Edge: Killer's Breed

He moved forward at a faster pace now, the view blotted out by the rain, but the position of the oak had been impressed into his retina. His feet felt like lead as he dragged them through the mud and he staggered from side to side as his head swayed drunkenly on his stooped shoulders. He cannoned into the fence several yards wide of the gate but was reluctant to waver from his chosen course. He hauled his protesting body up on to the fence and then pitched forward into the sea of mud on the other side. His breathing was ragged from his demented haste and at first he could not haul himself to his feet. He crawled on all fours for several yards, until he arrived in the inadequate shelter of the leafless branches of the tree. He used the rough bark of the oak and the additional leverage of the Winchester to drag himself upright and then, still relying upon the support of the tree, moved around to the far side.

The mound of Jamie's grave had grass on it now, neatly trimmed and with a cleanly cut edging. The crudely formed cross with the boy's name and the date of his death upon it was at the head of the mound, weathered but still legible. New, in the center of the mound was a tin pot, rusted but serviceable, empty of flowers when Edge first saw it. But then a pair of delicate finely-boned hands reached out and tenderly placed a posy of blood-red roses into the pot.

Edge forced his head up off his chest, his hooded eyes taking in the stooping figure of somebody in a yellow waterproof to the left of the grave. He cracked his mouth to say something but all that emerged was a pained grunt as every ache in his burning body was drawn into his skull to gather into a single lump which exploded with tremendous force. The world lit up and he saw the terrified face of a beautiful girl. Darkness rushed at him and he fell forward into it.

*****

Grace Hope screamed with all the power in her lungs as she saw what she firmly believed to be an apparition rising from the grave. For the tall man was covered from head to foot in black mud and in his head she could see two gleaming rows of teeth and the wildly staring eyes of a skull. Then, as he fell forward she was certain the ghoul was leaping at her and the scream ripping from her parted lips rose to a crescendo and was abruptly swamped by a new crash of thunder.

After the brilliance of the lightning flash she was temporarily blinded but when the instant had passed she could see the form slumped at her feet and watched, trembling, as the teeming rain pelted upon the man's face and washed it clean from forehead to stubbled jaw. Her mouth was still wide in the attitude of a scream, but now she stepped forward and stooped over the man, reaching out a shaking hand to touch the white cheek, almost luminescent against the surrounding darkness. The flesh was burning and the sound she uttered now was a low-keyed cry of alarm.

"Mother!" she called, remaining in the stoop and looking over her shoulder, through the curtain of falling rain to where the dark form of the house loomed against the grayness of the afternoon.

In the house the woman at the sink continued with her task of preparing the vegetables for the evening meal. She could hear the rain hitting the roof and rushing down the drain pipe into the perpetually overflowing barrel. And she could hear the intermittent crack of thunder as the windows gleamed with blue fire. But no other sounds could pierce this barrage.

"Mother!" Grace called again, louder but once more failing to attract the attention of the woman in the house. She probed with her fingers through the mud on the man's throat and for a moment thought he was dead. She came erect, turned and ran through the mire of the yard towards the house.

"Grace, you'll catch your death," her mother rebuked as she heard the door open. "You didn't even know whoever's buried in that grave. Don't see why you have to tend it so regular, and in all weathers, too."

"There's a man in the yard," Grace blurted out as she caught her breath.

Her mother turned then, and saw the fear inscribed upon her daughter's pretty features. The older woman had been brought up in the wilderness on lonely farmsteads and learned from bitter experience that fast action was often the only way to survive. Thus she strode across the room to where a fully-loaded Spencer rifle was hung over the mantelshelf and was reaching up for the gun before her daughter caught her breath to explain further.

"He's sick, mother. He's out there lying in the mud and burning up with fever."

Margaret Hope stayed her hands for a moment, then continued, lifting the rifle down from its resting place and cocking it as she turned. "No sense in being careless," she said, heading for the door. "My father and yours always told me never to trust a man alone. Just 'cause he's sick don't mean he ain't up to no good. Come on, girl."