by Peter Hall
The soldiers reflexively took a step backwards.
“Bollocks, you’re bluffing,” Fellman said, with a sneer.
Gibson whimpered.
“Okay. Tell one of your goons to open the tailgate of my car.”
Fellman nodded to one soldier, who approached the Land Rover and carefully opened the rear door to peer inside. “Oh shit, Sir. There are blocks of something in the back with wires coming out and a red flashing light on top.”
Fellman looked back at Cal. “You could still be bluffing. How do I know that’s actually explosives?”
“One way to find out.”
Fellman gave one of his sneer-smiles, “Cute. Very clever. I underestimated you. So what do you propose?”
“I get in the car with the five prisoners and Gibson, then drive away. I’ll let him go after I’ve travelled, say, five hundred metres down the road. We part our ways, no hard feelings.”
“Not acceptable. There’s nothing to stop you killing Gibson when you’re out of here. We keep the women as hostages for Gibson’s safe return.”
Cal’s mind scrambled for a solution to the dilemma. “How about this―I only take Sabine?”
Fellman frowned and looked down at the woman held in his grip. “Why Sabine?” Then he smiled. “Oh… last night. Your little fuck buddy. I see.”
Cal cursed as he realised his mistake. By singling out Sabine, he had given Fellman extra leverage.
Fellman slowly put his pistol in his holster and, having freed up his arm, grabbed Sabine’s hand. He took hold of her middle finger and bent it backwards until she screamed in pain.
“Stop!” Cal said.
Fellman smirked, knowing he had the initiative again.
“Got a soft spot for this one, have we? Y’know what, I don’t think you’ll shoot Mister Gibson and I don’t think you’d deliberately set off those explosives either. That would kill you and your precious girlfriend here. The only thing keeping you alive now is that sodding dead-man’s trigger. So, I suggest you get in your car and fuck off while you still can. And if Mister Gibson is not back here safe in five minutes, I’ll kill the women and you can be sure this one here will be slow and painful. Is that absolutely fucking clear to you?”
Cal did not like it one bit, but could see no alternative. There were still half-a-dozen trigger happy thugs pointing rifles at him, any one of which could accidentally pull the trigger. A sharp pain in the chest reminded him to breathe. His arm ached from clinging on to Gibson. Dammit! He needed to end this quickly.
“Agreed,” he reluctantly said after a few seconds. “But I want your word that you’ll not harm any of the women. They had no hand in this. They knew nothing about it.”
“You’re hardly in a position to bargain, but it’s a small thing. You have my word, I’ll not touch them. Now sod off before I change my mind.”
Cal let Gibson get into the driver’s seat. He kept his pistol aimed at Gibson’s head and held up his other arm to make it clear to everyone he still had his thumb on the dead-man’s trigger. Slowly, carefully, he walked around to the passenger side and climbed in.
“Drive off, slowly,” he said to Gibson.
As the Land Rover left the site, Cal’s eyes locked with Sabine’s for a second and his stomach churned with guilt.
After several hundred metres, Cal ordered Gibson to hit the brakes and bring the Land Rover to a halt. He told Gibson to get out and kneel down in the road before pointing his pistol at Gibson’s head. What the hell to do now? Cal disliked Gibson and everything he stood for intensely, but was that a good enough reason to execute him? Wouldn’t that make him as bad as Gibson? More to the point, could he kill somebody in cold blood? Cal still struggled to shoot rabbits.
A dense murder of crows flew overhead, their caw-caw-cawing seeming to mock him.
“You’ll not shoot,” Gibson said with a sneer. “I would, but that’s the difference between us, isn’t it? I’ve got the guts to do what’s necessary, while you—”
“Shut up!”
Gibson would not shut up. “Before the Yellow Death, I was running the whole of Devon and, in another year, I’ll be running it again. I was born to lead, Cal, you must see that. Why don’t you accept that and join me? It’s not too late, you know. What I said about needing good men is true and you’ve impressed me—even if you’ve lied through your teeth about your past.”
Cal could not prevent the surprise from showing on his face.
“Yes, Cal, I know you were lying about being an officer in the army. Just as Fellman has lied to me. I suspected Fellman was exaggerating about his past and last night convinced me. The fact that neither of you exposed the other showed you were both lying. You’re not the only one who can pretend to be drunk. My guess is you were in the Territorials—am I right?”
Cal remained silent. This was too much to take in. Gibson had seen right through him, yet had not mentioned it. But why hadn’t Gibson confronted Fellman before now?
Gibson seemed to read his mind. “Y’know what Cal? I don’t care. It doesn’t matter if Fellman wasn’t an army officer, because the important thing is he can do his job. Dick controls the men and follows my orders. And he knows enough to create an army from nothing. Same goes for you, Cal. You’re intelligent and you can handle yourself well, so I don’t give a rat’s arse whether you were a bank manager or a bank robber. Join me and help me build a new society.”
What would happen if I killed him now? Would Fellman really kill the women? Of course not. They’re just assets to him, there’s nothing to be gained by killing them. Gibson’s a monster who presides over murder and rape and intends to bully countless peaceful settlements. Gibson deserves to die.
Cal tightened his grip on his pistol and pressed it against Gibson’s forehead.
Perhaps Gibson started to believe that he might actually die in the next moment, because he closed his eyes and made a tiny whimpering sound.
For an age, Cal stood motionless with his finger pressing on the trigger, but could not pull it. Inner turmoil froze him. At last, he lowered his gun and gasped for air, realising he had not been breathing.
In silence, he climbed into his car, slammed the door, and drove away. As the wheels began to turn, he heard Gibson shout after him.
“We’ll meet again, Cal. Bloody well count on it.”
Cal drove at speed, turning randomly at junctions. His heart pounded, and he gripped the steering wheel tightly. He wanted to put distance and time between himself and the convoy. Gibson would probably not chase him, but he was in no mood to take chances.
When his panic and anxiety reduced to the merely uncomfortable, he pulled off the road and skidded to a halt in an overgrown picnic area, shielded by trees. Ancient oaks and elms surrounded him. The sun shone in an almost cloudless sky, and the clearing was a patchwork of deep shadows and bright sunshine. A year ago, this sheltered glade would teem with families enjoying the warmth of the sun and the peace of nature. These trees witnessed the rise and fall of a civilisation. They looked down on Cal in judgement.
He slammed his fists against the steering wheel several times.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”
What an almighty balls-up. Instead of liberating the women, he barely escaped with his own life. Some hero he turned out to be. Fellman grabbing the prisoners and using them as a counter-hostage was predictable. So why did he not predict it? With hindsight, it was obvious. He had been incredibly naïve. No, that was too kind—he’d been stupid; and drunk; and tired; and stressed to the point where he couldn’t think straight. He had been so riddled with anxiety that the first setback with his plan sent him into a full-blown panic attack.
But what was the alternative? What should he have done instead?
Cal rested his forehead on the steering wheel and tried to steady himself by taking several long, deep breaths. Now he was alone again, a myriad of possibilities queued in his mind. Perhaps he should have called their bluff and shot Gibson in the head in front of them.
What could they do whilst his finger pressed on the detonator to his thunder-jacket? What if he pointed his pistol at Fellman and shot him? Although Fellman held Sabine closely, he was only a few yards away and a head shot would have been easy. They dare not shoot back. If only he had shared his plans with Sabine and got her to help, instead of acting on his own as usual.
By wearing his thunder-jacket and with his arms around Gibson’s neck, he should have taken charge and been giving the orders. All he needed to have done was keep a cool head and show a modicum of courage. Fellman called his bluff and found him wanting. Cal panicked and blew his chances—and the chances of those poor women. This was all his fault.
Cal remembered when he’d been interrogated on a T.A. training exercise, ten years ago. On that occasion, he panicked and folded with embarrassing speed.
This was just the same. His aspirations and reality proved to be a universe apart. When presented with danger, he imagined acting cool-headed and courageous—yet in truth, agitation and blundering ruled his actions. He was fine making plans in theory, but when actually put at risk, or when he had to think fast, he fell to pieces. He always had. Even meeting strangers at social events sent him into a spin of anxiety.
Was this the sort of person he wanted to be? Was he content to be lying in bed at night imagining himself as a hero when, in real life, he would fumble and disintegrate into hysteria at the first hint of danger?
He was ashamed but, much more than that, he was angry with himself. Really furious. A white-hot fury.
Kicking the car door open, he stamped over to a picnic table, bringing his right fist down on it with all his might. To his surprise, the timber shattered. He held his throbbing hand against his stomach and cradled it with his other hand. “Fucking hell! That really hurts.” Several minutes later—when the pain dulled and became tolerable—he examined the table. The damage was impressive.
Although the table was old, the timber was sound. When he pressed the plank next to the one he just split, it felt quite firm. Pity he did not summon that courage a couple of hours ago when it mattered. Punching the hell out of a picnic table did nobody any good.
He walked back to his car, rubbing his fist, which throbbed painfully.
What to do? What to do? Why was he such a wuss? What was the difference between a hero and a coward, ultimately? Perhaps only a decision. Turn and fight, or turn and run.
Cal sat back and closed his eyes, continuing to rub his sore hand. A childhood memory came unbidden to him. A man giving a speech as he opened a new building in Plymouth harbour. Sir Charles Blythe was a national celebrity, with his notoriety stemming from rowing across the Atlantic and sailing around the world single-handed, even though he only had one foot. Charlie Blythe raised millions for charity.
Cal’s mother had dragged him along to the event, hoping to inspire her reclusive son with a real-life hero. Sarah purchased a hardback copy of Charlie’s autobiography and, much to Cal’s embarrassment, she approached Charlie to sign it. Sarah and Charlie spoke for some time before Charlie signed Cal’s copy of the book and wrote a dedication. Only later, when Cal was back in the safety of his mother’s car, did he read the inscription:
To John,
When faced with two options, favour the boldest.
Fourteen-year-old Cal thought that advice was stupid. Favour the boldest option! Surely, that was a recipe for disaster. However, he never forgot that phrase and now it made sense. It was poor advice if the goal was to live a long, boring life. But was that what Cal wanted?
He reviewed his life, both before and after the Yellow Death. At every age, when faced with a tough choice, his default mode was to avoid the boldest option—to take the safe, comfortable option. Cal’s nature was to avoid risks, and his mother had unwittingly encouraged that trait. Sarah had always protected him from the big bad world. This is where it had led him, and he did not like the destination.
He thought back to the red mini-bus and Sharon’s parting words: “You live a nice, long, boring, lonely life.” That was exactly what he was doing.
It was an epiphany. When faced with two options, favour the boldest. That simple phrase changed everything. Is that what separates a hero from a coward? From this point onwards, he vowed to use that phrase to guide him. If it resulted in a bullet to the head, so be it. Better that than living as the snivelling wimp he had become.
Somehow, just making that commitment made him feel better about himself. The past was unchangeable, but lessons could be learnt from it to forge a different future.
He still felt guilty about deserting Sabine and the others. At least they were no worse off than before he arrived.
Or were they? He gave Sabine hope and then ripped it from her. How must she feel now, after being promised freedom, then having it snatched away? The devastation was written on her face when he drove away. She said he was a good man. Was he?
When faced with two options, favour the boldest.
If he was going to live by that phrase, he should start now. Right now! Was it too late to free Gibson’s prisoners? It would be crazy to go back now, wouldn’t it? Sabine said there were fourteen of Gibson’s goons. Those are long odds. But maybe he could follow their convoy at a distance, then wait until dark? Possibly plant explosives under the vehicles where the soldiers slept? Perhaps pick them off from a distance with his sniper rifle? What if he destroyed Gibson’s campervan at night with a rocket launcher? Possibilities stacked up in his mind. He did not have a plan, but ideas bounced around his head. He could still make this right—but only if he found the convoy again.
When faced with two options, favour the boldest.
Cal started the car engine and began to drive back to Exeter, thinking of the many ways he might free the captives. He felt a new sense of purpose. When he neared the service station, he parked his car and continued on foot.
The convoy had gone.
He consulted his map. They could have gone North on the A377 into Exeter City and be anywhere in Exeter. Alternatively, they might have gone South, where they would hit the A30, at which point the choice was North or South. If it was the latter, they would meet the M5 motorway and be halfway to bloody London or Plymouth, depending on which direction they chose.
He racked his brains, trying to remember if Gibson or Fellman had said anything about their future destinations, but came up blank. They might be anywhere. If this was a movie, he would search the service station and find a vital clue to help catch them. But this was reality, and he had absolutely sod all.
In frustration, he kicked an empty petrol can which clattered across the forecourt, prompting a rat to scurry for cover.
He was desperate to put right his failure and, on impulse, ran to his Land Rover. The convoy would travel slowly. There was still a chance! Cal started the engine, pressing hard on the accelerator. Both the petrol and electric motors kicked in and, despite the heavy trailer, the acceleration pushed him back into his seat. He thundered down the A377, touching ninety miles per hour. At the junction with the A30, he chose left at random. It mattered not which direction he took—only speed was important. After a further two miles, he filtered left on to the M5. Three empty lanes spread out before him. He floored the accelerator and again experienced the thrill of being pushed into his seat. As the speedo nudged past a hundred, he thought about the supplies strapped to the roof-rack and the effect of hitting a pot hole at this ridiculous speed, driving an overloaded top-heavy vehicle.
When faced with two options, favour the boldest. Sod it!
He pressed down on the accelerator harder and the engine screamed in response.
After half-an-hour, the Land Rover passed the outer limits of Bristol.
That must be a world record.
Cal’s reserves of adrenaline were running low, and if he had picked the same direction as the convoy, he would have caught them by now. He took his foot off the pedal and let the Rover gradually slow to a halt. It was quite possible he had spent the last hour travelling
in completely the opposite direction to Gibson. It was also quite possible the convoy pulled off somewhere, and he passed them without realising it.
“Dammit to Hell!” It was hopeless. Maybe he might bump into Gibson’s convoy in the future or hear about it from travellers on the road. He could do nothing for now, but this was unfinished business.
At least he tried and next time would be different. He vowed to himself that next time would be very different indeed. Sabine was the very last victim he would abandon. Gibson had been the very last bully he would run from. Whatever the consequences.
CHAPTER 11
John Gets His Gun
TIMELINE: 9 years before Yellow Death
“Much learning does not teach understanding.”
Heraclitus (540–480 BCE)
“Got a problem, John?” Gordon asked from the next desk. John was scowling at his computer screen. For two months, he had worked in a small office with a dozen other staff for ‘WebExpert SW’, a website creation business. The office was pleasant enough, with windows looking out over the town centre and a scattering of large pot plants amongst the workstations. John was a developer, known in their firm as a ‘dev’. Gordon was a designer. John made things work, whilst Gordon made them appealing.
“It’s Primasolve, they’ve looked at our latest mock-up and want it changed, yet again! Guess what, they prefer the shopping cart to work like it did in version one.”
“You’re kidding?” Gordon said. “What version are you on now?”
“Six. We’ve got to start charging for all these modifications to the spec. We’re going round in circles.”
Gordon smiled. “You’ll get used to it.”
“Will I? Building a custom website should be straightforward. We have a detailed spec agreed with the clients.”
“Yeah, but you know the sales team. They promise potential clients a bucket load of bespoke features just to get the contract signed. But most websites have a similar format so people can instinctively navigate around them. Once you start faffing with the basics and end up with something that’s ‘distinct’ you find customers can’t work out how to place a friggin’ order.”
