Paul Kane
Broken Arrow
CHAPTER ONE
' Nothing's forgotten.
Nothing's ever forgotten.'
It was a blood moon. A hunter's moon.
And she was most definitely being hunted. As she ran down the road, almost slipping on the icy surface, she looked over her shoulder. She couldn't see her pursuer, but she knew he was there — and he was close.
The light from above gave the snow-covered streets a crimson tinge. She pushed on, dodging the rusted carcasses of vehicles that hadn't been used in an age. Not since before the world went to Hell — and you could actually believe you were there tonight. Once this road would have been jam-packed with motorists making their way through the city. Now it was simply full of memories and ghosts.
It was a different place, and it wasn't safe anymore to be out at this time of night. She knew that, yet she'd ventured out anyway. Clutching the bag containing a half dozen cans she'd managed to scavenge from various shop storerooms, she was beginning to wonder if it had been worthwhile. After this amount of time most of it had already been picked over by the starving survivors of the virus. There weren't that many, granted, but they'd been living on their wits and whatever they could find for a long while.
Folk had raided houses first, homes on the outskirts — rather than head into the towns and cities; because gangs of thugs had banded together there, hoarding the lion's share of food and other items. Only those stealthy enough to creep in and out could get away with it.
Or at least that had been the case before…
Word had reached people far and wide that the gangs were no longer in control. That they were being driven out. Whether it was true or not, nobody could confirm, but when people are hungry enough they'll believe anything. She'd believed it. And she'd risked her life because of it.
Now she was paying the price.
She ran as fast as she could, skidding as she turned a corner, legs everywhere. Looking up, she saw it: a dark shape on top of a hill, the edges defined by that glowing red sphere above. A castle; the very heart of the city. For a moment she considered making for it, but she knew she'd find no refuge there. Whoever was following just out of sight would surely follow her there, too. Then she'd be trapped.
She shook her head. There was no-one living there, no lights, not a sign of life at all. No, her best bet was to try and lose her persuer in the narrow streets.
She heard the footfalls behind — boots crunching the snow. She had to keep moving, didn't have long before they caught up with her. Pulling the bag in close to her chest, like a mother cradling her baby, she ran into the labyrinth: a warren made up of houses that seemed to be leaning in to watch her progress. It shouldn't be too hard to get lost in here, to hide until the hunters had passed by.
Another quick glance over her shoulder told her it would be harder than she thought. Now she saw him, and the fact that he was revealing himself meant the hunt was almost at an end.
The man was wearing a hooded robe, which prevented her from getting a good look at his face. She caught something glinting, something the man was raising up.
A knife, twenty inches or more long. She'd seen their like before in old horror movies back when she was in her teens, usually wielded by masked killers. One slice could cleave someone in half.
If he had been alone, she might have reasoned that this was just some nut, using the apocalypse as an excuse to live out his fantasies. But there were more where he came from. Many more.
They emerged from the shadows, all hooded, all wielding those deadly weapons. She froze, realising that her situation was so much worse than she'd imagined. The lead figure came closer, reaching a hand up to pull down his hood.
She let out a gasp when she saw his face — or what there was of it.
Perhaps this place wasn't only populated by ghosts, but by the living dead as well? The skull was white — or at least would have been were it not for the moon's influence. The eyes were sunken and black, merely sockets from which this thing stared out. In the middle of the forehead was a symbol she couldn't quite discern, etched into the bone.
When she finally found she could move again, what she'd witnessed gave her feet wings. Head down, she sprinted faster than ever: up one street, down another. The ground beneath her was still treacherous, but somehow that didn't matter anymore. She lost her footing a couple of times, but ignored it, desperately trying to get away from the nightmare she knew was behind her.
Rounding a final corner she let out gasp. It was a dead end. The houses seemed to lean in closer, as if to ask: 'Well, what are you going to do now, then?'
She had no answer. Looking quickly to the left and the right she thought about trying a few doors, bobbing inside the buildings that were mocking her. But she'd be just as trapped inside as she would have been back at the castle.
Instead, she headed back up the street in the hopes she might find a way out before the dead men arrived. She'd taken only a few steps before her exit was cut off.
A figure appeared at the mouth of the street, seemingly materialising out of nowhere. Then, seconds later, others joined him. She counted ten at least. The leader, slightly taller than the rest began to walk towards her. She backed off, knowing that she didn't have much street left before she hit a wall, but in no rush to meet her fate.
'P-Please… Please just leave me alone…'
He took no notice —
'
The dead man at the front paused, contemplating this question. Then he answered in a hollow voice: 'Sacrifice.'
They didn't want her physically, as so many had before. Didn't want to paw and molest her — why would dead men want that? They wanted her to join them; to become one of them. To give up her life so that she could exist forever walking these streets, preying on the warm blooded. Maybe living forever wouldn't be so bad?
But what if, when they killed her, she stayed dead? Or, even worse, went to a place that made this look like Heaven — as impossible as that might seem? She looked again, searching for a way out, a way
Then she saw another hooded figure on the rooftops. The bastards were up there as well! She was well and truly finished. The hunt was over. Bowing her head, she sobbed, accepting the inevitable.
One of the walking dead fell. At first she thought he might have slipped on the wintry ground. Blinking tears from her eyes, though, she spotted something sticking out of his shoulder. Something long and thin and feathered.
She traced the shot back to the figure above her. Even as she looked up, he was falling, legs bent to take the strain of the landing. The shape rose, standing between her and the dead men… except she knew now they weren't dead at all, not if an arrow from this man's bow could fell them. This man who wore a hood just like her enemies.
With his free hand he waved her back. Then he plucked another arrow from the quiver on his back. He'd
