The Travelling Man (27 page)

He circled as wide as he could manage, joining the brush where he was confident that he wouldn’t be seen by the shooter. At first, he had heard several shots from at least two different weapons, but since everyone had made it back into the Town Hall there was only one person firing.

He ducked low under a branch and into the dusty undergrowth. He was a big man but he had worked hard to develop a sense of balance and control over his size. When he had played football it had been his balance that had set him aside from the other hulking brutes. Now he crept forward with the M4 raised into a firing position, his feet gliding across the potentially noisy ground as though they were clad in slippers.

He had enjoyed hunting but never the kill and as such had developed a kind of kinship with nature. He had found that he had the ability to synchronize himself with his surroundings and now he could feel the presence of others somewhere close by.

He flipped the safety off on the rifle and swung it around at eye level, checking the foliage in front of him, his head moving smoothly from side to side. A shadow off to the left caught his attention and he dropped to his knees, holding his breath. A twig snapped on the ground under a heavy foot and he moved to encircle the sound.

A large man emerged carrying a rifle of his own. His face was wide and calm as he walked as though he expected little trouble from the sitting duck targets that he had been firing upon.

Kevin’s anger rose like bitter bile in his throat at the man’s casual nature, having just tried to gun down innocent and unarmed civilians who wanted nothing more than to hold onto to what was left of Granton and each other. The rumors about Father Luther and his congregation had been disquieting but Kevin had found it hard to picture the priest leading some kind of cult within the church’s walls.

He stooped and waited for the man to pass, crouching low against a tree trunk and willing himself to be hidden from the enemy. The man moved past him without taking much care to avoid being detected. He was large and broad but he looked soft and doughy. Kevin knew that there were at least two shooters and he didn’t want to risk alerting the other one, who was still keeping the Sheriff pinned down, by engaging in any sort of gunfire with the first man. He waited until the man passed and stepped out behind him. He turned the M4 around in his hands and immensely enjoyed the cracking sound as he hit the guy hard with the butt of the automatic rifle.

The man slumped to the ground soundlessly as Kevin caught him with one powerful hand to avoid the collapsing guy from making a loud noise as he crashed to the ground. He checked the man’s pulse and had to resist the urge to clamp a big paw over the guy’s nose and mouth until his chest fell still. It was Jeanne’s face that rose in his mind, rather than any sense of civic duty; if she saw him then she would never look at him the same again and that thought slapped away some of the blind rage that he felt.

He stepped over the unconscious man and set out to find his partner. He didn’t have to go far to find the firing spot. The undergrowth was flattened and a rifle lay on the ground, but there was no shooter. Kevin scanned the immediate surrounding area with the M4 raised into a firing position. He could feel someone close, but he couldn’t see anyone.

The sky above him suddenly turned dark as a shape fell from the tree above him and he realised his mistake. The man was large and heavy and, despite Kevin’s physical prowess, he was unable to keep hold of this rifle as the man dropped on top of him. He heard a loud snapping sound as a bone broke in his arm and the pain was instant. They both fell to the ground and Kevin felt his one arm hanging uselessly. The big guy dropped a knee into his groin and Kevin’s lungs expelled every ounce of air in a rush with the cheap shot.

“Where’s my brother?” the guy snarled, looking around worriedly.

Kevin recognised the same features on the two men and was now doubly glad that he hadn’t killed the first. The M4 was lying too far away from his reach to be of any use and the man towering over him had drawn a black Glock from a side holster and was now pointing it at Kevin’s head.

“Where’s my brother?” the man demanded again.

“Who?” Kevin said, trying to sound surprised. He let his remaining good arm slide towards his hip and his own handgun. He knew that he needed it as close as possible because he would only have a split second.

“Don’t play games with me, you son of a bitch,” the man said, aiming the handgun with a steady hand. “You must have passed him before you got to me; if he’s dead you’re going to suffer like no man before you.”

“Oh, that fat piece of shit? I slit his throat and left him for the coyotes,” Kevin said, adding a laugh that he didn’t feel.

“You liar!” the man roared, kicking Kevin hard in the ribs.

“I killed him and he cried like a bitch,” Kevin shouted back.

“YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH!” the man screamed again, but Kevin noticed the man’s hand was no longer steady and his eyes kept trying to dart away to look towards the undergrowth from where Kevin had emerged.

“He begged and pleaded for his life and I left him in a puddle of his own piss and tears over there.” Kevin nodded with his head to indicate, but never took his eyes off the man.

There was the split second that Kevin had been waiting for as the man turned his head and the Glock moved slightly away from its deadly aim. Kevin’s hand flashed towards his own holster. He knew that he wouldn’t have time to draw the gun and aim, as the man was already turning back towards him. Instead, he gripped the gun and twisted it through the holster so that it was aiming in the man’s general direction. He had nothing but hope in his heart and the thought of Jeanne as he neatly knocked off the safety and pulled the trigger over and over again.

The bullets tore through the black leather and hit the ground in front of the man at first. Kevin saw the look of shock in the man’s eyes as he turned to fire his own weapon but Kevin was already twisting the gun further upwards, adjusting the trajectory as he continually fired.

A smattering of holes suddenly appeared in the man, firstly hitting his leg and then climbing up across his torso, until one blew out the back of his head. Somewhere in the gunfire, Kevin realised that he had been hit in the shoulder and when he turned his head to the wound he saw that the man’s bullets had made several dents in the ground mere centimeters from his head. If the guy had been on a mission from God, it would appear that it was not a sanctioned one.

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Kravis fought hard against slipping into unconsciousness. He knew that, although the bullet had hit him somewhere in his back, the damage had been done further forward in his chest as his breathing was labored and only came in short painful bursts. He had been wearing a Kevlar bulletproof vest that he had brought with him during his journey to track the man that had killed his sister. But while the vest had absorbed the first bullet, the impact had broken at least one rib and his fear was that a broken shard may have punctured a lung, hence his struggle to breathe properly. Even the lightest movement sent shockwaves of pain through his body and he was scared that he was going to suffocate on the sidewalk. The second shot had managed to find a gap at his side and tear through the flesh, spilling his blood across the hot concrete. He couldn’t tell how bad the wound was, but there was surely too much blood for it to be minor.     

Every time that he had tried to shuffle to cover, a bullet had clanged off the sidewalk in front of him, blocking his path. He had risked a quick glance over his shoulder and could see Cassie trying to get to him, but it was obvious that he was being used as bait to draw the Sheriff out into the open. He tried to catch her attention and make her stay behind the tree, but her face was set hard and determined.

He saw her break cover for him and waited with his heart in his mouth for the shot that would take her life, but miraculously none came. Whatever had taken the shooter’s attention must have been heaven sent.

“Kravis? Matt? Are you okay?” she asked breathlessly as she reached his side.

He tried to smile reassuringly but he couldn’t find the energy to raise it to his lips. Suddenly he was lifted up off the ground and into her strong arms. He would have been embarrassed by the sight of his being carried like a child, but in reality he cared little for appearances and only wanted to live.

The next thing he knew, he was being placed down gently on a table indoors. He felt his shirt being carefully removed but however gentle the hands, the damage inside his chest roared monstrously. Cautious hands cleaned and inspected the wound on his side as people spoke over him.

“How is he, doc?” Cassie asked worriedly.

“I don’t know Sheriff. I’m just a veterinary surgeon. Give me a dog or a horse and I’ll give you an expert opinion; give me a guy shot in the back and I’m struggling,” the woman answered honestly.

“Please…, please save him,” he heard Cassie say from what seemed like a million miles away before he blacked out.       

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Jim Lesnar wandered away from his lord and master. Grange had become increasingly distant and withdrawn and Jim was starting to fear the man now. Where once he had been hungry for the man’s knowledge, now he wanted away from this monster. Grange was becoming less coherent, as though his very essence was slipping through his fingers. Lesnar had been promised greatness, to ascend to a higher plain, but now he was starting to feel like he was simply a servant to the once great man’s petty whims. He had been given his orders and was on his way to fulfill them like a dutiful soldier, but he held treachery in his heart.

Gilbert Grange had once glided across the earth with a serene grace as though the very dust feared settling upon his shoulders, but now he was a far cry from the appearance of perfection. He had been ageing slowly over the past few days, and now he was a cracked and ruined mess. His once blemish-free skin was now cracked and blistered. Great swathes of skin now hung loosely around his sallow features. There were oozing sores and small open wounds and Lesnar dreaded to think about what was happening under the man’s clothes that now lay in rags. Grange had not moved from the mine office remains, sitting at the great oak desk like a decrepit Geppetto with a town full of Pinocchio puppets at his disposal. His hands were constantly on the move as though conducting an invisible orchestra playing only for his delight. Grange’s soliloquies had grown less and less frequent until he sat in silence and no amount of trying could get through to him. Lesnar had seen the remains of Bobby Cohen splattered against the wall and knew that the town manager must have displeased Grange in some way. There was no way that he intended to go out the same way. Even Grange’s orders now came to Lesnar through images in his mind rather than verbal communication; it was unsettling to know that the man had such easy access to his mind.

Lesnar headed towards the town on foot, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face and relishing the silence in the air. He had much to consider and much to come to terms with. Grange may be on his way out, but he wasn’t going cleanly, that much was clear at least. Lesnar was still astounded by Grange’s power, and his feats during his final weakened days could only hint at what a man like Lesnar would be able to achieve in his prime.

The sky was a hazier blue than usual and Lesnar wondered if that was down to the invisible shielding that Grange had placed over the town, sealing them off from the outside world. It was such abilities that made Lesnar’s mouth water in anticipation. The only trouble was that Grange was fading fast and he had yet to impart any of his secrets to his successor. He had promised Lesnar that all would become clear upon his passing, but Lesnar didn’t trust the man and he didn’t trust empty promises; he’d had a lifetime of those.

The church came into view first and as Lesnar looked up, he could see gathered townsfolk in the grounds. Grange had told him of his plans, or at least some of them. Lesnar knew that the remains of Granton were to be turned against each other in an endgame that Lesnar didn’t quite understand. Grange had spoken to him of the need for discretion in his work, to fly under the radar of discovery and operate outside of common convention. But this orgy of destruction seemed as far removed from Grange’s words as possible and it made Lesnar uncomfortable. Either Grange had been spinning him a fine line of bullshit, or else the man was falling apart faster than Lesnar had realised.

He moved surreptitiously around the church, keeping out of sight. As he drew closer, he could hear the sound of raised angry voices emanating from the centre of the congregation and he didn’t need to see Father Luther to recognise the man’s impassioned voice. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t going well, at least as far as Luther was concerned. The people inside the boundaries of the church were raging with venomous fury and they were demanding retribution for some crime or other.

He pushed his gnawing intrigue aside and moved away quietly without being seen. He was angry that Grange had not at least bestowed some small amount of power upon him to aid with his mission, but perhaps this was all part of the test, to see if he was indeed worthy of the man’s mantle.

He moved stealthily into what was left of the town, appreciating the seismic damage created by Grange. Buildings were strewn about the place like they were made of plastic blown over by a stiff breeze. Mounds of rubble now lay where once stores and homes had stood and huge cracks had opened up in the surrounding area, acting like a waterless moat.

He headed for where the library had once been located and found the building heavily damaged, but still standing. The large concrete grey front had suffered a brutal split in its face and the clock tower that stood above leaned precariously to one side.