Into a Corner

    Why didn’t Malcolm Quinn chase Colin Shaw?  This question would go through Colin’s mind several time as he ran from the old church, he would never know the reason.
    Malcolm Quinn would ask himself the same question as he lay on the ground, in the back room where he fell.  In truth, he hadn’t even attempted at getting up and running after Colin.  He just looked down at his side, where his own knife had slid into him at some point during the scuffle.  The knife was sticking out of the area around where his stomach would be and Malcolm just lay there, breathing.
    Thinking about it, Malcolm could’ve probably mustered up the strength to ignore the pain and go after Colin, in fact, he knew he could, he had similar acts before, when he was younger.
    But he didn’t do that, instead, he just rested and half-mouthed, half-whispered, “Good for you, Colin.  You really couldn’t stay much longer in a place like this.”
    Malcolm lost his concept of time as he drifted in and out of consciousness, he wasn’t sure how long he stayed there on the floor, he knew that it was longer than he intended, but it was just so comfortable.  Eventually he pushed himself up into a sitting position, his face a mask of grimace as the knife’s position shifted slightly.  He grabbed hold of the turned over table and used it as support to make it back onto his feet.  The pain was too much for him, he picked up his chair and sat on it, holding his side and breathing even more deeply.
    Looking down at his wound, he mentally judged whether he should take it out or leave it in.  His fingers clasped around the handle, took a deep breath and didn’t pull it out.  He was about to but something stopped him, he could hear something.  For the second time tonight, he could hear off in the distance, the sound of the old rusty gate squeak as someone forced it to open.
    The person forcing it open was a man named Jude Barrow.  It was so late at night it had become early in the next morning.  Jude and the six other remaining members of the Penal Company were all tired, they had spent most of the day patrolling the empty streets of Edinburgh in the pouring rain and fatigue ached from deep within their muscles.  Jude trudged through the sodden muddy ground and signalled for his squad to enter the courtyard.  Then they all closed in on the church together, moving in fast efficient strides and keeping their weapons ready.
    “Jude?” one said.  “What are we here for?”
    “Do you remember that old priest we killed?” Jude responded.
    “Yeah, that guy was pretty weird.  What about him?”
    “We didn’t do a good job,” Jude said.
    “He’s in there?”
    “That’s what I’m told,” Jude said.
    “But that’s impossible unless he’s undead or something.  We saw that tank take him out.  Are you sure it’s the same guy?”
    “Well, you’re about to find out,” Jude said and motioned towards the main doors.  “Get in there.”
    “What?  That man killed almost half our squad single-handedly, there are only seven of us left now and you think we stand a chance?  We needed a tank to defeat him last time and he didn’t even die.  Why the hell should we do this?”
    “Because we didn’t finish it, that’s why,” Jude said through clenched teeth.
    “Forget that.  I don’t know about any of you guys, but I’m leaving.”
    “No you’re not,” Jude said.
    “Screw you, Jude.  I don’t follow your orders, we’re not under the boot of the Army here, and I’m going to make a break for it.”
    “Where will you go?” Jude demanded.
    “Who cares?  I’ll just run.  They’re going to just put us back in jail after this.  You might want that but I don’t.  I say let’s leave now, we can have our freedom.”
    “Yeah,” another Penal soldier said.  “Why shouldn’t we just leave?”
    “Because it’s unprofessional,” Jude said.
    “I don’t care about that,” the original complainer said.  “I’m out of here.”
    The mutinous man began to walk back in the direction of the gates, intending to sneak out of the city and disappear forever.
    “Hey, wait!” Jude called out to him.
    The man turned around and said, “Why should I…”  He didn’t get a chance to say anymore because Jude had already removed his sidearm from its holster and pointed it at the man’s head before he had even turned around.
    Jude squeezed the trigger as soon as the man was facing him.  He then casually re-holstered the pistol and addressed what few remaining troops he had left.
    “Does anyone else feel like leaving before the job is complete?” he asked them.
    They all began inspecting their feet and a few lowly grumbled the phrase, “No, Jude.”
    Jude stepped up to the double doors; he noticed that one of the doors was slightly ajar.  He pushed it until it was fully open, said, “Torches on,” to his men and gestured for them to enter.
    The five forced men ran inside the church as Jude held the door open and made sure they all complied.  When they had finished doing as they were told, Jude looked up at the sky, the rain was finally starting to die down and the storm was beginning to end.
    Jude joined his soldiers within the church and they began to search the place, their torch lights skimming over every surface and illuminating every dark corner.
     “Jude?” one of his men said.  “Is there a back way out of this place?”
    “I don’t think so,” Jude said.  “But I don’t think he would use it if there was, he attacked us when there were more than fifty of us, I shouldn’t think he would quake at the sight of six.”
    The small group stuck close together, as they proceeded up the central aisle.  Their directions of sight were constantly changing, examining every square inch of their surroundings, even inspecting the walls for their foe, ready to pounce on them at any moment.
    Suddenly, a noise made them all look straight ahead in unison; a single water droplet from the roof fell down into a large interior puddle right in front of them, which now had six torches focussed on it.  All at once, the men started breathing again.
    As his squad stepped onwards through the deep puddle, Jude noticed the two stone circular staircases on either side him.  They were embedded into the two walls and seemed to lead up to a second floor.  He ordered one of his men up each of the two staircases; they reluctantly agreed and made their way up the steps to search the upper levels.
    Jude took the other three men and lead them further towards the front of the church, his pace quickened and his followers soon compensated.  A few streams of very early light pierced this dark shell of a church through small gaps in the roof, but these minor scraps of radiance were not enough to increase the visibility by any tangible amount.
    The squad of four arrived at the front of the church and still they found no evidence of this dilapidated building being occupied by anyone other than themselves.  Jude stepped up onto the dais from which a vicar had probably once delivered his sermons from and made an effort to point his torch at every shadowy recess.  He reasoned this to be the most likely place to find a man who dresses like a priest.
    Jude managed to locate an old green wooden door without having to search too diligently; it was off to the side and could really be seen from the pews.  
    He walked closer to the door with his rifle firmly directed at it, the disc of light formed on the door’s peeling surface from the attached torch steadily shrunk in diameter as Jude approached nearer.  The leader of the Penal Company, which was more of a Penal Squad by now, motioned for his three underlings to take up positions around the door in preparation for what could be behind it.
    One of the Penal soldiers grabbed the handle, looked at back Jude who nodded and then he opened the door.  Without delay, Jude rushed into the room followed by his squad.  It was a small room with no windows, a couple of chairs and an over turned table.  Jude and his group went about checking every corner, both at lower and upper, with their lights in making sure this room was empty.
    When they were satisfied, his group began to leave the room when Jude spotted something on the floor.  He focussed his torch on it to see that there was a small scrap of cloth by the table and about a foot away from that was a tiny puddle of blood.
    Jude got down on one knee to inspect this blood further, it was a tiny pool that moderately resembled a semi-circle, it had one straight edge as if there had been something in the way when it formed, which created a partial void.
    As he inspected this minor clue, he noticed a very slight blood trail leading from the pool, out the door.  The drops of blood were thin and well spaced out, as if only caused by a slight trickle from a lesser wound.  He directed his men to turn their attention to the ground, all members of the group then began to surreptitiously follow it.
    During the time this main squad was searching the front of the church, the two soldiers Jude had sent up into the higher levels were nervously checking the second floor of the church.  One was patrolling each of the two balconies on either side of the church, each stepping as gently as they could manage throughout their investigation every gap in between all the seats.
    The soldier over on the right balcony was holding his breath as he shone his light down a row of seats, exhaling when he found nothing.  He proceeded to walk down it towards the next row, making sure that each step eased down on the ground so he would make as little noise as possible.  It wasn’t to hide his position from waiting adversaries, he was just afraid of any sound by this point.
    As he stepped onto the space in between two sections of seats, he heard a noise that made his heart leap up about half a centimetre.  The man had stood on a loose floorboard; he looked down at it and began to smile.  Another person who was smiling was the dark figure who had just appeared behind the man.
    This apparition had been hiding behind the row of seats the soldier had just checked.  He used the sound of the floorboard to disguise the slight shuffling noise he made when he crept over the seats.  This large shadowy creature had a knife lodged near his stomach and looked down at it as he crept behind the man, shadowing him as he checked the next row.  Malcolm made a point of stepping over the creaky floorboard and came to a halt less than metre from the soldier.
    Malcolm gritted his teeth, forced his left hand over the man’s mouth from behind, who started to struggle as Malcolm pulled the knife out of himself and shoved it through the man’s back.  The blade forced it’s way in between the ribs and pierced his right lung, at which point the man stopped struggling.
    Malcolm Quinn gently lowered the man he had just silently killed to the ground; he felt a very painful twinge in his side as he did so.  Malcolm straightened himself up and looked down at his stomach, blood was flowing more freely now and he watched it begin to dribble towards the Earth.  He knew that without professional medical treatment, he wouldn’t last very long.
    He contemplated putting the knife back in but decided against it, instead he would just have to make the most of this time.  Malcolm looked over at the other balcony and could see another Penal soldier scanning his area by torchlight.
    What the Penal Company didn’t about this building was that the two balconies were connected by a narrow walkway in between them at the front of the church; it was hidden in the shadows and only present in the mind of the Reverend Malcolm Quinn.
    Round about the time Jude and his squad were discovering the blood trail; Malcolm was secretly crossing this walkway directly above them.  His eyes were firmly fixed on the spot of light, which kept darting over various surfaces in a sweeping motion.
    Malcolm waited for his moment and he found it, the soldier walked over near him and turned his back.  Malcolm prepared to jump out at him but then the man turned round, causing Malcolm to hide once more on the walkway.  The soldier’s light ran over this area, he noticed the walkway and began to draw closer to investigate.
    Jude’s squad had been carefully tracking Malcolm within his own church via the unpreventable trail of blood he left behind.  Jude was looking down at the thin red line while the three other men covered him, the small squad followed the blood all the way to the staircase on the right side of the church, which led up to one of the balconies.
    Jude Barrow gestured that Malcolm was up there, he began leading them up the stairs when something made them all stop in their tracks, it was a noise, a loud noise.  A more suitable word to describe the volume of this sound would’ve been to call it a crash.  The origin of this clamour was right behind the group.
    They didn’t know it at the time, but they would soon, these four soldiers were now all that was left of the 75 strong Penal Company, which had entered Edinburgh at the end of November of the last year.  The four soldiers ran over to where they heard this crash, it had come from the other side of the church.
    A preliminary glance revealed a large section of the pews on the left side of the church to be damaged, Jude and his team quickly rushed over to inspect the wreckage.
    It looked like a small crater, with the damage increasing the further to the centre they looked.  At the centre, and also the cause of the damage, was the shattered and bloody remains of the Penal Trooper Jude had sent up to search the upper left gallery.
    The last four Penal soldiers clustered around the body, sifting through the crushed remains of what used to be pews.  They looked up to the balcony where he had obviously fallen from.
    “But the blood trail led over to the other balcony,” one Penal soldier said.  “How can he be up there?”
    “Shut up,” Jude said.  “I don’t know, but we’re going up.”
    When Jude took his placed one foot onto the first stone step, he heard the call of one of his men.
    “I see something!” he cried.
    Jude spun round and said, “What?  Where?”
    “I saw something move over by the other stairs.”
    The group walked a little closer and then a rapidly moving large shadow bounded across their vision, creating a silhouette against one of the stain glass windows.
    The group all fired their various weapons, shattering the glass of the window but hitting nothing apart from that.
    “Where did he go?” Jude said as they walked back to the central aisle.  “Can anybody see him?”
    The small frightened group stood with all their backs to one another and slowly proceeded forwards up the central aisle, towards the front of the church where they thought the shadow had moved to.  Their feet slowly edged their way through the church until they heard a loud booming voice from the front of the church that snapped their attention into place, all four immediately pointed their weapons in that direction as soon as they heard this frightening call.
    “Slaves of War!” the voice beckoned.
    The soldiers rushed to the origin of this voice at once, they arrived at the front of the church where they pointed their guns at the dark figure who had shouted this.
    They could see Malcolm Quinn standing there, arms out stretched, as if he was delivering a sermon to his congregation while being illuminated by the combined torch light of the four soldiers.  His face was pale and Jude could see his left leg was soaked in blood from seeping wound low down near his stomach.
    “Welcome brothers!” he exclaimed.  “To the house of God!”
    The Penal troopers created a semi-circle in front of them; they remained still, never letting their guns off him.  They weren’t completely sure what to do; they hadn’t expected him to show himself like this.  His breathing was laboured, his hands were up, but not in a request of mercy, he looked as though he was praying.
    The key point about his stance, which let them know that he was not giving up, was that one of his outspread hands that were being held up to the heavens also contained a bloody knife in its powerful grip.  His posture was highly intimidating, his arms held out from his body in a dramatic fashion were not the most disturbing factor however, he also seemed to be swaying, as if possessed.
    “So it’s true,” Jude said to him.  “You’re not dead.  I thought we killed you.”
    “I don’t think even the devil wants me now after the number of people I’ve slaughtered,” Malcolm said back.
    “We’re here to finish you,” Jude said.
    “Ha!” he snorted.  “Give me everything you have and I will not fall until my work is completed.”
    “We’ll see,” Jude said.
    “I met an intriguing man recently, he gave me this.”  Malcolm said as he gestured to his side.  “He also made me think, but I still stand resolute, I remain a believer.  Life just feels like so much more than a bunch of tangled neurones inside our skulls, don’t you think?”
    “Stop spouting nonsense,” Jude said.
    “You’re so boring and two dimensional, Jude,” Malcolm said.  “My last guest was so much more interesting.”
    “How do you know my name?” Jude said.
    “I know plenty about you, Jude Barrow,” Malcolm said.  “I’ve been watching you for quite some time.  I like to know my enemy; I like to know the villain.  Is that you?  It might be me…but you can’t be the hero if that’s the case.  I’m sure in your mind, I’m the villain.  I am going to kill you after all.”
    “I’d like to see you try,” Jude taunted.  “You only managed to kill so many of my men the last time we meant because you surprised us and you had guns.  Now all you have is a butter knife, it’s going to take more than that to kill me.  I’ve taken out much more dangerous foes than you in the past.”
    “I can believe that,” Malcolm said.  “You were once a hit man in a previous life, weren’t you?”
    “How could you know that?” Jude said.
    “I haven’t just watched, I’ve listened too,” Malcolm said.  “I know your motives, that’s the most important thing you can learn about a person.  You like to think of yourself as a professional, don’t you?  I’m here to tell you something, you’re not.  There’s a thin line between a thug and soldier and you’re on the wrong side of it.”
    “Shut up!” Jude said.
    “You’re nothing but a trained ape,” Malcolm laughed.  “Without the training.”
    “I’m going to break you for that, old man!” Jude screamed.
    “Look at me brother,” Malcolm said.  “I’m already beyond fixing.”  The old vicar laughed, but it was the declining laugh of someone who had just realised something crippling.  “Did you know that there are two types of villain?” Malcolm continued.  “Those you hate…and those you fear.  You might be masking the true emotion with the alternative, but I am wondering, which one am I to you?”
    “I’ll show you,” Jude said.  “Kill him!”
    Malcolm Quinn’s electric reflexes allowed him to act before any of Jude’s men could pull their triggers, including Jude himself.  Malcolm reversed the knife in his hand, so he was holding the blade, and threw it.  The knife spun through the air in Jude’s direction, he felt panic in his chest and his eyes widened when he saw the knife.  This soon passed into relief as he saw that it wasn’t aimed at him, but instead at the soldier standing next to him.
    The blade of the small knife sunk deep into the forehead of the Penal trooper and he fell down dead before even getting a shot off.  Malcolm charged forwards at the remaining three Penal soldiers as soon as he let go of the knife.  With nothing but his bare hands by this point, he rushed forwards at Jude Barrow.
    The sight of this large shadowy phantom descending upon him, at almost supernatural speed for someone of his age, ate away at Jude’s will, he felt the terror fester from somewhere deep within him.  You can tell yourself over and over again that you won’t be afraid of something.  You can picture it in your mind dozens of times and plan exactly what you would do under specific circumstances, but there is only one obvious way to test how you will react in a certain situation.  That’s to actively place yourself under these conditions.
    Jude stared in awe at this rapidly approaching shadow and fired at him.  A salvo if bullets hit Malcolm in his upper left arm and chest but it didn’t stop him from coming.  One of Jude’s last two remaining soldiers also shot at him from virtually point blank range by now but not even the combined firepower of these two could stop him.  However, the third and final Penal soldier was equipped with a shotgun.  When Malcolm’s hands were almost at Jude’s throat, this soldier fired his weapon; the round struck Malcolm in his right side sending him down to ground from the immense force of the shot.
    Malcolm collapsed against the front row of pews and went limp; the three soldiers gingerly stepped closer to the old priest’s corpse and inspected it.  The Penal trooper armed with an assault rifle nudged the large black mass gently with his boot, it didn’t stir.
    “This guy took a lot of bullets…” he began saying before a hand shot up from the floor and grabbed his ankle.  The man started to scream as Malcolm rushed to his feet once more and took the soldier as a hostage.  He positioned himself behind him and wrapped a broad arm around the Penal trooper’s throat.
    Malcolm started walking backwards, using the unfortunate man as a human shield, he tried to struggle but Malcolm’s grip may as well have been made of iron.
    Jude and his last free soldier tried to act as quickly as they could but were stunned by this feat of spontaneous regeneration they witnessed.  They responded by raising their weapons at the shifting pair, the two men didn’t fire; they couldn’t get a good shot so they just steadily followed the old man and his hostage as they slowly walked backwards together.  This stalemate ended when Malcolm grabbed his hostage’s weapon.
    The assault rifle had previously only been dangling from the hostage by a simple strap when Malcolm took hold of it with his free hand and pointed it at Jude and his last remaining ally.
    Jude and the man with the shotgun both dived in opposite directions in an attempt to take cover from this automatic weapon fire, which came storming in their direction.
    The two men crouched down behind the nearest pew they could find as bullets flew over their heads.  Malcolm stopped firing for a moment and the man with shotgun took advantage of this opportunity, pooping out from behind his cover to fire his shotgun at Malcolm.  As expected, the inaccurate weapon hit the hostage, killing him instantly.  Malcolm tossed aside this dead weight and took cover of his own.
    What ensued form here on after was a three-way fire fight, occasionally one of the three would pop out to take a quick shot at their enemy.
    This new standoff went on for a few minutes until Jude heard the relieving sound that Malcolm was out of ammo.  His head appeared over the top of the pews in order to check if this was really the case.  Jude and the shotgun wielder slowly came out from behind their cover and began walking over to where Malcolm had been hiding.
    Jude began to chuckle as they closed in on Malcolm, they looked around the corner to see nothing, Malcolm wasn’t there.
    “Stay aware,” Jude commanded him.
    They started strafing among the rows of pews in search for the absent Malcolm.  Jude knew that he was out of ammo so he guessed that he would probably try to escape just like the last time they fought, except that time Jude had a lot more men and a Cerberus tank at his disposal.  He told his henchman to follow him as he shone his light down various rows to find this constantly disappearing man.
    “Jude!” the man with the shotgun called, trying to direct Jude’s attention to the area behind him where Malcolm had just reappeared.  The tall priest stood up from behind a pew, empty rifle in hand, and heaved it at Jude.
    Jude Barrow raised his weapon up to shield his face from the gun, which was flying through the air towards him as Malcolm charged at him, the man with the shotgun fired at him but he was too quick and the shot missed.
    Malcolm Quinn tackled Jude around his midsection and they both went crashing to the ground, Jude’s rifle was knocked out of his hands, sending it sliding across the floor.
    It began with Malcolm pinning down Jude and delivering two powerful blows directly to his face, at which point Jude rolled over and they both started to wrestle chaotically around on the ground.  The Penal soldier with the shotgun could do nothing but watch, he was too afraid of hitting Jude if he tried shooting at them, then he would be left all alone with the priest and he really didn’t want that.
    Jude and Malcolm kept on rolling around the floor battling furiously for control, frantic punches and kicks were frequently exchanged until Jude managed to get his right hand free of Malcolm’s grapple as he lay pinned once more.  He used it to remove his sidearm and them attempted to bring it up to Malcolm’s head.  Malcolm, seeing this, grasped hold of Jude’s wrist and they continued fighting fiercely over the pistol.
    “I’m not done yet,” Malcolm snarled at Jude.
    “I say you are,” Jude replied.
    As the force of Jude’s arm beat Malcolm’s resistance, the pistol was now being pressed solidly against Malcolm’s temple.  Just as Jude prepared to pull the trigger, Malcolm desperately lashed out and head butted Jude square in the face, breaking his nose.
    Jude howled out in pain and dropped the pistol so he could hold his damaged face.  Blood spurted from his nose, covering his entire face as Malcolm picked him up off the floor, punched him in the stomach and threw him into a set of pews.
    Jude stood back up and came at him like a wild animal; he punched Malcolm in his knife wound, causing him to wince but not much else.  Malcolm responded in kind by grabbing hold of both of Jude’s wrists, spinning him round slightly and stamping hard on the back of Jude’s lower right leg.  The noise of Jude’s fibula breaking was a liquid-like muffled crunch, but was vastly drowned out by the sound of Jude himself crying out in pain as splintered bone poked into his calf muscle.  Malcolm brought the whimpering Jude close to him, suspending him up with his strong grip, and whispered in his ear.
    “There’s nowhere left for you, Mr. Barrow,” he said.
    At this point, the man with the shotgun continued to watch in shock and disgust as Malcolm spun Jude around again, letting him fall to the ground under his ruined limb.  He then clutched Jude’s head within his powerful hands and casually snapped his neck.
    The now only living member of the Penal Company had seen all of what had just transpired and was petrified at the sight if this dark figure looming over the shattered body of what used to be one of the most dangerous men in the country.
    Malcolm looked over at his final foe, this made the soldier jump.  He began slowly raising his shotgun, both his hands shaking heavily in the process.
    Before he could even lift his gun, Malcolm rushed over to him took hold of the barrel of shotgun and pulled it to the side so the shot missed him completely.
    Malcolm then pushed the butt of the gun into the man’s gut, causing him to double over as the wind was completely knocked out of him.  The infamous priest wrenched the weapon from his grip effortlessly and cast it to one side.
    Now, Malcolm attacked the last Penal trooper with a barrage of punches about the face and abdomen, eventually beating him back to one of the large pillars that held up the right balcony.  Malcolm clasped his right hand around the man’s throat and pushed him against the pillar until his back was completely against it.
    The squirming soldier wasn’t a small man, but Malcolm, even in his later years and with a serious wound, could still hold the man against this pillar without his feet even touching the ground.  The soldier gasped for breath as Malcolm’s grip tightened, he stared at Malcolm’s face, which was paler than ever by now.  He had lost a lot of blood from the gaping wound in his side during all this exertion and it gave no indication of lessening anytime soon.
    The dark red fluid continued to seep from the gash near his stomach, soaking his clothes and staining the ground.  Malcolm could feel every drop leave his body and the effects of this collective blood loss were just beginning to catch up with him, his grip weakened as his strength began to dwindle.
    Malcolm let the man go, he slid down the pillar, collapsing at the base and started coughing and spluttering as he tried to get the previously withheld air back into his lungs.
    The man who had attempted to choke him to death just a moment earlier was performing a similar action, leaning against a nearby pew, breathing in deeply and holding his side, struggling to keep in as much of his residual blood as possible, to suspend his death as best as he could.  He just needed to linger in this world for a few minutes more in order to complete his task.
    Malcolm realised he no longer had the energy to kill this final adversary by hand.  He began to scan his local environment to find an instrument of death to aid his old and tired hands in the murder of this last soldier.
    “Listen to me, brother,” Malcolm said softly in between gasping for breath.  “They call me a ghost…a phantom.  It’s not true, you know.  I’m the only living person amongst a necropolis.”  He looked up at the battered roof and around at the destruction he had created.  “Can I ask you something?  How long can you leave your house vacant before it no longer belongs to you?”
    The soldier said nothing, Malcolm hadn’t expected him to.
    “I only ask because God hasn’t been home for such a long time,” Malcolm explained.  “I’m still…waiting, but I’m not praying, because I don’t think He listens anymore now that this world contains so many of His children.  I think he’s lost interest.  I don’t imagine you and your lot came here to pray.  But if you did…what would you pray for?  Mercy?  Justice?  Strength?  Don’t worry yourself over such matters, all your concerns will soon come to a close.”
    The soldier just stared at him through horrified eyes; Malcolm smiled to himself and stood straight up.  He wandered over to where the battle had first begun and located the soldier he had killed by throwing his knife.  With a sickening twist, he yanked out the knife from the dead man’s forehead and wiped it on his sleeve.
    Malcolm’s path back to the terrified man was walked with a shuffling gait, occasionally stumbling along the way due to a combination of exhaustion and excessive blood loss.
    “It’s time…” Malcolm said to the man.  “…to be judged.  But I don’t want you to panic.  I want you to cast away all your fears of failure.  Let me ease your growing doubts with the enlightening knowledge that we are all Unchosen by Him.”
    The sight of this dark phantom unsteadily advancing upon him, blade in hand, was one of the most alarming this man had ever seen.  The sound of the fallen priest’s footsteps, crunching over the broken pews, were a constantly impending reminder of the man’s near future.  Malcolm was by no means coming at him in the lightning speed he had seen him capable of in the recent past.
    This last soldier had plenty of time to contemplate the situation, for every step the old vicar took, slightly more blood trickled out.  It was clear how weak he felt, but he looked no less formidable, he still stood as tall, he still looked as immense as ever, in every respect of the word.  Malcolm’s expression was one of a hazy stupor; he was smiling creepily, which the frightened soldier surmised was probably due to light-headedness from a lack of blood.
    The expression of fear on the soldier’s face never changed, not when Malcolm picked up the knife, not when he was seconds away from slitting his throat, not even when the last of the Penal Company removed his pistol from an ankle holster and shot the old priest in the head.  The bullet whizzed into Malcolm’s skull, piercing his forehead and not coming out.  Malcolm collapsed face down on the floor.
    The soldier holstered his sidearm and stared in silence at the not moving Malcolm.  He found it hard to believe what he had just done, he remembered being afraid but couldn’t quite recall moving his hand and actually shooting him, even though it only happened about six seconds ago, it was like he had no control over his muscles and his subconscious took over.  
    Now, he couldn’t take his eyes off the dark shape lying perfectly still in front of him, he was still staring fearfully at Malcolm’s corpse, just waiting for it to move.  After a few minutes passed by, the courage had finally built up to a high enough level that allowed him to have control of his own motor functions once again.
    The soldier shakily got to his legs, bracing himself against the pillar in order to steady himself.  He crept over and prodded the body, expecting it to pounce, it didn’t.  He noticed the medium-sized pool of blood forming around Malcolm’s head, he flipped him over to get a better look at him, he certainly looked dead, but he needed to make sure.  He had seen this man take dozens of bullets before going down, only to then see him come back up again.
    Without ever taking his eyes off the seemingly dead man, this lone soldier walked backwards until he arrived at his shotgun, which Malcolm Quinn had previously tossed aside.  He brought it over to him, pointed it at his face from point blank range and pulled the trigger.  Malcolm’s head came apart in a colourful explosion, one that splattered the shotgun wielder with a well mixed blend of his blood and brains.
    This man paid no attention to what he was now covered in, he was more focussed on the now headless corpse at his feet.  He still wouldn’t take his eyes off it; he was still deeply terrified of it coming alive at any moment.  The Penal trooper bent down and, with a trembling hand, touched his chest, with more pressure this time.
    He noticed something strange, it didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel human.  The man unbuttoned Malcolm’s shirt to see what was contained underneath.  He uncovered the reason behind the strange tactile sensation; he discovered why Malcolm Quinn’s chest felt so unusual.  He wasn’t wearing normal clothing underneath his black shirt; he was wearing a garment that was more padded and rough.
    The soldier felt it, his sense of dread now replaced by an overwhelming impulse of curiosity.  The material had several bullets embedded in it and he could see patches that had been repeatedly sewn up and repaired.  It was clear that this dark padded vest was the cause of the strange feeling, it resembled Kevlar.
    When he first touched Malcolm’s chest, he got the feeling that there was something providing padding underneath, the entire outer layer hadn’t felt like human flesh, it had felt like something else, something artificial.  Now, he had discovered why this was, Malcolm was wearing a bullet proof vest.
    This soldier put aside his shotgun and felt Malcolm’s right arm, he got the same padded sensation from that too.  He began removing more of Malcolm’s outer shirt to confirm his suspicions.  A thorough search revealed Malcolm’s body to be completely encased in this material, sections were wrapped around his upper and lower arms, his upper and lower legs, really any part of his body that wasn’t jointed was covered in this protective layer.  He found it incredible, he wondered where this man got this fabric from and if he fashioned it himself.
    With Malcolm being dead, he realised that it was impossible for him to find out, but it was, nonetheless, an extremely peculiar finding.  Checking near his stomach, the soldier could see where something had penetrated the vest, underneath this tear was the severe wound in his side.  He speculated about was could’ve caused this and then partially loosened the main vest, peeking underneath in order to get a better look, instead of seeing the muscles he expected, all he found was a skinny chest with clearly visible ribs.
    This was true for Malcolm’s arms as well; there were no bulging biceps, just what was expected from a man of his age.  The appearance of a hulking war machine was only provided by the several padded layers of this Kevlar like substance.  Underneath it all, however, he was only a frail old man.
    The man who discovered this, the man who killed Malcolm Quinn, was named Lewis Parkinson.  He wasn’t the worst of men, it was true that he was in the Penal Company, which meant he was considered one of the most violent men in the country, but he was probably the least evil of the whole group.  You might not think that says much and you’re probably right.  How he found himself to be press ganged into the Penal Company first started with him being convicted of the murder of a woman and her two small daughters.
    Lewis had been recently fired from his job by a man who used to be his friend; he went out, got drunk and then drove home.  Not the most sensible thing but, unfortunately, also not the most uncommon.  On the way home, he got into a car accident; he had taken his eyes off the road, just for a moment, and drove up onto the pavement…where someone had been walking.
    The woman he hit was the wife of his boss, the man who had once been his childhood friend and the same man who fired him.  His wife had been walking with their two daughters, all three were killed.  The courts wouldn’t believe it was a coincidence, which it actually was, he hadn’t even been looking at the road, he couldn’t see who he was about to hit.  Because of the identities of the victims, they hadn’t judged it to be an accident, but in truth, it was.
    The papers labelled him a monster; everyone believed he killed them all to get back at his boss.  No one supported him, not even his family, no one could fathom a coincidence of such a magnitude, no one could accept that it was all just an unlucky accident.  Because of this, he was categorised as a dangerously violent psychopath and designated as having the perfect profile for the Penal Company.
    The life of Lewis Parkinson had been a woeful one, but at least he was alive, that was more than could be said about all the other members of the Penal Company.  Lewis left the church in a daze, not really knowing what he should do next.  The Penal Company was commanded by Jude Barrow, if he was still here, he would command them all to return to base, but he wasn’t here.
    The Sun was just starting to rise, Lewis looked up at the sky, he actually wouldn’t mind some rain right about now to help cleanse him, but there wasn’t.
    Lewis Parkinson left the church behind and walked, not ran, away from it all in the warm light of dawn.  He thought about what he was going to do now, he decided to do what that Penal Company soldier had suggested just before being executed by Jude, he was going to leave.  Why trust the government and their promises when he had a chance for real freedom right in front of him?
    Lewis couldn’t go back to England, he was going to head north, but not to a small village, that would be too suspicious.  Maybe Aberdeen…or Inverness?
    Throughout the rest of Lewis Parkinson’s life, his time spent in prison and then his life in the Penal Company all felt like a bad dream, like it never really happened.
    He kept on walking towards his new life, with no intention of stopping until he arrived at a place he wanted to be.  Lewis looked down at himself, he didn’t recognise anything, he shouldn’t be wearing a blood soaked uniform, he shouldn’t be carrying a gun.  He removed the pistol he used to kill Malcolm Quinn from it’s holster and dropped it on the ground, he hoped he didn’t need it anymore.
    Lewis left the gun behind on the ground where it fell and continued walking onwards at the same pace.  The funny thing was that Malcolm Quinn was the first person he’d ever killed on purpose, and even that didn’t feel completely voluntary.
    His boss’ wife, Malcolm’s hostage, all accidents.  Lewis hadn’t even killed any Para-militia throughout the war, all his comrades just did it for him, they weren’t as reluctant, they seemed like they wanted to kill.  Lewis looked forwards to this new life of his, it would be new, but he hoped it wouldn’t be different; he enjoyed his old life, before he was sent to prison, that is.
    Lewis would live in a new city, he would get a new job, but he wouldn’t change, he didn’t need to.