by Candy Rae
CHAPTER 7 (Southern Continent)
Elliot Murdoch, self-appointed general, was facing problems of his own. The first was short and bloody and was one that he dealt with in his normal ruthless manner. The second was far more serious.
The convicts had been travelling north for some time before the first manifested itself early one evening.
The only warning Elliot Murdoch had of trouble was a yell from Cracov as he lifted his heavy sword high in the air and brought it down on Colonel Weiss’s head. The head split open with a gush of bright red blood and the body spun slowly as it slumped to the ground. Mesmerised, Murdoch stared as his assailant’s brains spilled out on the grass.
The other bodyguards arrived at the run and formed a protective circle.
Murdoch knew what was happening. He had been warned by Cracov of a potential revolt by Weiss and Gunnarsson; all the indications had been there. He wondered why the man had waited so long. If he had made his move even a few days before he might have stood a chance. But not now. Murdoch had been talking to and working with some of the colonels. Baker, Duchesne and Mahler were now his sworn men and, with Smith, would viciously counteract any perceived threat.
The revolt was short-lived and the survivors, some four dozen, were kicked and pushed into a small wallow beside the riverbank and guards set over them.
Murdoch’s face showed clearly the satisfaction he was feeling. His position was secure. He would make such an exhibition of the rebels’ deaths that it would be a brave man who ever tried to topple him again. In front of him and slightly to the left stood Cracov, eyes alert for any further trouble. Beside the huge man another smaller man was on his knees, blood streaming from a wound on his scalp but otherwise unhurt. It was Weiss’s accomplice Gunnarsson and he was moaning loudly and piteously.
The man knew that he could expect no mercy from Murdoch. He had failed to usurp the General and the consequences of this failure would be slow and painful. At this point he was not to know just how agonising Murdoch’s punishment would be. He would have to wait a long three days to find out.
“Tie the ex-colonel up,” ordered Murdoch. “I will decide what to do with him later.” His eyes bored into Gunnarsson, full of promise of torture and pain. Murdoch would enjoy watching him writhe as he died. Gunnarsson remembered all too well how the man had dealt with the paedophiles back at the ship. His own experience would be much worse. He shuddered in terrified apprehension.
Cracov tied him up, a sardonic grin on his face. The bonds were tight and his victim grimaced as they dug deeply into his wrists and ankles. He was then kicked and prodded as he was forced to crawl towards the surviving members of the rebel force who sat waiting in the wallow. As he crashed to the ground in their midst, not one attempted to help him. They had hopes of a merciful death and none wanted to be seen aiding their ex-colonel.
Closely guarded, the worried men were left alone.
Murdoch’s second problem manifested itself as sunset passed into night.
Preparing for sleep, well pleased with the way the abortive revolt had been countered, he wrapped himself in the quilted coverlet and lay down on the groundsheet. He shivered; nights could be chilly, although during daytime the heat was insufferable. Snuggling into his covers, his thoughts began to drift. He was very tired.
He woke with a start and sat up trying to make sense of strange noises emanating from the very edge of the encampment. There was the sound of excited shouting from the men and the sound of an engine spluttering in the distance. The only truck Murdoch was aware of (except for those disabled back at the ship and the ones with the crew and their families) was the one left behind at base camp. Whatever was it doing here? The engine noise got louder as it laboured hard up the incline to reach them. Murdoch extracted himself from his covers and stood up. Smith, or perhaps Baker (he was not sure who had guard duty) would report, there was no need for him to investigate personally.
“Mug of caffee while you’re waiting General?” asked Cracov, appearing at his side. Murdoch hadn’t even been aware of the big man’s approach. Murdoch grunted and took a long swallow, savouring the flavour. Caffee stocks were low now; he hoped someone would find a replacement beverage from the native edibles before the stocks ran out completely. The last experiment, he recalled, had been less than successful. He had not been amused and had spat the offending drink straight in the hapless cook’s face.
So Murdoch stood waiting, sipping the hot drink and wondering what was happening, then saw Smith approaching at the run, three of his men following close at his heels and escorting another older, grey-haired man who was gasping and gulping for air as they forced him to keep up.
When they reached him, Smith came to attention and gave Murdoch a smart salute. The older man’s eyes widened with surprise. He tried to hold himself erect, unsuccessfully; his breath was laboured and sounded very loud in the silence of the clearing. Everyone who wanted to hear what had happened drew closer.
“Truck arrived General,” began Smith, “with this man driving and about twenty or so wounded in the back. Some quite badly.”
Murdoch turned an inquiring glance at the newcomer, who, to give him credit considering the state he was in, was fast to respond to the unspoken request for information.
“It started last night,” he started to babble, his words running into each other as he tried to explain. He swayed on his feet, at the very end of his energy resources.
“Sit down man,” commanded Murdoch. The man did so with an alacrity born of exhaustion, his legs folding beneath him. Baker moved forward and helped him into a sitting position, then hunkered closer to better hear what he was saying.
“Tell us slowly and calmly,” he said. “Don’t leave anything out. It might be important.”
The man nodded, his chest still heaved spasmodically but his breathing was certainly getting easier.
“Name’s White,” he said.
“And?” prompted Baker.
“Me and my mates were bunking down near the truck. Most of those you left had split into small groups, some quite far up or down the river.”
This was better, his words were clear. This White was an educated man.
“I was asleep when I was woken up by screaming and shouting. The loudest screams were coming from downriver where a group had built a campsite in the woods near the water. The woods scared some but not them.”
He licked his dry lips.
Murdoch passed him his half empty mug of caffee. White’s hands grasped it with shaky relief and he lifted the mug to his mouth, gulping down the contents with evident pleasure. Caffee had not been on the menu on the prison decks.
“And then?” prompted Murdoch. “What happened then?”
White looked directly at him, haunted horror in his eyes.
“The beasts were bigger than huge. Great big tawny wolves as big as a landcar back on Earth.”
Words failed him at this point. He gazed round at those assembled, begging them to believe him.
“A landcar?” derided Smith. “You can’t be serious? No animal is as large as that!”
“They were,” answered White. “I’m not lying, honest. They were gigantic, with sharp claws and big snarling mouths full of teeth. Hundreds of them. They just fell on us, we didn’t stand a chance.”
Murdoch looked at his colonels.
“Double the perimeter guards,” he barked and Baker moved away to issue the order.
“How did you manage to get away?” asked Duchesne.
“Just jumped into the truck, pressed the start button and drove,” said White. “I was driving slowly at first and some managed to climb in the back. No point trying to fight. When I got out of the trees, I drove faster. They chased us for a while then gave up. Better pickings back at the camp no doubt.”
“Do you think any survived?” asked Murdoch.
“Don’t know. Don’t suppose so.”
“Why did they attack?” asked Cracov.
“For food,” White said. “Could see
them starting to eat as I drove off. It didn’t seem to matter whether the men were dead or alive.”
The words chilled the listeners.
“Will they attack us?” Cracov asked, bile rising in his throat.
White shrugged his shoulders. “There were not as many of us at the base camp. As I said, we had split up into small groups so we were easy to pick off. Some men tried to fight the beasts off but it was useless. They were very large and very fierce. They attacked in twos, one pinning a man down whilst the other went for the kill.”
“We are well armed and organised,” announced Murdoch. “They won’t find us easy prey. There are thousands of us.”
He turned to White. “Are they heading this way?”
White didn’t know, and at that moment didn’t care. He was safe now. His eyes started to close and his head drooped as he slumped over to one side. Within seconds he was fast asleep.
“Our plans don’t change,” Murdoch ordered. “We continue the march in the morning. Keep our eyes and ears open for any threat.”
Nobody argued with him. It was strange, Murdoch thought as he settled down for the third time that night, that, instead of being the hunters, they appeared to have become the hunted, but there must be a way to get out of the predicament. He wondered if he should pick up the pace of the march but discounted the notion. It would be a sign of weakness to be seen running away. No, he would stick to his original plan and take the appropriate precautions. He might however, let someone else take the lead on the march. If the beasts attacked, he did not want to be the one wielding his sword in earnest.
When Murdoch and his army left their campsite the following morning, a partially recovered White went with them, determined to keep up. There was no way he was going to be left behind. At almost seventy years old, he would find the going tough, but Cocteau had very precise instructions. He was to be brought along, carried if necessary. Three of the twenty injured whom White had brought with them in the back of the truck went too, the others were too badly hurt and as was becoming the norm, were left behind.
To their surprise, the captured rebels went too, hands tied with casual ruthlessness behind their backs but suffering (for the moment at least) nothing more from their guards than a shove and a curse if they lagged behind. Some began to hope that they might survive after all, that Murdoch would forgive and forget.
Elliot Murdoch’s master plan had not changed. The only concession he had made to danger was to increase the guard and to put everyone on high alert. As he marched away that morning, now ensconced within, rather than in front of, the lead regiment, he remained in fine fettle.
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