14.9

‘Shit,’ Preacher Kelly bellowed as he realised how much blood was pouring out of the wound in Simon Cross’ arm.

It was beginning to fill the white painted floor of the dozer cab.

Cross was still, his eyes rolled back into his head. It was like the psycho face he did but without any life to it. Preacher Kelly was saddened and terrified by it.

Cross was pale, his skin waxy. Blood spattered his face.

Preacher Kelly scanned around the dozer cab, frantic.

In spite of the rifle strap he’d wrapped around the limb – and his belt which he’d sinched up tight enough to make the skin below the makeshift tourniquet go a weird bloodless maroon colour – the blood was still pouring from the wound.

‘Gotta seal it shut,’ he muttered to himself.

He took a look out of the top of the dozer and saw that they were still surrounded by a sea of fire.

‘Of course,’ he muttered to himself.

‘Stop the dozer,’ he bellowed.

‘But the cattle are still on our six, Preacher Kelly,’ Jake, the dozer’s driver, said.

‘I know that. But we need to cauterise the Reverend’s wound or he isn’t going to make it back to Serenity.’

The dozer juddered to a halt.

‘Man the guns,’ Preacher Kelly ordered.

‘But we won’t be able to drive away.’

‘Just fucking do it.’

Jake’s face grew stern at the curse. He knew that Preacher Kelly was a pious man who would never use such language and this shocked him into realising how desperate the situation was.

‘OK.’

He leapt up to the machine gun mount and aimed it at the advancing horde.

Preacher Kelly lifted Cross’ still form out onto the top of the dozer.

‘Please, God, don’t take him from me,’ Preacher Kelly said, tears filling his eyes at the thought of losing his beloved saviour.

The Reverend was a dead weight in his arms, but he knew God would give him the necessary strength to carry him as far as needed.

The gun began to spit fire and death, shocking him out of his panicked thoughts.

He didn’t glance at the horde.

Needed all his strength and focus to save the Reverend.

The fire was maybe ten yards away.

Already his legs and lungs blazed with the effort. His biceps were cramping from holding the Reverend.

The fire drew closer at a glacial pace.

‘Come on, Preacher Kelly,’ he muttered to himself, furious at his physical inadequacies.

The fire eventually appeared.

He could hear his own frantic breathing, even over the screams, gunshots and explosions.

He laid Cross down as gently as his battered body could manage and spun him so his injured limb was closest to the fire.

He saw a piece of iron bar in the fire. It was glowing white hot right in the heart of the flames.

God is showing me the way, he thought with a smile.

And he felt relief flood through his body. He knew that they were going to survive this, in spite of the odds stacked against them now. God was on their side in all of this.

Preacher Kelly used a shattered section of fence post to drag the bar out of the fire.

He tore off his jacket and used it as a makeshift fireguard.

He inhaled deeply, psyching himself up for this.

Cross stirred slightly, murmuring gently.

‘Worry not, Reverend, I will save you like you saved me all those years ago,’ Preacher Kelly smiled kindly.

He exhaled, closed his eyes and inhaled again. He didn’t have time to waste.

He used his jacket to pick up the glowing metal bar.

The heat instantly began to sear his fingers, in spite of the jacket. He did his best to blot out the pain, muttering bible verses to himself to help him focus.

He laid the bar down next to Cross’ arm.

‘Forgive me for this, Reverend, but it is our only hope.’

He grasped the Reverend’s arm firmly and shoved it hard into the metal bar.

Cross’ eyes shot open and he began to attempt to sit up. A bloodcurdling scream tore from his throat.

His eyes rolled around and landed on Preacher Kelly, who was sitting on his chest, pinning him so he could sear the wound closed.

The panic and agony seemed to fade away as though carried on the sickening cloud that stunk of burnt flesh. His head lolled back on his neck again.

Preacher Kelly lifted the limb again, saw a few places where the blood seemed to be still coming out.

Again he thrust it onto the metal.

Again he was sickened by the smell of burning flesh and hair.

He gave the whole wound another go with the makeshift cauteriser then got to his feet, hoisting Cross again.

Finally, he had time and energy to focus on the other problem; the horde of cattle making their way towards the dozer.

In his utter focus on sealing Cross’ wound shut, he hadn’t noticed that the gunshots had stopped.

The horde was surrounding the dozer now. Jake had been dragged from the gun mounting on the top and was now being devoured.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Crimson rivers ran down dozens of chins.

‘Shit,’ Preacher Kelly muttered.

Without the high calibre machine gun the horde would easily overwhelm them.

He had a rifle on him, but nowhere near enough bullets to deal with the numbers.

He would be significantly slower with Cross over his shoulder than he would be on his own.

Shame flooded his entire being when the thought of leaving Cross here and running off flickered across his mind.

Though it was only for a split second, he shook his head in disgust.

‘There’s no way I’m leaving you here,’ he muttered and began to shuffle away.

His eyes frantically scoured the horizon.

He wondered if he could loop round and come back to the dozer, but there seemed to be even more of the horde surging from behind them.

No, his best play was to try to maintain the meagre headstart he had on them.

*

He heard more explosions far off in the distance.

He figured that they would be his comrades from Serenity.

Heading to Serenity alone was not an option; it was miles from here and he was carrying a dead weight.

He headed towards the explosions, hoping they were from friend rather than foe.

He had one grenade on him and he would save this for later.

*

Fortune smiled upon Preacher Kelly as he continued his journey.

He’d walked for what felt like hours – in reality it was only minutes – past fires and corpses and the mangled wreckage of what had once been the Freelands.

He saw what looked like a metal storage container.

It looked as welcoming as Serenity’s golden church.

The flames reflected eerily off the gun metal grey walls.

‘Thank you, Lord,’ he muttered, momentarily tipping his head up to the heavens which were obscured by billowing columns of smoke.

The closest of the horde were maybe twenty feet behind him, but his headstart was slowly slipping away.

He prayed that he would make it before they got to him.

‘If you have to take one of us, then take me, Lord,’ he muttered. ‘Please spare Reverend Cross.’

Pure will was spurring him on, that and love for the man who had saved his life and his soul.

The final part of the journey was over quicker than he’d anticipated.

He quickly laid Cross down. And began to pull at the door of the metal container.

His heart sank when the door would not budge.

He wasted valuable minutes pulling at the door in increasing desperation.

He glanced over his shoulder every few seconds to see the horde was almost upon him. He could see the hunger and bloodlust in their eyes now.

They would rip him to shreds with their bare hands, he had no doubt of that.

Suddenly he felt the weight of the grenade against his chest.

A grin crossed his face for a fraction of a second and he pulled it free. The pin came out and he hurled it.

It landed right at the feet of the closest members of the horde. Their hunger and rage was so extreme that they didn’t seem to care about their imminent death.

He threw himself over Reverend Cross as he felt the surge of heat hit him, singeing the hairs off his arms.

The hearing on his left side was reduced to a maddening ringing.

He looked up and saw that the first half-dozen of the horde had been blasted across the wall of the container in a dripping cloud.

The rest of the horde were bloodied and dazed, but continued their inexorable march towards him and Cross.

He fired his gun dry, killing a few of the cattle, but only putting a dent in their numbers. There were still hundreds of them.

He cursed.

Repeated his earlier prayer to spare Cross if it was a choice between them.

His eyes fell upon the door and he couldn’t believe how stupid he had been; there was a huge lever sticking out of the side that he’d missed last time in his terror.

He grabbed it. It was stiff as hell, but he knew his life and the Reverend’s depended on his opening it.

‘Dear Lord, give me strength in my hour of need,’ he bellowed, loud enough for God himself to hear.

The handle shifted with a metallic squeal almost as loud as his desperate prayer had been.

The door opened, only about a foot and a half, but it was enough to throw the Reverend through and hastily follow himself.

The muscles in his back and arms screamed as he dragged the heavy door shut.

He had it closed, but then he saw fingers grabbing the edge of the door.

He pulled his bladed crucifix from his side and began stabbing at the fingers.

One of the fingers sheared clean off, spraying blood upon his face, leading it a new level of desperation.

The hand became hands.

The hands became arms.

With grim desperation he began to hack and slash at the forest of limbs.

For every one he repelled, another four seemed to take its place.

If they get this door open we’re both dead, he thought.