The Hand and the Hatchet

Chapter 1

The man on the couch was unquestionably dead. It was unclear, to Bell, how the man had come to be this way, but dead he was. Bell's stomach turned slightly at the thought of rolling the corpse over, but it was, unfortunately, nothing he hadn't done before. He placed his bow down, and gripped the man's shoulder, tipping him over, and began rifling through his pockets, which yielded, as expected, nothing of interest. Bell wiped his hands on his faded shirt, trying in vain to drag the smell of decaying flesh off of his calloused hands, and cast his eyes about the room. It was missing a corner, so that he could see straight into the street from what had once, Bell guessed, been a living room. The room had a worn carpet, that was becoming overrun with mould, most likely due to the gaping hole in the wall. the peeling wallpaper was a disgusting not-quite-mustard colour, which clashed horribly with the bile coloured remains of the curtains. 

A shifting shape caught his eye. Outside, the quick, darting shadows of a group of people moving. He didn't count how many, he simply ducked, then slowly lowered himself into a prone position, feeling the musty damp soak through his shirt. He reached across to where his bow lay, and slowly, with his hand wrapped firmly around the grip, he dragged it towards him, picked it up, and then nocked an arrow. His heart was still hammering in his chest, but he took a long, quiet breath and forced himself to calm down. He could hear voices now. Bell tensed, expecting the people to come bounding up the stairs, weapons drawn, bearing down on him. But no, these voices weren't the urgent whispers of hunters. It was simply people talking, as they moved through the housing estate, most likely doing the same as Bell; scavenging, collecting, gathering. He relaxed slightly, but still strained his ears to ensure he was safe. He risked a peek. Raising his head slightly, he now had almost the whole group in view. It was small, only three men and two women, making small talk. They were all carrying packs like him, a few of them openly carrying clubs and metal bars. One of the women had a long kitchen knife in a home-made sheath on her thigh. The other woman was kneeling down, her pack open on the ground, a length of wood lying next to her, drinking water out of a canteen. Another man stepped into Bell's view, and a jolt of alarm ran through him. The man was wearing a sleeveless shirt, with a bow slung across one shoulder, and no pack. On his bare bicep, a tattoo of an angel rippled as his arm moved, the muscle shifting beneath the skin. A clan mark. They conferred among themselves for a brief moment, and then the man with the tattoo, the woman with the knife, and one of the men began walking away, and the drinking woman stood and slung her pack back on, while the man began walking into a house. The same house Bell was in. the woman then walked into a house on the other side of the street. Bell panicked for a brief moment, and then got a hold on himself. He put his bow back over his shoulder, and replaced the arrow in its quiver, taking care to move quickly but carefully. He then slid his knife out of it's sheath, the weight and rasp of the handle against his palm reassuring him. 

He could hear the man moving around below him, searching the first floor of the dilapidated house. There came a thump, then a muffled curse. Footsteps coming closer, now ascending the stairs, heavy footfalls clumping on each wooden step. Bell moved silently, in a half-crouch, and slid behind the hanging door, and waited, the eyes of the body on the couch staring at him.  Those heavy footfalls again, in the next room. Things being moved, more thumps. movement in the hallway, and then the man was standing in the doorframe, a tire iron in his hand. Bell held his breath, and waited. The man noticed the body on the couch, and groaned slightly, cursing his luck under his breath. He took a step into the room, then another, and on the man's third step, when he had his back to him, Bell struck. He darted forward, sinking the blade into the side of the man's neck, and wrapping his left arm around the head, the man's jaw trapped in the crook of Bell's elbow, pulling his knife free and ramming it back again, this time aiming for the throat. The man thrashed weakly as Bell lowered his dying body onto the floor, too much of his blood soaking into the carpet to put up a struggle. Bell lowered him all the way down, and when the only part of him not touching the floor was the head trapped in Bell's lock, he pulled the knife out, spraying blood and gore across the room, and let his head thunk to the carpet. He wasn't dead yet, still twitching, gasping as he choked on blood he couldn't spit. Bell picked up the fallen tire iron and walked across the hall, and waited for the woman to come and investigate.