The Lost Shepherd E-Book

L.E. Fitzpatrick

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

In a world devastated by corruption, Father Darcy has lost his faith. After letting down the very people he pledged to protect, he decides to take a pilgrimage across the dangerous English countryside in an attempt to find his mission again.

There, he meets men hungry for his blood. A vicious, relentless landscape. And two boys more dangerous than anything he has ever seen before. But can he save these children, or will they change his cause forever?

This is a Reacher short story set before the events of The Running Game.

Leseprobe

THE LOST SHEPHERD

A REACHER COMPANION STORY

L E FITZPATRICK

Copyright (C) 2015 L E Fitzpatrick

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by The Cover Collection (http://www.thecovercollection.com/)

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

CONTENTS

The Reacher Series

Other Titles by L E Fitzpatrick

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

A Word From the Author

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About the Author

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.