Sentinel (32 page)

“Reynolds?” Nicholas began unsurely. “What’s going on?” He stepped backwards slowly, disturbed by the way the man had suddenly changed.

“Why don’t you just call me Snelling from now on?” the other man said, leering at the boy. “I always preferred that name.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

Harvesters

S
AM’S HEAD STRUCK THE FLOOR WITH
a sickening crack and immediately the world began to spin. The old man heaved himself woozily onto his hands and knees and attempted to get up, but a boot dug him hard in the ribs and he collapsed against the floor once more.

“Oh, come, come, old man,” a venomous voice goaded over his shoulder. “I thought you had a little more fight in you than that.”

They were still in the living room. Sam’s head pounded dully, as if at any moment it was going to implode, and blood wept from a cut above his right eye, half blinding him. He gasped in short, sharp breaths, his ribs screaming, every inch of his body aching. In the back of his mind, a tiny voice considered the possibility that this was it; he was done for. He didn’t want to think that way, wouldn’t have done even five years ago, but he was too old for this sort of thing now.

“You–” stuttered the old man with effort. “You’re a coward.”

Richard threw his head back and howled with laughter. “Words can’t hurt me now,” the scruffy man sneered. “That’s okay, though. Words are all you’ve got. You’re feeble. Pathetic. Should’ve been put out to pasture years ago. He was only friends with you out of pity, you know. He hated you. Couldn’t wait for you to cark it and end your ceaseless meddling.”

Sam tried to shut out the needling words, but they jabbed at their intended mark like pokers. Even if this thing that used to be Richard was no longer his friend, he knew exactly where the sore spots were.

Steel-like hands seized the elderly man’s shoulders and suddenly Sam was being dragged to his feet. He was spun to face Richard and the older man stared blearily into that smirking, bearded face. The afternoon sun had almost entirely sunk below the window frame and the shadows distorted themselves across Richard’s stiff, skeletal features. His hair was lank and greasy, and he looked meaner than ever.

“This is just the beginning, Sam,” he goaded. “We’re everywhere, and with each sunrise our numbers swell. The Sentinels will join us or die screaming.”

“N–never,” Sam muttered, wiping at his bloody eye.

“The Dark Prophets are mustering their strength,” Richard said. He put a grubby finger to his lips. “Shhh, listen,” he whispered, cupping a hand to his ear. “Can you hear that? That silence? It’s the sound of defeat. The fight is already over.” He scratched his beard thoughtfully. “I’ll give you a sporting chance. If you can land one hit, I’ll let you have it. Go on – in the name of sportsmanship.”

Sam swayed unsteadily. Pain ran jaggedly down his right leg where Richard had kicked it moments before. In front of him, the other man hopped about like his veins were crackling with electricity instead of blood. He couldn’t stay still for more than a second.

His head throbbing, Sam wracked his brain for a way out of this. What in this room or the next could save him? Then he had it. The knife. The one that Richard had sunk into the arm of the chair earlier. It was still there, and Sam was standing right next to the chair. Could he move fast enough? Sam doubted it, but if he could get in just one good hit, it might buy him the time he needed to snatch the blade up.

Still swaying, Sam attempted to focus his mind, push every angry thought he could muster down the length of his arm to gather in a ball in his fist. He gritted his teeth, then swung his fist up with as much furious energy as he could.

Richard was too fast. He blocked the punch easily, and landed a hard smack to Sam’s left temple. The old man went down again. He coughed, tasted carpet and blood. As he heard Richard pace toward him, though, he realised through the daze of pain and exhaustion that he’d landed right by the armchair. Rallying his strength once more, he flailed a hand upward, gripped the blade’s handle, and wrenched it free from the chair.

It wasn’t a moment too soon. Rolling over onto his back, Sam raised the knife just as Richard threw himself at the old man. Sam slashed the blade in an arc in front of him, and Richard only just managed to dodge its bite. The knife still caught his arm, though, and Richard snorted, recoiling from the contact.

Head clearing slightly in the wake of this small victory, Sam wobbled to his feet and clutched the blade before him. Richard ignored his bleeding arm and stared Sam down like a mad dog, not sure how to react now that the odds had changed.

“Richard,” Sam panted. “Stop this. Whatever it is that’s got you, you can free yourself from it. You’re stronger than it.”

Blood trickled down Richard’s forearm and dripped onto the living room carpet. “Richard’s dead,” he told the other man coolly. “He died in that sad little house of his, and it’s a good thing. He was a waste of space, a snivelling lowlife who spent his entire life in the shadows of others, too afraid to take credit for anything.”

“You’re a good man,” Sam persisted, his shoulders sagging with fatigue. He could barely keep the knife pointed at Richard. “A smart man. You can come back from this.” His voice was desperate now. “You have to fight.”

“RICHARD’S GONE!” the other man bellowed, and he bowled into Sam. Together they hurtled through an open doorway into the kitchen where they collided with the kitchen table. Richard pummelled Sam in the stomach with his fists, and the old man grunted, slashing out with the knife. It sunk into Richard’s abdomen and Richard yowled. Sam shoved the man away from him and got behind the table.

“Please, Richard,” Sam pleaded, the hand gripping the knife now slick with the other man’s blood. Richard shot him a deadly stare, then leapt up onto the table. He kicked Sam in the jaw, and the old man crashed against the sideboard, knocking the toaster and kettle onto the floor. Richard jumped on top of him, forcing Sam down onto the linoleum, gripping the old man’s throat with his dirty fingers. He squeezed.

“How much fun do you think they’re having with her right now?” he teased, pushing his face so close to Sam’s that his stale breath violated his nostrils. “The black witch. After I’ve dealt with you, I think I’ll go and get some of that for myself. I’ll bet she squeals.”

Sam battered feebly at the vice-like grip at his throat, but Richard was too strong. The clamp of his rough fingers crushed his windpipe and he couldn’t breathe. The blood pumped deafeningly in his temples and everything started to go fuzzy.

“Nnnn,” Sam gurgled. Richard batted the old man’s flapping arms away as if he were swatting at a bad smell.

“I’ll bet she’s as feisty elsewhere as she was with her fists,” Richard drooled, revelling in his power over the nuisance pensioner.

Sam’s hands beat against the linoleum floor, questing for the knife, which he’d dropped in the scuffle. Then his fingers grazed something – the metallic kettle. As he felt himself starting to lose consciousness, he gripped the handle and swung the kettle at Richard’s head. It made a dull clunk, and Richard rolled heavily off him. Sam wheezed in a welcome breath, spluttering as his lungs filled with air.

Richard sprawled on the floor in a daze, blood splattered across his face.

The kettle trembled in Sam’s fingers as he heaved himself up, and the other man looked at him with scared eyes.

“Sam,” Richard choked. “Sam…”

The old man’s heart leapt. It sounded just like the Richard he knew. His friend. He softened, went to move toward the fallen man. In an instant, Richard’s features contorted and he bared his teeth in a snarl. He lashed out with his bloodied hands, clawing the air in desperation, clutching for the old man.

Sam brought the kettle down on his skull. It made an upsetting squelch. Driven by blind hatred now, he lifted it and brought it smashing down again. And again. And again, venting his anger at the thing that had destroyed his friend until it wasn’t moving anymore.

Finally, shattered, the old man dropped the kettle and collapsed onto the kitchen floor.

With Richard’s lifeless body pooling blood across the white linoleum, Sam slipped into unconsciousness.

He wasn’t sure how long he was out for, but when he came to it was dark. Richard’s dead eyes stared accusingly through the gloom at him and Sam turned away. He struggled to his feet, sucking the air in sharply as pain spiked at his ribs. He limped to the kitchen sink, took a dirty mug from the side and filled it with water, gulping down three cups before his mouth stopped tasting like blood and sandpaper. Then he opened the cupboard by the sink and retrieved a first aid kit.

For half an hour he cleaned and bandaged himself, put a plaster over the cut above his right eye. He’d done this before, but that didn’t lessen the sting of the antiseptic wipes. One thing drove him: Liberty. They had her. Where they’d taken her he couldn’t guess. Liberty had sensed Malika’s presence at the museum, but why would they return there? Malika had already obtained what she needed from that place. Richard’s home was a tip. He only had one option. The church from the Ecto message. St. John’s Baptist Church. Even if Liberty wasn’t there, somebody at the church might know where she had been taken.

With this vague plan filling him with purpose, Sam shakily retrieved his fedora from the living room floor where it had fallen during the fight. In the hall, he plucked his coat from the stand and gingerly pulled it on. Then he grabbed his keys and went out into the cold.

Twenty minutes later he was driving down a quiet country lane with his headlights off. He was a few miles outside the city, out in the darkening countryside. The only lights brimmed from the stars and the warm orange glow of the city at the bottom of the hill.

Sam parked behind a large hedge and got out into the snow. He’d have to walk the final mile to the church if he didn’t want to be seen. Pulling his collar up, he seized his rifle from the back seat and hunched into the wind.

*

Liberty came to with a start. A smell of damp and mould hit her solidly. The cloying reek curled up into her nostrils and she gagged, tying to put her hand to her face. Except she couldn’t. Her hands were chained. Confused, she tugged at her restraints, but they held fast.

“Sam?” she called. Her voice echoed up into what must be a high ceiling, getting lost above her head.

Where was she?

It was too dark to see anything, and deathly quiet. Only her own short, nervous breaths came to her ears. She attempted to calm herself. Centre her mind. Where was she? She could feel dirt beneath her. She was crouched in it on her knees. Liberty tried to focus, but the blackness was so thick, so absolute that it choked her, and she stared wildly into the nothingness that pressed suffocatingly around her.

She tried to remember how she’d arrived here, but there was nothing. She had a vague recollection of a woman and lots of shouting. The insistent pounding in her head hinted that she’d come to blows with somebody, but other than that…

A faint shuffling sounded nearby, and Liberty turned her head in its direction.

“Hello?” she called. Her voice disappeared up into the invisible ceiling once more.

There came a high-pitched chuckle, and Liberty stiffened.

“Malika?” she ventured uneasily, attempting to blink away the dark.

“You know my name,” a soft voice whispered. It was so close that Liberty felt the warm breath caress her neck. Every hair on her body stood on end and Liberty cringed away, attempted to wrestle free from the chains. It was useless.

“What fun we’re going to have!” called Malika, her jubilant voice now further away. It glanced off hidden surfaces and battered Liberty from all sides.

“You’re the final piece!” the voice rang. “Always two, there have to be two.”

Liberty shrank into herself, attempted to block out the witch’s goading words. She evened out her breathing and reached out with her mind, striving to sense where she was.

There was something wrong. She couldn’t sense anything at all.

It was as if some dark magic had shackled her mind, just like the chains that fettered her wrists. Liberty suddenly felt very cold and very alone. This had never happened before. There were people who referred to her abilities as a sixth sense, and Liberty had used them often as just that – another set of eyes and ears, another way of deciphering the world. Now even that had been denied her.

“Don’t worry,” Malika’s voice called merrily. “It’s not long now. Not long at all. Soon it’ll be time to play. Aren’t you excited?”

Liberty didn’t answer. She closed her eyes against the darkness and waited.

*

It was quiet as the grave. Sam crouched behind a low stone wall and hazarded a swift glance over the top. There was the church. The bell tower spire jabbed up at the wintry sky, as if attempting to spear the heavy clouds that had rolled in, and the trees that lined the gravel path wore their snow-white coats with conviction.

Sam frowned. There was something about this place that was nagging at him. Had been ever since he’d read the note from the Ecto. What was it? Then it struck him like a slap to the cheek. Of course! St. John’s Baptist Church. It was the very same building that Nicholas had sleepwalked to in the middle of the night a week ago. The old man shivered. If ever he’d needed a demonstration of Nicholas’s latent abilities, that was the one to beat.