The Lost Shepherd

The Lost Shepherd

  A Reacher Companion Story

  L E Fitzpatrick

  The Lost Shepherd

  By L E Fitzpatrick

  Copyright © 2015 L E Fitzpatrick

  Read more about L E Fitzpatrick

  https://www.facebook.com/lefitzpatrickbooks

  The Reacher Series

  The Running Game

  Safe Haven

  Family

  Other Titles by L E Fitzpatrick

  The Dark Waters Series:

  Harvest

  Traitors Day

  Flames and Blood

  1

  September 2024

  They moved on foot, eight in total, tracking through the abandoned city only an hour behind their prey. Mace was in charge. Mace was always in charge. He was the largest, the toughest, the scariest. He’d only been challenged twice for his position as leader, and he carried the teeth of the challengers around his neck. His clan resided on the other side of the city, it was a small gathering of brutes and cutthroats that had seized a foothold on one of the major footpaths of the country. A lot of the travellers roaming the countryside moved in groups, some too large for Mace and his clan to go after, but smaller groups and solitary travellers were easy prey.

  Mace raised his hands. He was missing two fingers; a punishment from his childhood. The pack stopped and sniffed. Two of their scouts positioned themselves ahead, their automatic rifles poised and ready. Mace’s men dominated the area, but there were always rival gangs trying to encroach on his territory. He waited, listening to the light breeze whistling through the abandoned buildings. The air was damp and moist, but at least the rain had stopped.

  Mace dropped to a crouch to inspect an indent in the soil; a footprint made by the old man. They had him now. Mace licked at his chapped, broken lips, exposing a mouth of sharp black teeth. A lifetime in the clan had made him more beast than man. His skin was like leather, his eyes wild and sharp. Some travellers buckled at just the sight of him and they were right to; Mace was far crueller than he looked. Mace dropped his hand and nodded. The pack began to move.

  2

  A rumble of thunder started the crescendo of the impending storm. Thick heat had been swelling on the abandoned city for hours. It would give at any moment. Another rumble, a flicker of lightening, barely visible in the afternoon light. The dull concrete buildings blended into the heavy clouds; a symphony of grey in this urban desert. Then, abruptly, the oppressive desolation of the city was shattered by an aggressive downpour of rain. The percussion was deafening and victorious.

  The priest wasted no time in unpacking his umbrella. His boots were water tight and, despite his arthritic knees, he skipped around the water-filled potholes with the confidence of an experienced traveller. He wasn’t troubled by the rain, or the dampness of his clothes. The shower wouldn't last long and once it was over the clouds would likely clear, exposing another oppressively hot September sun. He could have stopped and taken refuge in one of the empty buildings, but if he stopped every time the weather turned it would be Christmas by the time he reached London.

  He was eager to leave the abandoned city too. It was the third he had passed through since he'd set off on his journey and there were hundreds of them throughout the country. The relics of suburban England, with their average sized homes and convenient high streets, were all that remained of a buckled civilisation. There were lots of reasons towns failed; economy, disease, conflict, but the relics all looked the same in the end. The absence of life seemed to drain the colour from the buildings, like an old photograph faded from exposure. Sometimes, to the priest, they felt like Godless places and walking through them played on his conscience and troubles.

  When he reached the edge of the city the rain started to break. The road widened and for the briefest moment a glimmer of sunlight shone on the surrounding countryside. The break between the urban and the rural always seemed abrupt to the priest. It felt like stepping directly from one room to another, rather than the slow transition that used to happen before the world fell apart.

  He was more comfortable on the open road, despite the abundant dangers of travelling without cover or protection. There was something about being out in nature that made him feel closer to God and being with God now was essential. His pilgrimage had been long overdue. For over a year he had lost the faith he had in himself and his cause. He felt he had misinterpreted the messages he had once been so certain of and now he searched for some guidance to lead him back to the path from which he had strayed.

  He walked five miles from the town until he found a place to camp for the night. Walking in the rain was fine but walking in the dark was a step too far even for the old priest. He unpacked his backpack, putting up a crude tarp shelter, unrolling his sleeping bag and gathering the matches and paper he needed to start his fire. In a couple of experienced minutes his camp was set up and the sun was starting its descent. He sat on his sleeping bag and put a can of stew on the fire to cook.

  It was a peaceful evening. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a car and the sound brought a smile to his face. The country often looked like all life had disappeared but this so called End of Days had continued to roll on. There was still civilisation, still a future, it had just relocated south. And there were still clusters of communities further north that continued to thrive or at the very worst struggle on. Most of all there was still hope in even the darkest places of Britain. The priest had witnessed it, in the past he had thought himself a bringer of hope. Now he traced his way back through the old paths he used to take, trying to find some of that hope for himself again.

  When dusk finally settled the priest followed suit. He rested by the fire, waiting for his dinner to cook through. The urge to move had come to him a few months ago, when he was more a drunk than a man of the cloth and he had given in, hitting the road for a chance to clear his mind and his bloodstream. The journey had led him back through a landscape of memories. He had reacquainted himself with old friends of his church and precious refugees that passed through his old hands. But nothing quite distilled the unsettled feeling that was burdening him. He had made a mistake and the shame of it was weighing heavier and heavier. He looked around at the barren wasteland and then up at the indigo sky.

  “All these miles and all the old faces from the past, it’s cleared my mind you know, but it changes nothing. I’m not the man I was. Just older, bigger blisters on my feet, and as lost as when I started out.” He smiled at himself and shook his head, imagining the man upstairs making some comment about having faith and mysterious ways. But the priest’s humour failed him, he thought back to two little girls and having to choose between them, knowing one would live and the other would suffer a fate worse than death.

  Angrily he glanced back up at the sky. “She is just a child. One of the ones I pledged my life to protect. And yet I just let her go. It would have been better to kill her. It would have been merciful. She has no hope where she is.” There was nothing but silence.

  3

  Hidden behind a jagged knoll in the landscape two boys watched the glowing light of the fire. Charlie, the eldest, gestured that they should fall back. The day before he had made the decision to stop hunting the travellers going northwards and to try their luck with a solitary target. They tracked him through the town, expecting him to stop in one of the buildings for the night. But the old man had continued on, choosing to camp out in the open where anyone could find him. He was either incredibly dangerous, or incredibly stupid.

  Charlie glanced at the younger boy. John was thirteen, four years younger than Charlie and a good foot shorter. But despite his age, John was the one most skilled in hunting. The younger boy had eyes geared towards prey and an inability to feel fear. J
ohn sat back against the embankment, his mind still calculating the possibilities of the hunt, his senses perpetually alert and on guard.

  "He’s lit a fire," Charlie said. The boys hadn’t been near a fire since the snow melted earlier that year. The light drew trouble and the boys had learnt a long time ago that darkness was their greatest ally.

  John didn't say anything. John didn't talk much at all. Since escaping from the Institute nearly a year ago the younger boy had barely spoken to Charlie. They communicated mostly through body language, but Charlie wanted to encourage some kind of conversation, if only for his own sanity. Unlike John he had spent some of his childhood outside of the Institute and he desperately held onto his humanity in the hope that one day he could pass it onto John.

  “Might be a trap,” Charlie said. He’d seen it before, young women sat all alone trying to draw in an easy kill. An old man was an easy target and he was making a beacon of himself out in the open. The question was whether it was intentional or not. Charlie glanced at John; it wouldn’t matter either way. He was outnumbered.

  4

  Like wild dogs they bounded towards the edge of the city, salivating at the prospect of a fresh kill. The supplies