The two agents, one American and one Russian, ran for their lives; literally. Their escape from the clutches of yet another THRUSH megalomaniac had not gone unnoticed. Walker Bedford was the latest two-bit criminal with designs on riding up the Hierarchy, and possessed all the madness and arrogance which seemed to be a pre-requisite. The pair, however, had been unlucky as they'd absconded from their cell. An unusually bright goon had realised they were escaping but, instead of tackling them alone, he called up reinforcements. Thanks to this, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin had not had any time to locate their weapons or any of their equipment. Any chance of acquiring a vehicle had also been scuppered by the goon's quick thinking, as the garage was suddenly well guarded. They had no choice but to head off through the woods, which wasn't ideal given that dusk was almost upon them. To make matters worse, both men had been shot during the escape.
Solo's injury was a simple flesh wound where a bullet had grazed his left bicep, and wasn't life threatening. Illya, on the other hand, was bleeding heavily from a wound in the right side of his abdomen. For ten minutes, he had been carried along by pure adrenaline, but now it was waning rapidly, and Illya was tiring. The pair reached the edge of the trees and immediately came to a halt. There was a clearing, which was about one hundred metres in diameter, directly in front of them. There was no other option but to cross it. Unfortunately, the moment Illya had stopped moving, he'd collapsed; his energies drained.
"Come on, Tovarisch," Napoleon urged. 'We can't stop now."
"Go," Illya told him, through gritted teeth. "It only needs one of us to relay the information we have discovered. You will be quicker without me."
Solo knew that his partner was correct, and he knew that it was his duty to get back to HQ at all costs. He also knew that he would never leave his partner behind if there was a chance of getting them both to safety.
"We're going together," the American replied, as he helped the Russian to his feet. "I've invested too much of my time trying to turn you into a sociable human being."
Illya was beginning to lose consciousness by this point, which left Napoleon practically dragging him across the open ground. They'd made it almost half way when the heard their captor call out to them.
"You'll never make it, Solo. Especially if you're carrying all that dead weight with you. You may as well give up."
Napoleon ignored him and, summoning every ounce of stubbornness in his body, he took a few more steps. Attempting to make himself a larger target than Illya, he fully expected to feel another bullet at any second. Bedford yelled a final warning before pulling the trigger barely a second later. Solo tensed against the oncoming impact and was quite surprised when it never arrived.
Instead, the whole of the surrounding area unexpectedly became bathed in an exceptionally bright light. U.N.C.L.E. and THRUSH alike shaded their eyes from the painfully blinding glare. The light faded after only a few moments and, as it dissipated, several figures appeared around the clearing. The figures looked human but were somehow indistinct; as though they were being viewed through frosted glass.
Adhering to type, Bedford and is goons began shooting at the figures, only to have their bullets drop to the ground the moment they left the barrel.
"THERE WILL BE NO DEATH WITH EVIL INTENT HERE!"
Everyone heard the words, as though they were being spoken by dozens of voices, yet none of the figures looked as though they were speaking. If he'd had to describe it, Napoleon would have sworn the voices were being planted directly into his brain, and were bypassing his ears altogether. Walker Bedford was at a total loss as to what was happening, but he wasn't about to let it rob him of his prize. The capture of U.N.C.L.E.'s top two agents was to be his ticket to glory. He once again aimed Napoleon.
The figure closest to Bedford raised a hand and, within an instant, the gun was glowing white hot. The weapon fell to the ground, and the scream which tore from him seemed to come from the depths of Hell itself. He dropped to his knees clutching his damaged hand to him.
"Who are you?" Bedford gasped through the pain.
"WE ARE WARDENS! WE PROTECT THE INNOCENT AND JUDGE THE MALEVOLANT! YOU ARE A KILLER!"
"I'm not the only killer here!" screamed Bedford, pointing over at Napoleon and the now unconscious Illya. "They have killed people."
"YES!" replied the wardens. "WE KNOW THIS!"
"Only when we had to," Napoleon protested, as he carefully laid his partner on the ground. "We don't set out to commit murder."
"THIS WE KNOW ALSO!"
Behind Bedford, his underlings slowly began to back away. The whole situation was too much for them to deal with, and it certainly wasn't what they signed up for. Unfortunately, their motion was noticed and they found themselves surrounded by some of the figures. Everyone there could have sworn none of them had moved, yet they must have done.
"THESE MEN, WHILE NOT ENTIRELY INNOCENT, ARE NOT INHERENTLY EVIL!" the voices intoned. "THEIR ACTIONS WERE INITIATED AND COMPELLED BY WALKER BEDFORD! THEY MAY LEAVE!"
The goons weren't to be told twice. As soon as they were freed from the ring of figures, they ran back into the woods, throwing their guns away as they went. Watching them go, Bedford decided he wasn't going to hang around either. Jumping up, he made a break for it. His path was immediately blocked and he was forced back to his original position and back to his knees. Across the clearing, a loud groan from Illya drew the attention of every person and figure.
"What's happening?" he gasped.
"Your guess is as good as mine, pal."
Napoleon was becoming increasingly more certain that the flesh wound he had was actually a lot worse than first thought. He even entertained the idea that he was still in the cell and he had been tortured to such a point that he was hallucinating. Illya groaned again and tried to sit up, but the burning in his belly made it impossible. Hissing with the pain of it, he flopped back down. Three of the figures appeared around the two agents. Two of them leaned over the Russian and held their hands out over his abdomen. Illya screamed and bucked as the pain intensified.
"What are you doing?!" Napoleon yelled.
"DO NOT FEAR!"
To Illya, it felt has though his stomach was being forcibly ripped from his body but, through the fog of agony, he realised what the figures were doing. He tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to relax. Napoleon was feeling utterly helpless as Illya writhed at his feet. With an increasing sense of astonishment and relief, he watched as the bullet was drawn from his friend. As it left his body, Illya gave a grunt before passing out.
The third figure waved a hand over Napoleon's flesh wound. He felt a brief flare of pain, followed by nothing. Tearing open the holes in his jacket and shirt he found that the only evidence of the wound was the dried blood on his clothes. The skin and flesh of his arm was untouched. Squatting down, Napoleon frantically pulled Illya's shirt up to search for the terrible wound he knew should be there.
All he could see was his pale, unmarked skin. Even the scar from where Illya's appendix had been removed had vanished.
"YOU AND YOUR COMPANION MAY GO!" the voices told Napoleon. "YOU HAVE BEEN JUDGED TO BE GOOD MEN!"
"What about me?" beseeched Bedford. "Am I allowed to leave?"
"YOU ARE NOT! YOU ARE A KILLER!"
"So are they!" he protested. "I can name some of the people who have died at their hands."
"YOU HAVE EVIL IN YOUR HEART!" the voices told him. "YOU ALSO CARRY AN INSTRUMENT OF DEATH! THESE MEN DO NOT HAVE THE PUREST OF HEARTS BUT THEY HARBOUR ONLY GOOD INTENT!"
"I refuse to stay here and be judged by a bunch of ghosts," Bedford bellowed.
Rising from his knees, he made another attempt to run into the trees. He only ran three paces before every figure in the clearing was surrounding him. The figures got closer and closer until they started to meld into one another. From the centre of the mass, Napoleon could hear the unmistakable and sickening sounds of bones breaking. Those sounds were only masked by the heart-rending scream which emanated from Bedford, causing Napoleon covered his ears in a futile attempt to block it out.
When silence returned, the figures moved apart, leaving no sign that Walker Bedford had ever been there. Napoleon opened his mouth to ask what had happened to him, but was stopped by the light beginning to intensify once again. He shielded his face as before and, when he dared to look, the clearing was empty apart from himself and Illya.
Napoleon slowly turned, scanning every inch of the moonlit surroundings. If he lived to be one hundred years of age, he would never be able to find the words to explain the night's events. He had an idea who the figures could have been, but he wasn't sure he would ever voice those thought.
"Why am I lying on the ground," came a Russian accent from by his feet.
"You had a very serious gunshot wound in the abdomen," Solo told him, his voice sounding a little detached.
"I remember," Illya replied as he picked himself up.
Examining his stomach he asked Napoleon what had transpired. He had vague memories of running, and of a lot of strange people. The pain of the bullet was also in his mind, but the bullet itself was conspicuous by its absence.
"I don't know what to tell you, Tovarisch," Solo said, with a shrug. "I do know that I never again want to witness what I have this evening."
Napoleon knew that the sounds of Bedford's demise would haunt his dreams for a long time.
"I think it is time to go home," Illya stated, sounding very tired. "We still have a mission to complete. How do we explain all this in the report?"
"I don't think we do," Napoleon replied. "We only need to say that we escaped. Say, do you realise what the date is today?"
Illya rolled his eyes.
"Whatever occurred here this evening, I refuse to put it down to it being Hallowe'en."
As Napoleon and Illya continued on their journey, they both pondered on who the figures were. Illya tried hard to convince himself he'd been exposed to an hallucinogenic. Napoleon, however, glanced skyward and silently thanked God for the angels he had sent.