Jude’s smile threatened to burst his cheeks. His heart fluttered in his chest as the ominous black sheet rippled through the air to the hay-strewn barn floor. He looked to Ansell and back to the motorbikes three or four times before he could compose himself to speak.
“Which one can I ride?”
Ansell shot him a cynical look. Or was it playful? Who knew? The man was so damned hard to read, but he didn’t care. He knew what was coming. He’d been hoping for this since the night they arrived at the cottage. He stared impatiently at the three motorcycles, hoping and praying it would be the bright red one, as it looked just like the type he had watched zip around a track with his dad on TV when he was young.
“I can tell you which one you can’t ride.”
“Don’t say the red one, don’t say the red one, don’t say the red one,” Jude whispered as he spun to stare eagerly at Ansell.
“The red one.”
“Damn it!”
Ansell laughed and stepped closer to the three machines. He took two keys from his coat pocket and threw one to Jude. He swung his leg over the seat of a black and orange motorcycle, with two silver boxes mounted on either side of the tail. Its tyres were fat and mean looking, silver chains wrapped around them like webbing.
“The other one is yours to ride.” Ansell jabbed a finger at the bike on the end. It was similar to Ansell’s, only smaller. The tyres were still fat, boasting deep treads and silver chains. “The chains are to stop us sliding off or getting stuck in the snow. I know the red one is appealing, but you wouldn’t make it out of the yard.”
Jude nodded with a smile. He didn’t care anymore. He was sitting on his new bike, and he couldn’t wait to feel that sensation of flying through the wind again. The feeling of freedom.
For the next half hour, Jude listened intently as Ansell guided him through the switches and buttons, the clutch and how to dip it to change the gears, and theory on how to turn and steer. Of course, talk was one thing and riding it was another, but Jude was just ecstatic to be learning. He repeatedly reminded himself to listen to his mentor and not drift into daydreams of flying through the valley on his new toy. When the lesson ended, Ansell opened a storage box on the opposite side of the barn and produced a full-face helmet. Jude eagerly donned it, lifting the visor to hear Ansell’s further instructions.
“Here’s some gloves.” He tossed over a pair of thick fleece-lined leather gloves, which Jude yanked on impatiently. “Ok. Turn the engine on and knock it into first gear.”
Jude’s heart pounded. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and rested on his brow as he thumbed the key into its home. He turned it and pressed the ignition. A wondrous, deep rumble greeted him. So close. He dipped the clutch and kicked the gear peg down for first. The engine died. He tried one more time, but once again, the engine refused its new master. Jude looked over to his mentor, confused.
“What did I tell you earlier? Bike won’t move when the kickstand is down, hotshot.”
Jude palmed himself in the forehead, cursing the mistake. His helmet rattled his head, dropping the bead of sweat into his eye.
“Ok, I’ve got it this time!” Jude started the ignition and back-heeled the kickstand up. Dipping the clutch, he stomped the gear peg down and was rewarded with a rumbling growl of obedience from his two-wheeled steed. His heart soared as he eagerly eyed Ansell for his next instruction.
“Ever so slightly, let the clutch out and gently twist the throttle. Easy does it.”
Jude followed his orders, delighted as the bike creeped forward, his tiptoes edging along the floor as he moved.
“That’s it. Now turn left out the doors. Remember, the bike will go where your eyes lead it.”
He looked out to the yard and pushed his left hand into the grip, amazed as the bike responded. The engine growled in defiance as he over-revved in excitement, but he quickly adjusted and eased the engine back into a purr.
“Loosen your damn shoulders. You look like the Tin Man!” shouted Ansell over the noise.
Jude instantly became aware that he was stiff, clinging on for dear life. He relaxed, loosened his joints, and breathed deep as he lifted his feet and began to ride long clockwise circles around the yard. His mind only wandered once as he tried to work out who the Tin Man was. He’d have to ask Ansell later.
The next hour flew by. Under Ansell’s guidance, he excelled, completing laps in both directions. Making figure eights, he took tight turns around the wood-chopping block, rising through the gears as he picked up speed. There had been plenty of close calls and wobbles, but thankfully no accidents, and his confidence soared as high as his heart.
“You’re ready,” Ansell said as he slammed his visor down and pulled his bike alongside Jude. His muffled voice continued from inside his helmet, “Stay behind me, don’t rush. Be careful.”
He led off, churning the snow into brown slush as his tires rolled him across the yard and down the dirt path. Jude followed tentatively, his tongue lolling to the side and his eyes focused on the back of Ansell’s helmet. He crept on and on along the path, cursing himself every time he realised he was squeezing the life out of the grips, then reminding himself to relax.
Ansell swooped his bike left with ease, dropping off the path into long grass and pushing through a snow-covered meadow towards the hills. They rode for what felt like minutes, but the sun had moved and afternoon turned to dusk. They cleared meadows until, in the distance, a jagged train track severed the blankets of snow.
Jude allowed Ansell to creep further ahead. He watched him draw in on the tracks, hanging back in a low gear. If he left enough space, he could fly through it and catch up.
As his mentor drifted his bike in a swooping right around the base of a hill, Jude punched the throttle and opened his bike up. The snow flurried about the tyres, silver chains biting into mud and slush, throwing it across the meadow as the engine roared into life. His speed crept ever higher as he glided towards Ansell, the vibrations rattling up his arms and throughout his body. He cheered inside his helmet louder than he had ever cheered in his life.
His cheers subsided as he became aware of the ground before him disappearing. He drew closer to the base of the hill with every second. Sweat stung his eyes. His heart escaped his chest and occupied his mouth as he grabbed the front brake too tightly and forgot to dip the clutch. The back wheel snaked and slid as the bike roared and dropped to slide in the slush. It cannoned into a tree and launched Jude over the handlebars. He screamed. With a wince, he hit the ground. He felt around, touched his legs and his ribs. No pain. He looked around and thanked the weather, as he was lying in a snowdrift.
“Fool.” Ansell’s firm hand dragged him to his feet.
Jude lifted his visor and took a deep breath of the cold air. “Sorry, overexcited.”
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“Overconfident,” snapped Ansell in return. “Lesson one, know your level. Overconfidence leads to arrogance. Arrogance gets you killed.”
“I’m sorry.” Jude’s helmet dropped. His stomach turned as he realised he’d let Ansell down already. He felt Ansell’s gloved hand grip his helmet at the chin and wrench it up. Their eyes met.
“Don’t be sorry. Be better,” he said as he dusted snow off Jude’s shoulders, then stepped away to pull the bike back to its wheels. “You got lucky this time,” he said with a raised eyebrow, “but the bike didn’t. The chain’s come off. I’ll have to stay here and fix it. You go to the tracks and collect rail stakes. It’s getting dark. We don’t have long.” He unstrapped a crowbar from the frame of his bike and thrust it at Jude.
He spent the next hour wrenching rail stakes free from the old tracks. His back ached in protest. He’d started near the crash, looking up now and then to see how Ansell was getting on with his chain. He decided he was glad to be collecting the stakes and not waiting while he fixed it. He could only imagine how irritable he would be, stooped down in the snow, fiddling and fixing.
After a while, the tracks led him around a copse of trees. With Ansell gone from his eyeline, the track turned eerie. It was overgrown and gnarly, full of rusted rails. The carcass of a dog lay lumped atop a pile of bricks. He continued on, bending, wrenching, pulling, and collecting. His hands were numb through his gloves, and his legs could barely carry him. Each stake was heavier than the last. He checked the sky. The sun dropped slow and steady, like a drowsy eyelid.
A rustle from the trees disturbed him. He dropped his bag, stretched, and studied the shadows. Hearing a crunch behind him, he spun on his heel, expecting Ansell. No, nothing, no one. A stray dog perhaps, he thought as he hefted the crowbar and started towards the next stake.
“Drop it,” the ragged voice of a woman said from behind him. He felt a jab in his lower back.
Two men stepped from the treeline. Their faces were black with dirt, sullen and sunken, accentuated by rotten teeth and scabbed skin. Dressed for the cold in layers of rags, as they were just skin and bone underneath. The scraggly hair atop their heads was matted and rank. One held a knife, the jagged blade pitted with rust.
Jude tossed the crowbar to the gravel and raised his hands in front of him. “I don’t have food,” he said as the men drew closer.
“You are food,” the knifeman replied, with a lick of his lips. “Take your clothes off.”
“Wait,” he said as he stepped forward and turned. The woman was frightened. Her hand shook violently, and to Jude’s surprise, she held a pointed stick and not a knife. She scuttled to the men, and they spread in a semicircle in front of him. They advanced slowly, eyes hungry.
“We’ll eat you alive or dead. Up to you,” the woman said.
Jude glanced at the tree line. If he bolted, he could make it. They wouldn’t catch him. They’d have no chance, and Ansell was out through the other side with the bikes.
Suddenly, his feet were yanked from under him, and he crashed to the tracks. A second woman fought to keep hold of his legs, screaming and wailing and snapping her teeth. They all set upon him. Both women were on his legs now, one each, dragging and wrestling as he kicked and struggled. The knifeman lurched at him. He rolled, pulling the women with him. They weighed nothing. The knife clanged the gravel. He kicked one leg free and cannoned his foot through a woman’s jaw. Scrabbling back, he booted the second woman at the bridge of the nose, and she shrieked in a burst of blood.
He rose to his feet, the two men stepping off him. They circled, staring at him, hunger in their eyes.
“Give up. I’m stronger. Leave me and live on,” Jude pleaded.
“There is no live on. We eat now or we die,” said the knifeman.
“We’ve not seen another human in weeks,” followed the other.
The knifeman leapt at Jude. He sidestepped the blade and buckled the man’s knee with a firm kick. He hammered a left hook into his temple, and he clattered to the track. The second man backed away, hands raised in front of him. He stumbled into the two women, groggy in the gravel, and he knelt at their bodies.
“Okay, boss…you win. We’re starving, that’s all. We’ll leave…please?” he said as he helped them up to their knees.
His eyes locked to Jude’s. He seemed genuine. Jude understood; he’d once been starving himself. Early in The Panic, he roamed the city, lost and alone, with nothing and no one.
Wind billowed past his face. A dark shape took the corner of his eye. He flinched as the man's face exploded, Ansell’s hatchet buried in between his eyes. He touched his face and looked at his fingers, covered in blood.
Ansell barged past him, shotgun out, face calm and focused. Without hesitation, he executed the two women where they knelt. The shotgun blasts scattered the crows, and it echoed about the woods for what felt like a lifetime.
“Finish him,” he said, jabbing the butt of the gun at the knife man.
“What the fuck, Ansell?” Jude replied, frantically wiping blood from his face.
“Was I not clear? Kill him. Now.”
“They aren’t Crocheads. They’ve no scales. What happened to not killing people? They were about to leave!”
“I thought you might have changed, but you're the same damn boy who nearly threw his life away to save a woman with nothing to live for.”
Jude clenched his fists and swung at Ansell, who stepped to meet him and pushed him in the chest. Jude staggered back.
“You think they’d leave? Just walk off into the sunset? Wake up. They’d regroup and follow our tracks home. Then they’d gut us in our sleep and eat us for supper.”
Jude felt the anger in his belly fizzle out. He dropped his head and shook it.
“You asked me to train you. That’s what this is. I watched the whole thing. You fought well, used the kick to the knee I showed you. You managed being outnumbered with competence. But now you hesitate where it matters most. No mercy. A Crochead won’t give in, not until they’re dead. They chase the holy grail, and no amount of pain or suffering deters them. Only death.”
Jude nodded. “You’re right. I just…”
“No. There is no just. Eliminate the threat, or we’re done.”
The knifeman groaned. He reached for the cold metal of the track and clasped it, crawling towards the setting sun. Jude hefted the crowbar from the gravel and stood over him. His hands trembled. He closed his eyes and breathed deep. He imagined it was Captain Brunner there before him, then he beat the man to death.
The walk back to the bikes was silent and uncomfortable. He tried to enjoy the ride back, but he didn’t. Ansell was right, he saw that now. But it didn’t make the merciless slaughter any easier. Somewhere on the ride home, he decided he’d saved the knifeman’s life. He’d only have starved to death sooner or later. Jude ended his suffering. In a way, it was just the same as saving a Crochead from addiction.
They pulled in at the barn just after sundown. Jess woofed and jumped up, happy to see him. Ansell threw her a cannibal arm, and she devoured it in the snow.
“Sorry, Ansell.”
Ansell grunted and waved him away.
“How do you cope?” asked Jude.
“I just do.”
“I feel guilty. I’m plagued with what-ifs, you know, like what if they had kids somewhere?”
“Then they’d have taken your corpse back to them, and they’d feed on you and grow up into more flesh hungry monsters, wouldn’t they.”
“I guess so. Do you enjoy it? The killing? Because I get that it’s necessary, but it’s still horrible. That’s what I think anyway.”
“Are you concerned you’re being tutored by a psychopath? Are you asking me if I’m sick in the head?”
Jude paused, eyes locked with Ansell’s. “Yes.”
Ansell laughed and then spat. He sniffed and rubbed his eyes, then said, “Damned if I know. I’d wager most would say I was sick. Deranged. Psychotic. That’s the nature of murder. Most can’t comprehend it – that a sane person could do it. Do I get pleasure in their deaths? Yes. I lust for their blood. I get frustrated, tetchy, if it’s been too long. But I only kill those who deserve to die. So in my own eyes, no, I'm not sick and I'm not a monster.”
“Clear as mud,” muttered Jude.