The Messenger

A hole was developing in the bindings on his right foot. The word shoe had been left miles behind in a ripped and tangled trip hazard. This dune should bring him to The End. He’d been saying that for hours now. Or was it days? The sharp grass stabbing the arch of his foot brought him quickly out of the mental drift; concentration needed, watch the footing.

Just before the crest he paused, listened. The irregular crash of waves was louder. No rushing; he’d rushed towards that sound before and still felt the results all over his body. The scarred and stretched skin across his shoulder tightened in response, and he drew the thick ragged coverings he called clothes about him, a shield against this memory.

The pings carried on the salt burned air, dropping over the dune like ball bearings. Two from the north, three from the south. Five was good. If there were none to be heard it meant either this had been finally forgotten – unlikely – or they were being careful. He didn’t like careful. Not in others anyway.

Shrugging off his cloak, he removed the pack. This was not ragged; this was important. Feet would heal, there were always clothes to take, but this…this was all. Taking the pitch-blackened entrenching tool from its loop he dug into the dune, placing the pack in the alcove. Pulling out two small mirrors he paused, back cushioned as he leant against the marram, and slotted the mirrors into grooves on the tool. He remembered doing this when the sun was a concern, reflection the enemy. Not now, as the grey sky roiled and coiled in a bastardisation of nature.

Bringing a pockmarked mirror to his eye, he positioned his periscope over the grass. To the north of the telegram line, about a 5-minute scuttle away, were the two detectorists; to the south two as well. This vexed him; he could definitely hear three. Unknowns were second on his list of dislikes.

North it was.

Stowing his mirrors, covering the pack with his cloak and removing his knife from its sheath, he paused to consider the smell. The brine was there, but he remembered fresh, and the odour and taste of this air was rotten. The End wasn’t habitable for people like him anymore, and the anger grew. Good. Channel the anger: swift, vicious, redemptive.

Back bent to the dune line, he moved. The pain in his foot was there but the adrenaline kick softened the spikes beneath him. The ball bearing beeps grew louder, and he could hear the muttering of the detectorists as they moved just over the dune. He passed them silently, following the dune line as it began to slope to a natural entrance to the beach. He hunched against the end of the dune and tensed, ready as the shuffling, diseased, whisperers approached. He stared at a point just past the natural wall, waiting to see the heads of the detectors that allow him to strike blind.

They swung in to view, two small black discs a hands width from the ground, attached to poles, the angle telling him he should strike first by swinging his entrenching tool at shoulder height, to bury the pick in the eye socket of the nearest, then, using that momentum, stabbing down at stomach height, catching the other in its chest. He hit just above the heart, but the gurgling told him it’d do as the child drowned in its own blood. Twisting the knife to release it, allowing the mercy of a slightly swifter death, and putting his bloody foot on the others head he pulled the tool out. He quickly dismissed the bodies for salvage knowing their shoes wouldn’t fit.

A natural sandbar jutted out midway back up the beach giving some cover. He could see the telegraph line. Exposed, travelling into the water, disappearing out into the odd, broken sea, past the jagged, hulking, rusting wrecks, and, if intel was right, under The End. If he scrambled up the dune and back again he reckoned he could send the message before the other detectorists looped back. Sheathing his knife and using his tool as an axe, he dragged himself up. Scrambling forward he uncovered and shouldered his pack.

Click-clack. A rifle cocked.

He froze, listened. There were still two sets of pings, coming from far down the south of the beach. This detectorist was alone. Turning, hands in the air, his first thought was to put body between pack and rifle. Bullets he could take; bullets to the pack would mean disaster. The detectorist was the height of the one he’d stabbed, face wrapped against the degrading coastal air, removing all humanity. He’d wondered before if this was conscious, or just how they managed.

He stepped forward.

Crack

The bullet crashed into his chest, slamming him back onto his rump. At least it wasn’t on the pack. This was good. The anger flowed and he dug his feet into the sand and closed the gap as the child’s muscles struggled with reload. As the rifle swung up his knife arced across its throat, the strength vanishing from its fingers immediately as the blood gushed. He let go of the knife in the same action as dropping his tool, picking up the rifle and span.

Crack Click-clack Crack

The remaining two slumped over the top of the dune. He straightened, heart pounding, slick with sweat and child’s blood. Reaching under his stained clothes, watching the bodies carefully, he ripped out the makeshift frying pan armour and counted the bullet gouges. One, two, three….oh. He slumped to his knees suddenly very tired. Three times that had saved him. Four was not the charm. Gloves off, he put one hand to his front: blood. He reached to his back with his other hand, pushing under the pack, vision starting to fade. No blood there. He smiled. Good. He could take a bullet. He couldn’t take disaster.