Locks were undone, the door open again, and Pat virtually fell out into the museum. Legs working, time for flight. Don’t look back, don’t look back ... But Pat couldn’t help it; couldn’t help casting a glance over the shoulder to see them emerging from the doorway. One, two, three—more. And Alkins changing as she did so, a streak of silver all that was left of her hair colour, marking her out as different from the rest of the pack.
Pat sprinted into the street, looking left and right, looking for a way out of this. Somewhere to hide maybe? Although now they had the scent, they’d simply track that—unless Pat could mask it somehow? But no, better to try and lose them in this maze, fool them into going one way when you were going another. Put enough distance between them that scent wasn’t an issue. A long shot, sure, especially with their noses, but better than admitting defeat. Better than admitting ...
That you were dead.
That you had been ever since you set foot in the outpost, as dead as everyone else inside that place. Pat was being watched, being stalked. Being hunted. Could sense it, could feel it. And that hunt could only ever end in death.
Left, right, up one alley, down another. Might be able to lose them, might be able to ... Then Pat realised what had actually been happening; instead of leading them away and confusing them, they’d actually been the ones doing the leading. Doing the herding. Blocking off one route, forcing Pat into another until—
It opened out in front, a large space, much larger than the checking one. Like those gladiatorial arenas of old, illuminated by a full moon that had just poked its nose out from behind a cloud. Pat skidded into the middle, and immediately tried to backtrack—but it was already too late. They were everywhere, forming a circle around Pat; dozens of them now, probably all the ones that had been in 7B waiting. No hiding in closets or under beds; the monsters were out in the open here. All changed, no need for subterfuge. All fur and teeth and red eyes. As red as the blood they were eager to shed.
Not today. Not today ... But yes, it would seem: today. The time had come. No more flight, but Pat wasn’t going down without more fighting—no matter how hopeless the odds were.
Knife in one hand, chain in the other.
Then ... something happened. A flash, moonlight glinting off something. And one of the mutt’s heads rolled towards Pat’s feet. There was growling, as the rest of the pack reacted to this. But there it was again, flashing metal. Flashing silver, catching the moon; a swish here, a swish there. Whatever ... whoever this was, they were fast—maybe even faster than the beasts. Definitely faster than them, because they were falling, dropping like flies. Claws were flashing as well, but not nearly enough; legs and arms were flying all over the place.
Blood was spraying everywhere as well, the figure moving from one to another, ducking and rising, the blade a positive blur. Pat watched, open-mouthed, until there was only one monster left. The one with the silver streak in its fur, the one who had pretended to be Colonel Alkins. It was clutching the papers in its paw, scrunched up now but still readable. It looked for a second as if it would attack—take revenge on this person who’d killed all of its troops. But then it seemed to remember what it was holding, the possibility of decoding whatever was in them.
And it ran, bounding off into the distance. Into the blackness.
Leaving only Pat there. Pat and the man. His shoulders were rising and falling, just as he had been a moment before. He looked over to where ‘Alkins’ had vanished, perhaps thinking about going after her, but instead turned and faced the person he’d saved, a little out of breath. It was only now that Pat saw what the weapon had been: it was a perfectly polished silver axe (battleaxe vs battleaxe, if Alkins had stayed) which even now he was cleaning, wiping off the grue. It was as beautiful as it was deadly, that weapon, and for a moment it was all Pat could see. Then the rest of the man came into focus.
He was wearing dark cargo trousers and boots, his long coat coming down past his knees, over a jumper that had holes in it. He was bearded, and—like the Alkins creature—that was also shot through with silver-grey. There was a patch covering his right eye, long hair poking out from beneath a wide-brimmed hat. The figure took a step towards Pat, who involuntarily raised the chain and knife. Just because a person was human—and that was yet to be established here; Pat had been fooled once that day—didn’t mean your intentions were good. Especially if you were out here alone, when you really shouldn’t be.
“Relax,” said the man, lifting the axe and resting it on his left shoulder, “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Pat said nothing in reply.
“They got there way ahead of you. Saw ’em skirt round you, while you were trying to throw them off the first time.”
Saw...? Then they hadn’t been the only hunters out there observing Pat; this man had been responsible for at least some of those feelings. That sense of being followed.
“What’s your name?”
Pat still said nothing.
The man laughed. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“P-Pat ... It’s Pat.”
“That short for Patricia, then?”
Pat frowned. How had he known that? Alkins had, she’d confided in her, but no-one else here. It had been the final reason Pat had suspected her doppelganger.
“We haven’t got all day, boy!”
“Because it sure as hell ain’t Patrick.”
He drew closer, bending, holding out his free hand. Pat tucked the chain in her pocket, reluctantly accepting the shake. Then she looked around again at the devastation; at so many dead hounds. “How ... how did you...?”
“Practice,” replied the man. “Been doing this a long time. Probably even before you were born, girl. Getting a bit slow in my old age, actually.”
Her face soured and she let go of his hand. “Don’t call me that.”
“What? Girl?” She nodded. “Okay, before you were born, Pat.”
The mention of her own name reminded her that she still didn’t have his. “I told you mine ...” she prompted.
“Eh? Oh, right.” He laughed again. “It’s Peel,” he told her. Then he turned his back on Pat, began to walk off. She watched him, gaping, and suddenly blurted out:
“Wait!”
He stopped, looked over his shoulder—and waited. Pat just stood there staring at him. The stranger sighed then, and said, “Yes?”
“Where ... where are you going?”
He grinned at that and pointed in the direction the Alkins beast had fled. “Goin’ hunting,” was the answer, and he turned back around again and carried on.
“Wait!” Pat repeated and rushed to catch him up, to fall in step with him. He glanced across, but said nothing. “Who are you?” she asked again, not wanting his name this time; wanting the rest.
“It’s a long story,” he told her.
“Tell me,” she said as she hurried to keep up with his strides.
As this man who’d saved her, who she’d only just met, led her away from the field of conflict. From the slaughter. From the pools of blood that looked almost black in the light from the moon.
But were in fact red. A deep, deep shade of red ...
C h a p t e rO n e
She was still running.
As fast as she could, arms out in front to bat away the foliage. Escaping through the woodland, through the dense green that surrounded her: the safe path nothing but a distant memory. Breath coming in short bursts, hardly daring to look at what was behind her. Hardly daring to remember what had happened in case she might break down and cry. End up standing stock still when she should be running through—
The