Fic: House of Cards: State of Grace 3/6
Fear and panic in the air,
I want to be free,
From desolation and despair.
And I feel like everything I sow,
Has been swept away.
Well, I refuse to let you go.
~~HoC~~
Litchfield, Maine
August 20th, 1996
He felt the late sun slowly cool to dusk against his skin and listened to the leaves crunching under his feet, as his brother chattered on about Math and the book they'd been reading in Lit class and Katy Brewster who sat beside him in Biology and how he hoped they'd be assigned as lab partners ‘cause even Dean would like her, he'd think she was hot...
The teen trailed off into silence, the steady sound of his footsteps stilling and Dean looked up, meeting his brother's gaze as Sam chewed at one corner of his lip. The shadow of a branch fell across his face, five long, twisted fingers slicing it diagonally left temple to the right corner of his mouth and Dean pushed aside a shiver as he remembered a cowled figure crouching over the kid, years ago, grey skin and bone stretched tight around his jaw.
"What is it, Sammy?"
There was nothing in his voice, none of the chill that had been making itself at home along his spine for the last two days. It didn't matter. He knew Sam had felt it too, the kids chatter and cheer just a little too forced, too bright. Brittle.
"Dean..."
He trailed off again, watched the wariness that never truly left his brother's stance sweep constantly around them, gauging, assessing everything. Dean gave a kind of half-shrug at him as Sam struggled to put into words the fear rippling through his guts.
"Is it... are we..."
"Its fine, Sammy. Come on, let's get home before it gets dark, huh?"
Sam scoffed, almost willing to believe the lie, the truth burned into his world five Christmas' ago never quite letting him anymore. He hadn't felt completely safe since, had never been so glad for the insistence on twin bed rooms that used to annoy him so much.
But he fell into step alongside his brother again, letting himself get lost for a while in the sprays of copper and gold around his feet as he kicked through last years autumn.
Dean grinned as Sam marched beside him, booting leaves almost as high as his head, revelling in the simplicity of his brother's pleasure in the colour and sound. It faded as the shiver in his spine woke up again, twisting up and down, spreading long fingers out into his guts and making his stomach churn.
He knew the feeling, not well, just enough to recognise it.
Prey.
Something was hunting them.
He sighed in relief as he saw the now-familiar, sagging roof come into view through the trees. The house was old, battered by years and storms, left to crumble into the forest alone. It was large enough to distract his brother from the dangers - both supernatural and official - of their staying here, keeping his spare time filled with exploring the rooms that seemed to be squashed impossibly into the building. Doors that didn't go anywhere, rooms he couldn't find a way into, corridors that twisted back on themselves in a maze that nearly had Dean sending him out with a ball of string or a pocket full of breadcrumbs.
The roof sagged, more than a few tiles missing, windows mostly smashed or bordered up with rotting chipboard, but he'd known as soon as he'd found the tiny square marked on the old town map, that it was perfect. That he could keep them safe here, tucked away from the town and the prying eyes of concerned teachers and parents.
Now he wondered if the isolation was such a good thing after all.
Beside him, sensing his hesitation somehow, no matter how much he tried to keep it suppressed, Sam slowed. Dean took a long, slow breath, the early autumn chill settling into him as he plastered a confident smirk on his face.
"C'mon runt," he ordered and gave his brother a gentle shove in the shoulder to get him moving. Sam stumbled a little, turned to glare at Dean and felt his jaw drop, his eyes opening painfully wide as a pale figure rose up behind his brother, piercing blue-grey eyes locked onto his as a hand drew back, knotted into a tight, rock-hard fist. The buckle on the end of the leather strap dangling from the wrist of the leather jacket caught the light, sent it flashing into Sam's eyes, making him blink.
He almost missed his brother's instinctive movement as Dean saw his eyes widen and threw himself forward, crashing into the younger boy and sending them both flying. Sam landed on his back in the leaves, his brother sprawling over him, the weight of Dean's body forcing the air of him as he heard something snarl above them.
It sounded like a tiger he'd once seen in a zoo, enraged by the bars that caged it, the feral sound reaching down into him and dragging atavistic fear through his veins. He couldn't help the terrified whimper that escaped him as he clutched convulsively at his brother's jacket.
"Stay down, Sammy," Dean growled, tugging free and surging to his feet, leaving Sam behind on the ground to watch him turn the motion into a punch that rocked the biker back a step. The teen shivered; the blow should have laid the stranger out in one go, instead he just shook his head, cocked an eyebrow and grinned. Sam heard Dean mutter a surprised curse and scrunched himself as small as he could as the older boy took a few steps back to stand guard protectively over him.
The biker's eyes snapped back to Sam and he froze, hypnotised by the power in them. He heard more footsteps surround them, listened in horror to the sound of fists hitting flesh, the grunts and gasps of pain but couldn't tear his gaze away from the cold ice pinning him down to the wet leaves.
Something crashed down heavily onto his legs, jolting him, breaking the stare and he flinched back, gasping for breath as he scrabbled wildly at the weight, trying to shove it off him. His heart somersaulted as his fingers brushed familiar leather, short hair, and he pawed frantically at the body, rolling Dean over, cradling his brother's bloodied head in his lap as rough hands came down to grab viciously at his shoulders.
"No! Get off me!" he yelled, locking his fingers in his brother's jacket. A cold shadow fell over him, fingers wrapping around his arm again and he squirmed away. He freed one hand to flail at them, his other wiping gently at the tears that splashed onto his brother's face, smearing them through the blood trickling steadily from his brow.
"Dean, wake up!" he cried as he was grabbed yet again, pulled away from the unconscious body, wincing as Dean's head thudded back to the earth, kicking and scratching at the hands that lifted him, carried him so easily.
"Dean!"
The biker grabbed his jaw, too tight, wrenching his head back and Sam squeezed his eyes shut, terrified of that hypnotic serpent's stare. He heard a low chuckle as his head was suddenly released, his mind struggling to understand the sudden flash of humanity in the sound, then his eyes snapped open as a strangled groan cut through the dark.
"Get off him!" he yelled, kicking harder, his heels connecting with the shins of the man holding him as he watched the first stranger lean harder into the boot cutting off his brother's air. Dean batted weakly at his leg and Sam could see his eyes rolling beneath his still-closed lids, knew his brother wasn't fully aware yet.
"Leave him the hell alone!"
"Then be still."
Sam froze instantly, gasping in relief as the biker lifted his foot and Dean rolled away from him, pushing himself up onto one elbow, coughing hoarsely, clutching at his bruised throat. His eyelids fluttered, his unfocussed stare rolling through the trees before coming to rest blearily on Sam. He started to push himself to his feet, arms visibly trembling, swaying on his hands and knees and Sam watched in horror as the first stranger stepped closer and sent a steel-trimmed boot crashing into the side of Dean's ribs.
The sight of his big brother slamming like a broken rag doll into the gnarled roots of an ancient beech tree sent Sam into an uncontrollable frenzy. He yelled incoherently, squirmed and kicked with every muscle he had, every bit of training he'd had in the last four years not enough to overcome the man holding him. His captor slammed a heavy blow into his jaw and his last sight before blacking out was his brother hauled effortlessly from the ground, head lolling loosely onto his chest, snapping back again from the fist that viciously back-handed him and falling bonelessly back to the ground. His vision blurred as he watched Dean rolling twice with the force of the blow, finally lying still in the dead leaves, blood flowing freely down his broken skin to darken them.
Then the world slipped away from his failing hold and he fell helplessly into the dark.
~~HoC~~
Mustang, Nevada
October 25th, 2008
The engine growled, stuttered once, then shivered into silence. Sam sank back in the seat, slouching his tall frame down and leaning into the door, rolling his pounding head until his brow was pressed against the cool glass. He watched the misty rain form droplets on the window, rolling slowly down, tracing the reflection of his cheek before disappearing into the fog each breath made.
He knew he was pale, his eyes red-rimmed, bloodshot, glaring tiredly out at the world from deep hollows, framed with creases, lashes brushing the shadows under them with every weary blink.
The plastic taped to the other window crackled a little, the edges of the breeze that stirred it tickling his skin, sending a shiver coursing through him. He sighed, watched the cloud on the glass spread to cover his reflection and closed his eyes before it could dissipate again.
"Dammit, Dean."
Sam lifted a hand and rubbed at his eyes, fingers and thumb coming together to pinch the bridge of his nose tightly. He ached, a dull, sullen burn that flitted along every nerve and wound through every muscle and bone in his body, born of too much worry, too much fear for too damn long.
Adrenaline had long since faded, the surge of hope that accompanied every ring of his phone drained away as friend after friend, every name in his father's journal returned his increasingly frantic calls with no answers.
He sighed again, breath hitching, almost a sob as his throat tightened. Adrenaline might have been in short supply, but the tears seemed to flow from a bottomless well, prickling the backs of his eyes whenever he stopped moving.
So he moved again, forced himself to shove open the door, the steady rumble of sound from the bar washing over him as he clambered stiffly out. He stood beside the car for a moment, the door pressing against his side. His eyes caught the reflection of the neon sign in the scattered glass that lay in the corner of the parking lot by the low, lime green wall, a thin puddle of water surrounding the crystalline glitter with an oily sheen.
Dean'll be so pissed.
The thought was automatic, comforting for the briefest of moments when he could almost feel his brother's ire at the damage to his baby, could almost hear the barely restrained fury in Dean's voice as he chastised Sam for not getting the smashed window, cracked screen and dented hood repaired immediately. Then the reality came crashing back in on him and he sagged against the door, throat tightening painfully, his chest constricting and his stomach churning under the combined onslaught of his worry, fear and utter exhaustion from the long day of fruitless searching.
He suddenly felt horribly, crushingly alone, as if the entire city around him was empty, populated only by figments of his nightmares. The bar door swung open, releasing the eerie strains of a familiar song into the dark and he nearly cringed back from it, the memory of his brother tunelessly mimicking the wailing guitars with a grin splitting his face in two as mile after mile of desolate countryside blurred past, disorienting him.
Been dazed and confused for so long it's not true...
He shook off the memory as the voice struck a chord with the turmoil that had been twisting through him all day, swiped a hand roughly across his face, smearing away the new tears he hadn't even realised he was shedding.
Sucking in a deep breath, fresh resolve steeling him, Sam straightened, shut the car door and strode across the parking lot to the bar. The haze of smoke stung his eyes as soon as he pushed through the door and he blinked quickly, his gaze sweeping around the room. It was late enough for it to be mostly empty, the Sunday night crowd of die-hard drinkers barely taking up a third of the tables scattered across the worn floor.
Only the bartender looked up at his entrance and Sam crossed quickly to the long, scarred bar, leaning both elbows on it, trying to hide the slight shake in his hands. He was exhausted, running on empty, but he couldn't stop, wouldn't have even if he'd been able.
Not until I've got him back. Not until he's safe.
"What can I get you?"
He mustered up a false smile from somewhere, digging deep in his pocket for his wallet.
"Whatever's on tap."
The bartender nodded, pulling a clean glass from the rack overhead and eyeing the hunter as it slowly filled. Setting it down with a quiet clunk he took the bills and turned back to the till behind the bar.
"You passing through?"
"Sort of. Why?"
Sam didn't miss the edge in the man's voice, something more than just idle curiosity giving the innocuous query a sting of warning that set his nerves on edge.
"Don't seem the type for this place is all."
"Well, I'm looking for someone," Sam replied, voice turning to ice as he saw the older man hesitate, almost flinch. "Would've come in about ten, last night. Drove the '67 Chevy smashed up in the parking lot."
The bartender froze, his hand hovering over Sam's, the change still held in it. Neither man moved for a long moment as the hunter watched his reaction. He stared the barman down, noting the hint of shame in the older man's gaze as he turned away his head and poured the coins into Sam's outstretched palm.
"We get a lot of someone's here, son. Some get found, some don't want to be. Maybe you should just move on."
"I can't."
He said it quietly, a simple statement of fact, but let the steel his brother had etched into his heart over the years fuel the fire in it and the bartender flinched a little.
"I gotta find him."
"Your friend's long gone."
"He's my brother. He wouldn't leave. Someone took him."
Finally, the bartender looked up, met his eyes again.
"I'm sorry," he said, gaze remote and cold again, voice quiet. "I can't help you."
Sam stared at him, slowly absorbing the fear in the older man's eyes. He nodded once, took a long gulp of his untouched beer and pushed away from the bar. He was almost halfway across the room before he felt the tears burning his eyes, one hand reaching out for the door before his breath caught as the bartender called after him, "There was a girl. Your brother was getting pretty friendly with her before... some guys came in. Bikers. Seemed to think they knew your brother but he said he didn't recognise them when they asked him. Her name's Claire Bailey. Lives local."
Sam turned back, fury raging in his veins.
"You won't help me, but you'll..."
The bartender ducked his head, shrugged a little and whispered so quietly Sam barely heard it.
"I didn't see enough to be sure, there must've been a half-dozen of them. Bikers maybe, but there was something... something off about them. Claire was closer. She might have seen more."
Sam didn't move for a moment, sure he would start swinging if he took one step towards the man and not at all sure he would be able to stop himself. But the bartender glanced up at him and the utter terror present in his eyes, the desperate plea for Sam to say what the older man knew he had seen wasn't true, drained the fury and disgust out of him in a single breath.
He turned and stalked out through the door, fists knotted so tightly they shook as he crossed the parking lot. It spread through his arms, until he was shivering uncontrollably by the time he reached the Impala and he stumbled, caught himself against it with one hand, leaning over and choking on the acid surging up his throat. He spat out bile and the single mouthful of beer he'd swallowed, fumbling blindly at the car door and dragging it open, sagged shakily into the seat.
Dragging the back of his sleeve over his mouth he grimaced, leaning over the back of the seat and pawing through the pile of blankets and junk that had accumulated there until he dug out a water bottle. He spun the cap off, sipped at the stale water, rinsing his mouth as he leant back into the seat with a weary sigh, feeling the tremors slowly subside. Sliding down in the seat he scrubbed a hand through his hair, pressing his fingertips into his scalp and tipping his head back.
He sat there, exhausted, feeling the empty space around him grow bigger, colder with every breath he took. The sounds of the city outside were muted, as if they were a hundred miles away and he felt the same crushing loneliness that he had before, weighing down on him until he thought he could hear his bones buckling under it, feel himself crumbling into the ground.
"God," he whispered, part prayer, part curse, part desperate plea as he slid down in the seat, wrapping his arms around himself as he shivered.
His phone rang, buzzing loudly in his pocket, making him start, scrabbling frantically at his jacket.
"Dean?"
His breathless query was met with a beat of silence, a second in which his heart stumbled to a halt, broke into triple time and froze solid again as his mind threw up scene after scene of his brother lying somewhere, broken and bleeding, unable to speak...
"Sam?"
He almost wept at the gruff voice.
"Bobby. Hey, uh..."
"Well, I was calling to find out if the pair of you've got a gig lined up, but what's that brother of yours gone and done now?"
Sam flattened his fingers across his lips, trying to stifle the sobs that fluttered out past them.
"H-he... I can't... I can't find him, Bobby."
"Hell. Where are you, Sam?"
He sighed, suddenly realising his lips had curled into something close to a smile, weak and trembling but there as the crushing loneliness faded beneath the sound of the older man's concern.
"Nevada. We're in Mustang, Nevada."
Not for one minute did he let himself consider the thought that he might be the only Winchester left in Mustang now.
"You two were lookin' for that spirit?"
Sam nodded wearily, trying to remember the hunt they'd only started the day before.
"Yeah. But we just got here."
"Okay," Bobby mumbled into the phone and Sam listened to him moving through the house, imagined him stuffing clothes and weapons into a bag. "I'm headin' out now. Should be there sometime tomorrow night. You just hold on, okay? We'll find him."
"Thanks, Bobby."
"Sam, get some rest, okay? You sound like crap."
With that, the phone went dead and he sighed out a chuckle, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of one hand. He let his head rest against the window for a moment, feeling the cold glass soothe the pounding behind his eyes again, whispering Bobby's words to himself, to the empty space beside him.
"Hold on. I'm coming, Dean. Just hold on."
~~HoC~~
Petersburg, Pennsylvania
21st August, 1996
His fingers tightened around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, the lingering scent of smoke and roasting meat heavy in his mind as the miles fell away behind. For the thousandth time, he forced his hands to relax, pushed the sickness down again, pulling his attention back to the present and the music thundering through the car, the small scattering of brake lights tauntingly close ahead.
He knew that they knew he was on their trail, knew he'd spooked them into flight when he'd killed the fifth revenant two days ago, finding him - it alone in the deserted barn the rest of the Immortals had left just hours earlier. He'd watched them all night, seen them drink and fight among themselves, cold worry worming through his guts every time he thought of the three revenants who'd separated from the rest at the farmhouse, six days ago.
The gang's loose rules worked in his favour, the un-dead creatures often lingering behind the rest singly or in pairs, letting him pick them off safely. He knew he didn't have a chance of taking any more than two revenants at once, the bruises and cuts scattered over his body testament enough to the danger the supernaturally strong and quick creatures posed. But he couldn't shake the feeling of time running out, slipping through his fingers like water, his mind constantly fading back to dwell upon the three revenants who'd split from the group, retracing his path nearly a week ago.
So now he followed them openly, not bothering to try and hide his presence or intent. They knew he was coming, and his blood ran fast and hot with the thrill of the chase, of the knowledge he had them on the run.
He pressed his foot harder on the gas, squinted a little through the fall mists as the lights ahead flared brighter, shifting behind each other as the posse lined up for a turn. He grinned, a feral, nasty snarl, baring his teeth in the mirror, suddenly resolve to finish the hunt tonight shivering a frission of ice down his spine. The last four revenants in front of him swung onto a small road, moments later John flashed past the sign for Red Creek - 2 miles and followed them onto the narrow country road, tyres squealing a little as he took the turn too fast.
The lights ahead brightened again, gleaming balefully through the low fog. He knew they would follow the same pattern they had for the last week, driven by gut-deep instinct to find a deserted house or farm to hole up in. He'd seen it so many times in so many creatures; vampires, werewolves, rawheads and wendigos - anything that lurked in the shadows. They were drawn to people, to the living but forever isolated from what they had once been, left watching greedily from the edges of the dark.
Up ahead he saw an old church and pulled over to the side of the road, killing the engine. The chain around the gates was no obstacle to the revenants. One kicked down the stand on its bike, leaving the engine running as it swung off the saddle and reached out, taking hold of the chain. With a single heave, it snapped the steel links, broad shoulders barely straining beneath its leather jacket. Casting aside the twisted, buckled metal, the dead man gestured its companions through with a mocking bow, straightening and casting a glance back along the road, staring straight at the hunter and grinning jovially, green eyes sparkling with impossible life. John sneered at him, knowing the revenant couldn't possibly see him, and waited in the dark for them to enter the ancient building.
He eyed the structure, keen stare picking out the razor-wire tangled along the boundary wall, the slates missing from the steep roof. The windows began to flicker then glow as the gang lit fires inside, trying to drive away the chill that would never leave them. The shattered glass slowly transformed into a shade of its former glory, saints and angels watching over both the un-dead and the hunter alike with calm, benevolent smiles.
Angels are watching over you...
The sudden whisper in his ear startled him and he almost turned to the empty seat beside, only the instant recognition of his dead wife's murmur stilling the motion. Instead, he blinked away the sudden tears in his eyes, allowed himself one short moment of wishing for what had never been.
No, Mary. There were never angels watching over any of us.
He sighed, the sound trembling and turning to fog in the cold air, swirling around his arm as he scrubbed a hand across his mouth, hesitating to let his lips brush the narrow, simple band on his finger in a brief kiss.
Then he slipped silently from the car, snatching the duffle full of guns and cans of salt and gas that he'd never bothered to put back in the trunk. He turned to the church, trotting carefully, silently around the perimeter wall, eyeing its forbidding height and the razor-wire glittering impartially at him from the top.
He'd almost completed a full circuit of the grounds before he found what he was looking for, a place where the wire sagged free of the pins that held the vicious loops in place. He shrugged out of his long coat, slinging it around his neck as he swarmed up the wall, the crumbling brickwork offering plenty of holds. He tossed the thick canvas coat over the wire, feeling the barbs dig into his skin through it as he swung over the top and resigned himself to the loss of yet another good coat. He dropped to the ground on the other side, landing in a crouch, knees groaning in protest at the pressure, dipping one hand into the duffle to pull out a shotgun in a quick, easy motion.
He held himself still for a moment, watching the church, listening to the low whisper of voices laughing, finally rising and zig-zagging across the grounds, the fog thicker inside the churchyard, shrouding him with its chilly, clammy touch. The stone of the building was cold and rough against his back as he pressed up against it, scraping at the base of his neck as he slipped along it to the vestry door. He reached out a hand, suppressed a shiver at the icy metal of the handle and turned it slowly, swinging the thick, age-blackened wood open a fraction, crouching low and putting an eye to the thin gap.
The small room inside was dark, almost lost in shadows, just the faintest flickering of light darting beneath the door between the vestry and the main hall of the church. The voices were louder, an indistinguishable murmur now, drowning out the low creak that made him freeze as he eased the door further open. His boots rolled silently across the threshold, the ancient sanctity of the building settling over his shoulders like a cloak, as if it welcomed the man come to rid it of the evil desecrating it.
Light flickered across his face as he crept up to the inside door, shifting the shotgun in his hand as he took a slow, steadying breath. Then he slammed his shoulder into the door, the thick wood crashing open and rebounding with a loud bang from the stone wall. He was already through it, running full out, ducked low, the shotgun thundering, hot against his skin, the burn of gunpowder stinging his hands as he fired again and again, working the Mossberg's pump-action furiously.
The revenants, lounging around a large fire in the middle of the nave, barely had time to react, the last of them just managing to find his feet and leap through the flames licking at the corpse of the first of the long-dead men to fall to the hunter's shots. He disappeared behind the glare and John ducked instinctively, threw himself between two of the pews, landing hard with a grunt as the breath was knocked out of him. He lay still for a second, not knowing what sort of weapon the biker could be carrying, the element of surprise that had carried him this far lost now.
Breathless, he grinned a little, honestly surprised that his plan had held together as long as it had. The first revenant he'd hit was out of the equation now, the effects of the blessed iron and the fire enough to destroy it, although he knew it could potentially be raised again. The other two had fallen away from the cleansing fire, and already he could hear soft groans as they stirred, slowly shaking off the effects of the rounds.
"You're good, hunter."
He almost jumped at the low voice, cursing himself for losing sight of the more dangerous threat. The revenant that had dodged his last shot was the huge man who had ripped the chain on the gates apart as if it was paper, the man who'd turned and scanned the night where John waited. Now, he sounded calm, almost amused as he baited the Winchester.
"Glad you think so!" John called back, trusting that the acoustics of the old building would distort the sound of his voice enough to disguise his location as he began to worm his way back along the floor between the pews.
"We're better," came the mocking reply, rich with laughter and John smiled.
"Yeah? Didn't look that way to me when I burnt the last five of you. Better make that six now, I guess."
"A few more notches for your rifle, right? That what they were to you?"
John sneered.
"No. They're just a few more evil sons-of-bitches who aren't going to kill anyone else again."
There was a long pause, broken only by low scuffles and he wished he could risk peering over the backs of the long pews, see if they were the downed revenants moving or the other dead man working his way towards the hunter. The confusing echoes he'd thanked moments before stirred intense irritation in him now as they blurred the sounds together and prevented him from working out exactly where they came from.
"What's your name, hunter?"
He paused, raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
"You want introductions? Now?"
"Only seems polite, seeing as I'll be killing you soon."
"Or the other way round," he snarled back.
"True. William. William Angus."
The hunter hesitated a moment longer, thrown by the veneer of civility in the dead man's friendly voice.
"John Winchester."
"I'd say nice to meet you, John, but given the circumstances..."
John laughed, caught himself and shook his head, squirming a little further back until one boot hit the support at the end of the bench. Slowly, he drew his body into a crouch, shrugging out of his shirt, shivering a little in his t-shirt as he bundled the fabric up and lifted it carefully up over the back of the pew.
It exploded in a burst of plaid scraps and he snatched his hand back down, shaking his stinging fingers a little.
"Neat trick, John. Think it'll be enough against three of us?"
"Oh, I've got plenty more to deal with any of you sons-of-bitches."
He heard a low, dry chuckle and wondered at his eldest son's apparent ability to surface in him at the most inappropriate moments.
"Think you've got enough to save your boys?"
John froze, the sudden malice in the deep voice cutting deep into him.
"What the hell are you taking about?" he forced out through teeth gritted together, jaw clenched tight to keep the sudden, terrified, furious screams silent.
"I know you saw them, John, back in Conneticut."
The three bikes peeling away, down his back trail. His blood ran cold, ice shivering through his veins.
"They found them, your two boys. Dean and little Sammy. Think you can get back in time?"
His vision went away, turned black, his ears deafened by the sudden pounding of his heart as he surged up with a roar, the shotgun bucking in his hand again, the revenant staggering back with a surprised expression on his face as the double-barrelled blast tore a fist-sized hole in his torso.
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