"…TEN MINUTES LATER…"
Ten minutes later I was in one of the small outhouses, looking at weapons.
Of course, they weren't really weapons, just tools that could be used as such. There was a row of hooks containing hoes, rakes, spades, forks. Of these, I focused on the fork. A spade or hoe wouldn't do; unless the blade was really sharp, it would be hard to use it to penetrate a horse's flesh. A rake would do well as a hammer-like object, but the teeth were too short to provide a lethal blow unless it was to the head - and I had no idea just how tough a horse's skull might be. And if it got stuck, the horse might run away with the thing hanging from its skull, possibly dragging me round the pen like a thrown rodeo rider with his arm caught in a strap. That left the fork, which I could use to bayonet the horse while running at it. I imagined that so long as I didn't catch the ribs, I could kill the horse with one thrust through its chest and into its heart.
In a corner of junk there lay a broken scythe. The handle was missing; a ten-inch piece was all that remained with which to heft the curved, rusted blade. That meant a close-quarters attack, which I didn't fancy. Could I swing such a short-handled implement with enough power to sever a horse's head?
A myriad hooks screwed into the bare wooden walls held numerous other, typical tools - hammers, drills, saws. Briefly, I pictured myself with each, standing before the horse, ready to cause it some damage. Most I dismissed as too cumbersome to kill such a big animal with, especially one with hind legs that could put me in a wheelchair. I had to remember that this animal weighed somewhere in the region of 800 pounds.
"Forget those, you're using these," came a familiar voice. I turned to find Tattoo-guy in the doorway. I stared. Use what? He wasn't carrying anything.
Then my eyes dropped to the floor between us, and there they were. The weapons he wanted me to use to kill the horse, whose name I would never learn - at least not from this guy.
"They were mine. The ones I was wearing when it happened. I want you to use them. Don't ask why."
I bent and picked one up. It was a typical training shoe in every way except one. Nike didn't usually stud their footwear with nails.
It was a crude job. Tattoo-guy had used nails of varying length, about ten for each shoe. He'd hammered them through the fabric from the inside, creating a kind of mutant golf shoe. But while traditional spiked shoes limited the spikes to the sole and heel, here they protruded from the sole, heel and the sides and back, and included two six-inch nails sticking forward from the toe. I slipped off my own training shoe and put one on. Through my sock, I could feel exactly where each nail-head was; they irritated my flesh.
"You want me to kick the thing to death with these?" I said as I sat on the dusty wooden floor and tried to slip on the other shoe. There was a mobile phone inside it, which I plucked out and held up.
"I'll watch from the roof. I want you to kick that fucking animal until there's no piece big enough to tear again. We'll use that phone for communication. Wear that so I can see you." He pointed and I saw a fluorescent yellow jacket, like the ones worn by workmen fixing roads. I pocketed the phone.
I tried to walk. It was tough not only to balance on nails at least two inches long, but I had to yank my foot up off the floor with each step because my weight drove the nails' sharp points into the wooden planks. I imagined I walked as might a man on a planet with heavy gravity, or if he'd shat himself. I took the yellow jacket from a peg on the wall. I put my training shoes in the pockets.
Once outside on the grass, it was easier. I still couldn't walk very fast - this certainly wasn't like walking in golf shoes or football boots - but I tried a few practice kicks and found my balance wasn't affected. In fact, I think it may have been enhanced by the solid foothold.
"Are you coming?" I asked Tattoo-guy.
He followed me outside, where he shook his head. "Told you. Going to the roof to watch."
I was fuelled and ready. Thinking back, I don't know what I was planning. I certainly wasn't looking forward to brutally slaughtering a horse with nail-studded shoes, but neither was my mind trying to formulate a way out of this mess. If Tattoo-guy was hanging back here, I could easily have run away. But that wasn't my plan, either. I still like to believe that the good guy in me never would have agreed to such a plan, but that the drugged part of my psyche didn't really know what was going on. But I don't really know.
Tattoo-guy turned away and was gone, heading to his watching post. I had this urge to be at my post before he was at his, so that he could see me waving. So I started trekking away across the field. I played one of the crappy games on the phone as I walked, lifting my head occasionally to chart my direction.