minutes …’
‘We should press on,’ Jane said, in front, slapping her hands along the surfaces to either side.
‘Let’s at least stop, see if we can hear anything.’
They halted again, their breath furling in semi-frozen plumes. It took several seconds for the noise of this to subside, and then there were several seconds more of nothing – before they heard the whistling.
It was just above their heads.
They glanced upward.
He was only vaguely visible – an apelike silhouette crouched on top of the boulder on their left. His huge, misshapen head, almost certainly hooded, was inclined down at them. He stopped whistling half a second before he dropped. It was impossible to judge how big or heavy he was, but when he crash-landed on top of Jane, who, though stocky of build was only five feet four, she collapsed beneath him with a muffled shriek. Tara, standing rigid and helpless, didn’t quite see what happened next, though she heard it: a succession of heavy blows. She thought a brawny arm was rising and falling, and maybe that was a jagged stone clutched in its gloved hand. With each impact, Jane gave a low, tortured moan.
‘Stop … please,’ Tara stammered.
The flurries of movement ceased. With a creak of waterproofs, the muffled shape turned its heavy, brooding head towards her. She heard a
thud
as the stone was released, saw an arm slide out of sight, heard a distinctive
click
. Tara knew very little about guns, but she’d seen enough of them on the television to recognise when a firearm was being cocked.
That was the tipper. The moment the adrenaline broke her paralysis.
She twirled around, fighting back along the crooked defile into open space, and there barked her shins against low, unseen edges. She barely felt the pain; the main problem was that she fell sideways, winding herself, another sharp stone digging into her hip. From here, she scrambled along on her hands and knees, sensing rather than seeing the humanoid form emerging from the defile behind her. She knew it would be pointing the gun in her general direction. Tears streamed down her face as she jumped to her feet and started running again, blindly but desperately, putting as much distance as possible between them: ten yards, twenty, thirty, forty. Surely she was out of sight now? He couldn’t see her to shoot. Fifty yards, sixty …
Heck’s eyes flirted open.
A first he wasn’t sure what had disturbed him. Then he realised: a distant noise like a reverberating
boom
.
A gunshot … maybe.
He pushed the quilt aside, sat up and took his watch from the bedside table. Its neon numerals read: 00.18.
He hadn’t been asleep long. He got up, wandered across the bedroom and shifted the thin curtain. It was impossible to see anything out there. The fog was like grey sediment swirling in liquid.
‘What is it?’ Hazel asked sleepily.
‘Dunno. I thought … Did you hear something?’
‘Outside?’
‘I thought so.’
‘Like what?’
‘Not sure. Gunfire perhaps.’
She yawned. ‘That wouldn’t exactly be unusual around here.’
‘No,’ Heck conceded. He was still getting used to the idea that a much higher percentage of the population of this rural county held shotgun licences than they did back in the cities where he’d formerly worked. ‘Bit late at night though, isn’t it?’
‘Car backfiring?’
‘Perhaps.’ He hung around at the window a few moments, until a gentle susurration from the pillow indicated Hazel had gone back to sleep. Eventually, wondering if he’d dreamed it, he drifted back to bed.
Tara covered another fifty yards before she realised she’d been shot.
Initially it had been like a blow on the back of her shoulder. A hard one, of course. It had driven the wind out of her, but sheer terror kept her on her feet, kept her motoring forward. Now however, very suddenly, her strength was draining, an intense pain spreading through the top right quarter of her body. The arm itself had turned numb –
‘We should press on,’ Jane said, in front, slapping her hands along the surfaces to either side.
‘Let’s at least stop, see if we can hear anything.’
They halted again, their breath furling in semi-frozen plumes. It took several seconds for the noise of this to subside, and then there were several seconds more of nothing – before they heard the whistling.
It was just above their heads.
They glanced upward.
He was only vaguely visible – an apelike silhouette crouched on top of the boulder on their left. His huge, misshapen head, almost certainly hooded, was inclined down at them. He stopped whistling half a second before he dropped. It was impossible to judge how big or heavy he was, but when he crash-landed on top of Jane, who, though stocky of build was only five feet four, she collapsed beneath him with a muffled shriek. Tara, standing rigid and helpless, didn’t quite see what happened next, though she heard it: a succession of heavy blows. She thought a brawny arm was rising and falling, and maybe that was a jagged stone clutched in its gloved hand. With each impact, Jane gave a low, tortured moan.
‘Stop … please,’ Tara stammered.
The flurries of movement ceased. With a creak of waterproofs, the muffled shape turned its heavy, brooding head towards her. She heard a
thud
as the stone was released, saw an arm slide out of sight, heard a distinctive
click
. Tara knew very little about guns, but she’d seen enough of them on the television to recognise when a firearm was being cocked.
That was the tipper. The moment the adrenaline broke her paralysis.
She twirled around, fighting back along the crooked defile into open space, and there barked her shins against low, unseen edges. She barely felt the pain; the main problem was that she fell sideways, winding herself, another sharp stone digging into her hip. From here, she scrambled along on her hands and knees, sensing rather than seeing the humanoid form emerging from the defile behind her. She knew it would be pointing the gun in her general direction. Tears streamed down her face as she jumped to her feet and started running again, blindly but desperately, putting as much distance as possible between them: ten yards, twenty, thirty, forty. Surely she was out of sight now? He couldn’t see her to shoot. Fifty yards, sixty …
Heck’s eyes flirted open.
A first he wasn’t sure what had disturbed him. Then he realised: a distant noise like a reverberating
boom
.
A gunshot … maybe.
He pushed the quilt aside, sat up and took his watch from the bedside table. Its neon numerals read: 00.18.
He hadn’t been asleep long. He got up, wandered across the bedroom and shifted the thin curtain. It was impossible to see anything out there. The fog was like grey sediment swirling in liquid.
‘What is it?’ Hazel asked sleepily.
‘Dunno. I thought … Did you hear something?’
‘Outside?’
‘I thought so.’
‘Like what?’
‘Not sure. Gunfire perhaps.’
She yawned. ‘That wouldn’t exactly be unusual around here.’
‘No,’ Heck conceded. He was still getting used to the idea that a much higher percentage of the population of this rural county held shotgun licences than they did back in the cities where he’d formerly worked. ‘Bit late at night though, isn’t it?’
‘Car backfiring?’
‘Perhaps.’ He hung around at the window a few moments, until a gentle susurration from the pillow indicated Hazel had gone back to sleep. Eventually, wondering if he’d dreamed it, he drifted back to bed.
Tara covered another fifty yards before she realised she’d been shot.
Initially it had been like a blow on the back of her shoulder. A hard one, of course. It had driven the wind out of her, but sheer terror kept her on her feet, kept her motoring forward. Now however, very suddenly, her strength was draining, an intense pain spreading through the top right quarter of her body. The arm itself had turned numb –
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