe is the shotgun. Two shots, enough for two men. They know someone is here. Emma’s cries and Hound’s barking has given them away and for a second he hates them for it.
Shakes his head, remembers that she is nothing but a baby and Hound is nothing but an animal. Man will protect them both. If he can.
Hound scratches at the bedroom door, eager to join the commotion. Outside a chorus of dogs begin to sing and Hound bounces on the spot, his tail down, barking loudly, communicating with his four-legged brethren.
Man gets his weapons, opens the door and watches the dog sprint into the blackness. Man runs to Emma’s room, looks in and sees her writhing in the blankets, a tiny human form in distress.
‘Stay there, baby girl,’ he whispers. ‘I’ll do my best.’ He closes the door and makes his way down the stairs.
As he hits the corridor he ducks down, under the predatory beams of light that penetrate the windows. On his belly he crawls to the kitchen, retrieves his rucksack which was sitting on the table. In it are four tins of soup and three tins of fruit. Over the hearth hangs the calf’s leg, one he was maturing. He fills four bottles with cooled rainwater and grabs the leg. Hushed voices are distorted through the windows and walls but still he recognises them. He recognises the voice belonging to Smith.
‘He’s here, lads,’ says Smith, louder than the others. ‘I know he is.’
‘He wouldn’t have kept a baby, boss,’ offers one of the hunters. ‘It could be someone else. Innocents.’
‘No, it’s him. You know what he’s like. Don’t kill him if you can help it. That’s my right and I’ll be fucked if I let any of you take it from me.’
A grumbling of agreements; Man moves back to the corridor. Hound is scratching the back door, barking as other dogs respond. He holds Hound, opens the door and slams it shut. Locks it. They’ll think he’s ran out the back door, over to the barn or past the chicken coops. Man listens, the voices raised, the commands from Smith for his men to check the back door. The voices quieten as they move to the other side of the house. Man sees a solitary shape, a brave or stupid hunter. He follows the shape from the kitchen, round to where the back door is. The other men seem to be moving away from the farmhouse, the sound of hounds and men scrambling for their prey. They are all aware of his skillset. And they should be wary. Very
************************
Man is woken by the cries of a baby girl and the broken snarls of the balding Hound. Man counts to himself, out loud and closes his eyes. Slows his heart rate for what he knows is coming. Fate? Destiny? No, he knows such things don’t exist. Not anymore. Not in this New World. It’s nothing more than bad fucking luck, and it is forever chasing him. Now, in this shittiest moment, with multiple foes descending on upon him, he knows he has little chance of winning. He must try to play the long game, survive for as long as possible until the time comes to exact his revenge. No matter how much it hurts him to not end it.
Man jumps out of bed, runs to the window and peeks outside. Torch beams flutter up and down like Hollywood floodlights, signalling the big event of the evening. He counts six torches but knows there will be more. By the side of the bed sits his karambit and hunting knife; propped up in the corner, next to the wardrobe is the shotgun. Two shots, enough for two men. They know someone is here. Emma’s cries and Hound’s barking has given them away and for a second he hates them for it.
Shakes his head, remembers that she is nothing but a baby and Hound is nothing but an animal. Man will protect them both. If he can.
Hound scratches at the bedroom door, eager to join the commotion. Outside a chorus of dogs begin to sing and Hound bounces on the spot, his tail down, barking loudly, communicating with his four-legged brethren.
Man gets his weapons, opens the door and watches the dog sprint into the blackness. Man runs to Emma’s room, looks in and sees her writhing in the blankets, a tiny human form in distress.
‘Stay there, baby girl,’ he whispers. ‘I’ll do my best.’ He closes the door and makes his way down the stairs.
As he hits the corridor he ducks down, under the predatory beams of light that penetrate the windows. On his belly he crawls to the kitchen, retrieves his rucksack which was sitting on the table. In it are four tins of soup and three tins of fruit. Over the hearth hangs the calf’s leg, one he was maturing. He fills four bottles with cooled rainwater and grabs the leg. Hushed voices are distorted through the windows and walls but still he recognises them. He recognises the voice belonging to Smith.
‘He’s here, lads,’ says Smith, louder than the others. ‘I know he is.’
‘He wouldn’t have kept a baby, boss,’ offers one of the hunters. ‘It could be someone else. Innocents.’
‘No, it’s him. You know what he’s like. Don’t kill him if you can help it. That’s my right and I’ll be fucked if I let any of you take it from me.’
A grumbling of agreements; Man moves back to the corridor. Hound is scratching the back door, barking as other dogs respond. He holds Hound, opens the door and slams it shut. Locks it. They’ll think he’s ran out the back door, over to the barn or past the chicken coops. Man listens, the voices raised, the commands from Smith for his men to check the back door. The voices quieten as they move to the other side of the house. Man sees a solitary shape, a brave or stupid hunter. He follows the shape from the kitchen, round to where the back door is. The other men seem to be moving away from the farmhouse, the sound of hounds and men scrambling for their prey. They are all aware of his skillset. And they should be wary. Very
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