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Chapter One

MacDonnel Ranges
Sierra Blanca
Nueva Esperanza
Second Church Protectorate

It was the chant that let him live...

“One go*d**n step in front of the other. Two more miles to go. Three of the b*****ds left. Four of them to die.” 

...a cadence which focussed his mind down to nothing more than his breath and feet.


The fog had closed in now; the compass in his hand gave him but general guidance. You were completely mad or very experienced to risk a descent in this weather and Juan Escola was both.

Six broken and bloody bodies lay behind him, lost now in the wildness of the mountains. They would be stripped bare by the wind and carrion beasts. What would kill him inside, if he let it, was that of the six, three were his wife and two children. He had left them there, covered by a hasty cairn and with words of vengeance spoken over their rough graves. The other three were shown no such care and with each death, Juan became more violent, piteous in the extreme.

Inside he shook with rage, yet externally he was cold, single-minded. There was no time to forgive, he held the mental picture of the torture they had inflicted close to him. When they were all dead, mouldering in an unmarked grave, tossed idly to one side or burning in the fires of his retribution, then he could mourn. Until then …

“One g**damn …”

*

Sparse shrubbery came into view as the early morning sun burned the fog away. It clung tenaciously, but was losing. Juan was jogging; the land was more even and would soon open out into the steep fields of the local shepherds. They were still high on the mountain, but in this land nothing was wasted. Juan himself had rented his mountain retreat from a local farmer and had worked hard to make it liveable. His mountain hideaway, the city and all its cruel baseness left behind for clean air and invigorating scenery.

Nothing had changed. Juan had spent his childhood here, his family originally came from one of the villages perched precariously on the side of the next valley. It had been a tough life, but good. Not good enough for Juan though, and he had ignored his Grandmother and headed for the city and his fortune. If only he had listened.

That though was unfair, he thought, he would never have met Marta, nor enjoyed the pleasure of parenthood. He spat, the action clearing his mouth of his unexpected weakness. A noise ahead stopped him in his tracks and he listened. There. Again. The fall of loose rock.

Juan ran on silent feet, the handle of his long hunting knife grasped tightly. The blade itself was held flush against his forearm, sharpened edge outwards. He saw the man, who stumbled, something was wrong with his right ankle. A grunt of pain followed as his prey’s weight fell full on his injured limb. Juan smiled; a cold, bleak thing. Soon he would take the pain away, soon.

*

“Hello.”

The man looked up at the gaunt and blood-spattered thing before him. Fear pierced through his agony and he reached one hand up, a futile supplication.

“There, there,” Juan crooned, as his arm flashed forward, the arc of the blade slashing across flesh and sinew.

“You really should have kept running.”

The back swing of the knife buried its point into the man’s right eye as Juan leaned in.

“Your last mistake.”

One stab, two and then another. A flurry of sharp blows which bled his victim dry. All the while, Juan admonished him, a tight smile on his lips. At last it was over and the savaged body lay still. Without a backward glance, he sped away. Three more awaited him.

Thanks Rat

This has finally progressed after a while in the doldrums. It meant a rewrite of the later stages which I am not yet finished, and a slap round the head to get the story back on plot

Hopefully I am now back on track. It would be nice to get this published at last

Cheers

Rayo

Chapter Three

MacDonnel Ranges
Sierra Blanca
Nueva Esperanza
Second Church Protectorate


Juan was oblivious to the events unfolding in the city below. Truth be told, he would have cared little anyway. His Father-in-Law and he had never seen eye-to-eye, but they had reached an understanding. It had been a painful exercise, but in the end Juan had made them see reason.

Now though, he had other things on his mind. His pursuit was taking longer than he had expected and they were rapidly reaching the wooded slopes of the true valley. He could not let them reach the main road and escape. This needed to be finished here. The city was another story.

Something slammed into his shoulder and he instinctively rolled with the blow, twisting on the ground so that he faced his attacker on his knees, one hand firmly planted for support. A man faced him, holding a fallen branch in two hands, which he now raised on high, ready to strike. Juan was unsure of this, their weapons had been discarded in their haste to escape him, yet the lack of a blade was disconcerting.

The crack of a broken twig sounded loud to his adrenalin-enhanced senses and he moved quickly. They had sought to ambush him. Trick him in their eagerness to end this.

He launched himself forward, striking upwards. The knife sliced through cloth and inner thigh, then stomach as he span. Behind him was another of them, weapon held in front as he arrowed towards Juan. At the last moment he moved, turning and helping the other’s momentum. There was a meaty thud as his two assailants became entangled and Juan wasted no time. His foot snapped down against a knee joint as he pulled backwards on the man’s shoulder. There was a startled cry, quickly cut off.

Escola stood, the last of the murderers beneath him. He was bleeding out, the wound in his thigh having nicked an artery. The second slash had opened his stomach, a nasty wound.

Shock rather than fear held the man quiet, although that would soon change. He was dead, thought Juan, although his brain was still not aware of the fact. It would be slow and in that Juan was content.

He never once looked back. Rather he set off for the village he could now see clearly below him. A bath and a change of clothes were necessary before he completed this journey.
*
Truly this valley is timeless, thought Juan, the black-clad women reminding him of his own early years. The widows holding on to their men long dead and caring for their young offspring. Dirty children played blithely in the mud in the main street. Scrawny dogs squabbled and barked at passers-by who stumbled from the dark interior of the local bar.

There was only one main cobbled street, the rest of the stone houses sprawled in an untidy fashion over the hillside;some in a state of semi-collapse, others functional and used by the local farmers. Juan walked on. His family still owned a property here, although his Grandmother was no more. It was locked up and forgotten by all but his distant relatives who still lived in the area. He came here rarely, only to ensure that all functioned against the day he really needed it. Never had he imagined that today would be that day.

It was easy to avoid the more populated area and he climbed a weed-choked path to the rear door of the small house. Juan half-expected to see his Grandmother sat on the small porch, her chair rocking back and forth as she plucked feathers from a recently-killed bird. No-one was there though and he fished the key from behind the loose stone where it always was.

The door opened and he breathed in deeply. There was a particular smell to these old houses, welcoming and constant. He needed that balance today. A quick glance showed that nothing had been touched and he climbed the steep stairs to the upper rooms. They had been small, dark and foreboding places. Juan himself had carried out the modifications; running modern light and heat from solar panels on the roof had been scoffed at and then ignored.

Two rooms had been knocked into one and with a flick of a switch, history transformed into reality. A light wood panelled the walls and the floor, and as Juan wound back the blinds sunlight cascaded in. It was a self-contained flat, hidden within the confines of typical village austerity. Modern furniture sat comfortably within its minimalist environment. The sofa bed underscored the deceptive nature of the decorations. A plain wooden desk, computer terminal and filing cabinet was the only item which clashed. Juan entered the small bathroom and began to recover some of his non-descript humanity.

Refreshed and clothed, beer in hand he stared at the computer for a moment and then reached up for the handle set in the low ceiling. A well-oiled trapdoor and metal stairs unfolded, allowing him access to the roof space. Here too he had added his own touch, one he had thought only of as a milksop to a past life. Today, though, that life had been resurrected.

Inside the tight space were the tools of his trade; guns, pistols, knives and other strange weapons were racked neatly. His eye strayed to the large photograph set reverentially against the far well. Incongruous, it showed the laughing family group and had been placed there as if it were a totem of goodness to combat the inherent evil held within this room. With deliberate motion, he covered it with a pillowcase he had carried with him and the old Juan Escola looked lovingly upon familiar friends.

He chose a thin, black lightweight body armour which fit easily over his clothes. A bag was quickly filled with ammunition and essential items and a combat harness outfitted with a set of throwing knives, garrotte and metal-studded whip. His hunting knife was settled into its sheath and then he threw his memory cloth cloak over his shoulders. He was ready.

There was no extended leave-taking, no regret now for what he had lost. That would come some day. For now he had a job to do, a grave oath given. One thing was on his mind only, vengeance.

*

Old leaves, spider webs, dead insects and other detritus covered the tarpaulin. With a quick flick of one corner, Juan removed the heavy sheet, revealing the machine underneath. It had the look of a relic, a motorbike from another time, yet as in all things concerning Juan, its looks were deceptive. He carried out a series of familiar checks and replaced tired components. Nothing major was required, He had always maintained his equipment, subconsciously expecting to need it one day. It too was black, its dull surface designed to reflect nothing and withstand heavy treatment.

When he had resealed the door to the garage and was mounted astride the black monster, he glanced back one, a wistful expression on his face. This too was fleeting as his mouth set into hard lines and he depressed the starter button.

Few saw him leave and those that did shuddered at the sight of the cloaked figure who raced quickly out of the village. One old lady’s hand formed a sign of protection as he roared past. She remembered, but wished she could forget.

*

The rumble of a heavy motor broke through the clean air, exhaust fumes billowing out from the twin pipes at the rear of the vehicle. McBrides men had wasted no time in following their Master’s orders and were happy to leave the city. Excitement ran high, as a group they revelled in their work and the fear they engendered. No-one believed that it was any more than a joy-ride. Stigs was known for his ferocity and ability for tying up loose ends. All they hoped was that he had left them something to do and if not, they would satiate their own vindictiveness at the expense of a few chosen villagers.

None of them were aware of the rider until he was upon them. His machine skidding to a stop and blocking their way. With a smile, the driver gunned his engine, his intent obvious.

His grin disappeared as he saw the black-clad rider reach behind him and pull a stub-nosed rifle from its holder. There were three reports in quick succession, the first round falling short and spraying stone chips and dirt into the air. Wrenching the wheel to one side, the panicked driver tried to make himself as difficult a target as possible. To no avail.

The second explosive round impacted onto the front windshield, smashing glass and buckling metal. Wildly sawing to one side, the heavy jeep slowed, and the third round struck. It passed through the shattered glass and entered the cabin. With a muffled thump it destroyed the interior, blood and limbs spraying outwards. Now, wheeling painfully on, the jeep bumped gently against the nearby rock wall. Clouds of black smoke, interspersed by flickering flames, billowed from the wreck. Not one of McBride’s men stumbled forth from their funeral pyre and Juan placed the grenade launcher back into its place on the side of his machine, before he started his engine and rode slowly downhill, towards the waiting city.
 

Chapter Five

Caledonia City
Sierra Blanca
Nueva Esperanza
Second Church Protectorate


Their assumptions were drastically flawed. Juan was at that moment parking his bike on the outskirts of the city. He did not know for sure who had ordered the hit, but it would not be difficult to find out. The evidence was all around him; burnt out cars, broken windows, cooling bodies. No, the trail was still warm and he had already decided what would be his first action.

No good would come of visiting Ortega’s villa, but it was the quickest source of information. A flick of his wrist flung the hood over his face, where the memory active cloth clung to his skin as it moulded to his form. Now he did indeed look like Death incarnate, scythe excepted. The cloak was of a strange weave, purchased for an exorbitant amount of money from an arms dealer. It was experimental military tech, acting as both secondary protection and stealth suit. His outline shimmered, becoming one more shadow amongst many as he glided forward.

Face he had none, the moulded cloth created a pool of blackness, adding to the terror of his appearance. Those who could, would only see a vague spectral form, inhuman in the extreme. Then they would remember the stories and fear would follow.

Within the underworld of crime there had once been a being, whose passage left wailing and the gnashing of teeth. A dark demon who killed mercilessly, whose victims often took their own lives rather than face him. That had been a long time ago, and now all that remained were legends. A soul-drinker, whose name was never spoken lest it draw him near. Supernatural phenomena were credited to him, although none lived who could give force to the rumours. Juan knew. It was all true.

Silently he slipped through the shadows, his route circuitous as he came closer to his objective. Once he startled a group of men, taking their pleasure with a mother and daughter. Here he stopped, repaid a little of their pain and moved on. Behind him, clutching their torn clothing around them, the women shook in fear. He was back and they at least had been spared. They sat a long time amongst the pooling blood before they found the courage to leave. It began as a whisper and would soon become a roar, El Angel de la Muerte had returned.
*
The faint twittering of roosting birds was the only natural sound to break the silence. Raised voices and laughter occasionally shattered the still air, but Juan remained in the shadows. He could see men grouped around a large fire at the entrance to the villa. Every so often they smashed a looted piece of furniture and banked the flames higher. Idiots, he thought, their night vision would be minimal. That though was to his advantage. At last he left his concealment and sprinted to the base of the wall encircling the property. There were no patrols, and why would there be? These men believed themselves invulnerable.

He found the small gate, still covered by overgrown shrubbery and removed a key from the pouch at his waist. The lock was well-oiled and the hinges quiet. Juan slipped through the opening and checked that he had not been seen. With a click he secured the door, leaving it unlocked in case of emergency. Next he uncoiled his whip and drew a knife. This would not be done quietly from now on. Maximum impact and overwhelming horror were his aim.

His steps were sure, floating lightly as they touched the earth. When he was within range of the first of the cavorting men he spoke.

“Muerte.”

It was said flatly, yet every word cleaved through the fog of excess. They heard him, of that there was no doubt. Even as they glanced fearfully into the darkness, all their senses questing for the source of the un-named terror he struck.

Crack! The whip lashed out, encircling the throat of one of the men. Its final length was fitted with tiny, yet razor sharp blades which dug into loose flesh and held.

“Muerte.”

A deft tug dragged his victim towards him, as the blades sawed through flesh. Blood fountained forth, no artery could resist such pressure. The man was spun by the force of the whip’s retrieval, delivering a frothy spray across the faces of his nearest companions. Open-mouthed they watched, still drunk on their day’s excess. Another fell, a small blade buried in one eye as the whip flicked serpent-like from the darkness. It was a slaughter. A cool butchery of malleable flesh. Juan was an artist who played his deadly tune with skill.

Screams of pain sawed outwards, but there was no respite. None except for one, who hid behind the corpse of a fallen comrade. Terrified he heard the swish of the grass, the rasping breath of nightmare and he looked deep into the blackened cowl.

“MUERTE!”

Welcoming unconsciousness smothered him, as his brain sought relief. His last sight was of the black hand which reached for him and the gobbets of flesh which clung to the uncoiled weapon in the thing’s hand.

*

The slap of a hand stung the man awake. Then he felt himself dragged forward and dropped again. He opened one eye and saw the flames burning close-by. A noise behind startled him and he scurried backwards.

“Ah. You are awake.”

He froze in terror. It came from the shadows and as he stared the funereal figure glided forwards.

“We need to talk.” It hissed the words, each syllable drawn out.

“I have a family. A wife and children.” he cried unbidden tears, in a tremulous voice.

“So did I.”

“W-who are you?”

“Muerte.”

The thug mewled pitifully as the studded cord was wound round his neck, he dared not look at its owner. He knew the stories.

“Who sent you?”

“W-what do you mean?”

An impatient snarl was his only reply. Quickly he tried to remedy his mistake as he was pulled across the ground to the base of a tall tree.

“McBride. I’m one of McBride’s men. He …”

“Thank you.”

There was terrible agony as the slack was taken up on the cord. His legs rose from the floor under great protest. Downward pressure forced his tongue to protrude from between his lips, before one savage heave released him.

The body span as the whip unfurled. Like a festive fire cracker it issued forth its streamers, twirling darkly and hissing where the liquid touched the flames. Juan disappeared into the shadows, the orphaned length trailing behind him.

Chapter Seven

Caledonia City
Sierra Blanca
Nueva Esperanza
Second Church Protectorate


The room was full, yet there was a strange pool of silence around the man in the corner. Hat pulled low over his eyes, coat loosely buttoned, he sipped quietly from the flagon in front of him. This was his chair, his table and none dared to challenge him in his lair.

As establishments went, the Prancing Lion was neither the best, nor the worst. It was fondly held in the heart of Javi Venta, so its safety was guaranteed. Javi was a fixture in the tavern, he often held his vicious court in the shadowed corner and tonight he waited for a guest. A deadening of the uproar announced the man’s arrival, his flowing purple robes and slick bodyguards shouted his identity.

“Cardinal.”

“Señor Venta. Always a pleasure.”

Javi motioned the Churchman to a seat, the guards turning to face out over the crowd.

“I presume you called me for a reason?”

“Of course.”

Cardinal Mendoza hated this man and his lack of respect. He bit back an angry retort, they needed him.

“What of our plans?”

“Well under way. Ortega is no more and McBride is running scared.”

Surprise tinged the Cardinal’s voice, this was not exactly as planned.

“Surprise? McBride?”

“Yes. He fears that he has unwittingly opened Pandora’s Box.”

The disdainful words left Venta’s mouth, before he could stop them and he saw the glee on the Cardinal’s face. Here was one who would have to be taught his rightful place in the scheme of things. That though could wait for later. Without waiting for the clergyman to speak, he continued.

“Yes. The team sent to take care of Ortega’s daughter and her family was lost.”

“Lost?”

“Well, okay, not strictly lost, rather made to disappear. Although it wasn’t hard to find them. Don’t know if we found all the bits though.”

Colour drained from Mendoza’s jowls, this certainly did not sound good.

“How?”

“Well. It seems that they left one alive. The husband.”
“The mountain man?”

“No. I couldn’t believe it either. It is though, the truth.”

A waitress brought the Cardinal his wine and he waited until she was out of earshot before speaking.

“Is he someone to worry about?”

“No. He’s long gone by now. Although, I do intend to personally drive up there tomorrow. You just can’t get the help you know.”

Mendoza’s indulgent smile grated on Venta’s nerves. These arrogant and pompous priests thought they were divinity themselves. Like McBride, they underestimated him. The thug at least showed some respect, the fat Cardinal though, that was another matter. He watched him slurp his wine, the ruby liquid spilling down his chin. A sleeve was drawn across the full lips, before the obnoxious display continued.

“And the other matter?”

God, he hated these people.

“Under control.”

“We can’t let McBride upset our plans.”

Your plans, thought Javi, but you need me to carry them out. He took a delicate sip of his ale and made the Cardinal wait. The man’s poorly disguised anger was delicious. At last he relented.

“When I get back from the mountain.”

“Does McBride suspect?”

Javi’s laugh startled Mendoza, its evil cruelty made him wonder whether they had chosen the correct vessel for their saintly work.

“None of them suspect.”

“Good. Let’s keep it that way. Now, what‘s the food like in this place. Hard work always makes me hungry.”

Chapter Nine

Caledonia City
Sierra Blanca
Nueva Esperanza
Second Church Protectorate


Juan yawned and stretched. It had been a busy night. After saving the girl he had continued on to McBride’s headquarters and found himself somewhere nearby, from which he could study the comings and goings of the thug’s men. He had seen McBride leave early that morning and return, quickly entering the building. His evening escapade seemed to have stirred up a hornet’s nest, as many of the hung-over men could now be found patrolling the streets and alleys surrounding the three-storey building.

Escola was in no rush, he wanted the terror to build. It was a familiar friend and was one of his few advantages. The bike was well-hidden and had served its purpose. If they found it, there would be little effect on his plans and if not, he had one more means of escape. Juan laughed; escape was not of paramount importance to him now. He wanted vengeance. His real priority was survival until he could stare straight into McBride’s eye, just before he ended his life.

A flurry of activity outside the main entrance drew his attention, but it was only a group of guards, relieving their companions from their watch. These few looked even worse for wear than the others and Juan sneered at their inadequacy. Rather than waste any more time, he laid out his weapons, cleaning them would at least keep him occupied. He would be ready for the sun’s setting, when El Angel would walk again.

*

Bird-calls regaled Javi as he climbed the mountain. This place was timeless, the previous day’s violence touching it little. He had found the remains of Stig and his men and now stood looking down on the pitiful cairn. There was no need to look beneath its hastily constructed facade, he could smell the burgeoning putrefaction from where he stood. McBride’s men had been careless and had paid dearly.

From the burnt out wreck of the jeep, which had now been pushed off the road, to this stark remembrance he had followed the trail of violence. Something though peeked him. This mountain man had disembowelled and dissected his foes and then had obliterated the men in the jeep with modern weaponry. No cache of weapons were near and it would have been impossible to carry it down the steep mountain slopes. This meant that Escola had stopped in one of the villages to re-supply which spoke of preparation. It also indicated that they were dealing with a different animal. The professionalism demonstrated was all too familiar to Venta. He needed to find Escola’s stash, where he expected to also find evidence of the mountain man’s real identity.

For the first time in a long time, he felt the thrill of an adversary worthy of his talents. He was sure that Escola had never left. It was more than likely that he was even now in the city. With a spring in his step, he started down from the mountain. A little detour and then he would begin his own hunt. All he had to do was stay close to McBride and Juan Escola would be his.

*

Day faded slowly into night, whilst Juan watched. Blackness folded around him, converting the armoured man into nightmare. A pool of impenetrable shadow grew beneath his cowl, giving creed to his grim appearance. He waited a moment longer, then made his way down the stairs, stopping briefly by the doorway before melting into nothingness.

Tonight his objective was terror, pure and simple. Each death worse than the last, until nothing remained, but bowel-clenching fear. El Angel fed on pain, on suffering both physical and mental. When nothing remained but despair, he would take McBride’s life, and not before.

The first man to die went unnoticed. Humorous words hung in the air long after he had gone. His companion still talked to him, whilst in the shadows his life choked away. Only when there was no responding laughter or disgusted curse was he missed. By then though, it was too late.

Selective slaughter; here a death, there a dismemberment. It did not take long for Juan to remember how it must go. He never killed in pairs, leaving one man isolated and alone. Tomorrow in the daylight they would talk of their unseen stalker, for now they could do nothing more than shiver and pray. Please God, let me live. Take him, not me.

It was mechanical. This murderous spree was done without rancour. He cared not for their families, nor their loved ones. They were nothing but dumb flesh, clay with which he had to work. His ghastly sculpture would be revealed in the morning light and tomorrow night would be worse.

When dawn’s faint light touched the streets, Juan was safely ensconced in his hideaway. It was from there that he heard the screams begin, which rose in volume as the searchers found the gifts he had left. The comforting cries ringing in his ears, he fell into a dreamless and carefree sleep.

*

Javi had used his infamous skills of persuasion in each of the three villages he had visited. It was not until the last that he had found what he was looking for. He stood in the well-lit room and marvelled at the hidden treasures. The roof-space had proved the most interesting, giving him an insight into his quarry’s mind. This man was truly worthy. Empty rack spaces indicated that Escola was more than prepared for what he had to do. What had he taken?

It was as he was leaving that he was careless. Venta broke the beam set for just such a visit and three silver shapes spat into the air. As they revolved, small arms flicked out and a colourless vapour issued forth. He recognised them and ran. Just before they hit the floor, light briefly sparked. The effect was instantaneous as the flammable gas ignited, filling the space Javi had only recently vacated. Secondary explosions rocked the building as ammunition burned off.

“Shit!”

Javi cursed at his own stupidity. That had been close. He watched the boiling cloud roll upwards and swore again. Any chance he might have had of learning more about his opponent was gone. Quick, sure strokes of his hands brushed the dirt and debris from his clothing and he grinned. This had just got interesting.

A persistent bleeping noise woke Juan. They had found his weapons cache. He grunted in dismissal, turned over and was quickly back asleep.

good to see you back and posting Rayo! 

What the rat said.