by Paul Kane
"For pity's sake!" shouted the younger man.
"Pity?" asked De Falaise, turning towards him. "Pity? Pity is for the feeble and the foolish. You do not know this, which is why you are the one in the shackles, mon ami."
Tanek finished up with the woman. When he moved to the side De Falaise could see the holes in her face where the eyes had once been. Her scream had turned into a low moan. De Falaise gestured for Tanek to tackle the next subject.
"And it is also why, you see…" the Frenchman continued, stepping aside so that Tanek could get past – his next implement of torture ready, a drill. "…you will be next."
The man began screaming even before Tanek drove the drill bit into his kneecap.
The three prisoners told De Falaise nothing he hadn't already known. The people feared and hated him, they admired and cheered for The Hooded Man.
"Something has to be done about the situation," De Falaise commented when they exited the chamber, leaving the half-dead bodies behind them, "before it gets out of hand."
"What?" Tanek asked, climbing the steps behind De Falaise.
"I have an idea. You see it strikes me that if we cannot take him in his native environment, we must smoke him out somehow, non? And the way to do that is to eat at his conscience. You do know what that is, don't you?" said De Falaise laughing. Tanek didn't even crack a smile. "Yes, that is it. Tanek, if all goes to plan then we will soon bring down this 'hero' and his band. We will rewrite history, and I will have his head before the summer is out!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Today had begun much the same as all the others since the world ended.
Though, to be honest, things hadn't really changed on the farm much anyway; work-wise at any rate. She still got up at sunrise, still fed the pigs and chickens at the same time, tended to the fields, saw to the bees in the back yard. Life was pretty much how it had been for as long as she could remember. Apart from the fact that her brother and father were gone.
Mary Louise Foster looked out over the tracts of land that formed the backdrop of her house. It was an inherited property, which strangely enough she never thought would be hers – and certainly didn't want to come by in the way that she had. Her mother left when Mary was only small, unable to cope with the lot of a farmer's wife, and the two kids that farmer had given her. In many ways Mary resented the fact she'd disappeared like that, leaving her father to cope on his own. In some ways, though, she totally understood. However, it meant that Mary and her sibling, David, had to grow up fast. They'd been set to work on the farm, David taking to it like one of their pigs to muck, while she always felt oddly out of place. And always scrutinised. In their eyes she could never lift as much as David or her father, could never work quite as hard as they did. So the older she became the more she was expected to do what they called the 'woman's work', cleaning the house, making the meals.
Then one day Mary decided enough was enough. She'd told them out and out that they had to do their fair share of work around the home.
"Only if you do your fair share out there, Moo-Moo," David had replied, using her nickname, a contraction of Mary-Lou.
"Fair enough, then, Diddy," Mary responded, folding her arms and using the ridiculous childhood name she, in turn, had saddled him with.
So she'd rolled up her sleeves and joined them again out on the farm, resolving to work not just as hard as them this time, but harder. She hadn't given up, not even when her limbs ached and her feet were sore. Mary lugged bales of hay, learnt how to drive the tractor, got stuck in with the pitchfork and, in return, demanded that David and her father get in the kitchen from time to time and learn exactly how a Hoover operated. The older of the two refused, no matter how hard Mary toiled. Bernhard Donald Foster was stuck in the past, and not just because he liked to collect his precious historical memorabilia. No, he came from a different generation, who had buried their heads in the sand when it came to treating women the same as men. He had taken his lead from his own father, and his grandfather before that, who thought their wives were put on this Earth just to serve them. Which was probably why Bernhard had spent so many nights alone in that big double bed. Sometimes she'd hear him tossing and turning in the small hours and her heart would go out to him. Then he'd get up the next morning and ask her what was for breakfast, when he could expect it, and all that sympathy would vanish.
David, on the other hand, had admired his little sister's tenacity: so much so that he began to help out with the cooking, did the dusting on a Saturday and even – shock, horror – gave a hand with the washing-up from time to time. Her father looked on this with great disdain but said nothing.
Before Bernard died of a massive stroke at the age of fifty-five, David and Mary had developed an extremely close bond. David had just turned twenty, so he took on the legal guardianship of Mary. Both agreed they didn't want to look for their estranged mother – who'd already been written out of the will. They'd be okay, here, together. They didn't need anyone else.
Like David before her, Mary attended the local school, only she excelled in the arts. When the time came to choose, though, between moving away to attend college and remaining on the farm, Mary stayed with David. He hadn't pressured her, but she'd felt it was her duty nonetheless. There was a big part of her that really didn't want to leave him, anyway. Every year that went by, however, it grew tougher and tougher for farmers. For them. She continued to draw and often wondered what it would have been like if she'd made it to college. Would she have had a successful career in graphic design, met the man of her dreams that she'd been saving herself for?
But then, looking back, none of that had mattered in the end. Because of The Cull.
The first they'd heard about the virus, living all the way out here, was when David had returned from trying to sell the pigs at auction.
"They're all talking about it. They're saying maybe it's come from the animals. Like Foot and Mouth, only worse, spreading to humans… People are getting real sick, Moo-Moo."
"There's nothing wrong with our animals!" Mary said defensively.
"I know that! I'm just telling you what they said."
But nobody knew where the virus had come from. The television threw back images of cities in chaos, of throngs of people desperate to get somewhere, but not knowing where. Mary and David locked themselves away from the outside world, pretending it didn't exist.
Then, one morning, David began to cough.
"Look, I'm bleeding, Moo-Moo." She could see that for herself. The blood was all over the towels in the bathroom, all over the floor. Mary had cleaned him up as best she could, helping him back to bed. She had no formal training in nursing, but had done a few courses in first aid and learnt what she could from books. She was also used to looking after two grown men who insisted they were dying every time they came down with something. The only difference this time being David actually was.
They had all kinds of medicines in the house – oh, the Fosters were very self-sufficient – and she tried him on antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, whatever she thought might help. Nothing did the trick.
The phone lines were all busy, the emergency services non-responsive. Mary thought about running David into the nearest town, but by that time he'd deteriorated rapidly. He probably wouldn't have lasted the journey. All she could do was sit with him and hope he made it through the night.
He did, but only just. Delirious, he kept asking for their father in the final moments, wanted to tell him he was sorry for abandoning the farm. "It's down to you now. There's only you left. You have to promise me, Moo-Moo. As long as it's still… still standing."
"I promise, Diddy," Mary had said, tears streaming down her face.
Then she realised he was already gone.
Mary buried David out by one of his favourite trees, where he used to read on summer days when they'd take picnics into the top field.
It still made her sad that she'd never gone off and started a family somewhere, but Mary had made her peace with the life she'd chosen
– wouldn't have missed spending those final few years with her brother for anything. Besides which, in retrospect, what might have happened to that family even if she'd started it? She'd probably have had to say goodbye to a husband she loved, to children. She couldn't even begin to imagine what that must be like; what it could do to you.
Mary never really questioned why she didn't get sick. She just assumed there was something inside her stronger than David. In the end she'd been proved stronger than both him and her father, had been bequeathed the entire farm and its lands.
And today had begun just like any other day: she'd done quite a few of her chores and was now looking forward to a nice bacon sandwich.
No sooner had she put the pan on the range, standing with her long, dark hair tied back in a ponytail, than she heard the sound of approaching engines. Apart from the tractors, which she'd used sparingly since David passed away – conserving the fuel they kept out in the adjourning garage – she hadn't heard a car engine in longer than she could remember. It sounded strange to her; not just the noise, but the connotations of it. That people were, in fact, out there in the world.
That they were heading her way.
Mary rushed to the kitchen window, craning her head to try and see up the dirt track leading to her farm.
They were dots to begin with, no bigger than the bees she tended to outside. But they were growing larger with each metre of road they devoured. Mary hadn't encountered another human being in all this time, and now she was about to meet several, all at once. She counted two jeeps, three or four motorcycles and a truck.
What do I do? she thought to herself, realising her hands were shaking. Hide? Pretend I'm not here and hope that they'll just go away? But she'd done enough of that already. It didn't sit right anymore. This was her farm now and she should see what they wanted. After all, they looked sort of official. Perhaps civilisation was piecing itself back together? Perhaps they were here to help?
It wasn't long before the vehicles were in the yard: the chickens in the run protesting, the pigs in the sty oinking for all they were worth. Mary hung back at the window, crouching and peering out through the netting. The men wore uniforms but they weren't like any she'd seen before. They looked as if they'd been standing in an Army amp; Navy store when a hurricane hit: each soldier sporting items from different branches of the forces. The man stepping down from the driver's side of the truck was wearing a peaked cap – obviously the guy in charge.
He reached into the truck and pulled out a megaphone, as more of the soldiers came to join him. Each one was heavily armed, she noted, holding machine guns close to their chests.
"If there is anyone at home here, please come out with your hands where we can see them," the man shouted. His accent betrayed him; definitely not from England, though Mary couldn't place where it had originated.
They don't sound very friendly, Moo-Moo… came the voice of her brother in her head. It didn't freak her out at all, because she knew – hoped – she wasn't crazy, just imagining what he might say if he were here. No, I definitely don't like the looks of this.
Neither did she.
"If you don't come out we will be coming in. We are here under the authority of the new High Sheriff of Nottingham."
The what? said David in her head. He's got to be kidding, right? Have we just gone through a time warp or something?
Mary watched as the men spread out, investigating the chicken run, the sty. They reported back to the fellow with the peaked cap. She watched, horrified, as one of the soldiers stepped into the run, grabbing a chicken and snapping its neck. Mary had just about got over that when she heard gunfire coming from the pigsty, a rat-ta-ta-tat noise as someone massacred the helpless creatures. Her hand shot to her mouth.
They're going to do that to me, too, aren't they?
Probably, Moo-Moo. I don't think you should hang around to find out, do you?
Mary came away from the window and noticed the smoke; the bacon had burnt to a crisp. Then the smoke alarm went off, proving that even if everything else in this world had gone to crap then at least one thing could be relied on. The incessant beep-beep-beep gave her away, and she knew she didn't have long before they stormed the house.
Mary ran from the kitchen into the hall, passing the crossed broadswords that hung there, on her way to the combined study amp; living room. She hurried to the desk at the back, her father's antique desk. On her way something caught her eye through the window – figures rounding the back of the house, ensuring any escape route would be cut off. Mary yanked open the drawer nearest to her. There they were, lying in the bottom, shiny and fully loaded, with packs of bullets next to them. When they'd been little her father had kept them safely locked away, only bringing them out to admire and clean when they were in bed. As they grew, he'd been less bothered about safety, even letting them hold the pistols when they were unloaded. David had always looked at them like he was handling live snakes, but Mary had felt the weight in her hand comforting. Whereas most farmers might have a shotgun to protect their land, Bernhard Foster had two replica Smith amp; Wesson Peacemakers, and he knew how to use them. Mary had watched him out in the field sometimes, able to knock nine out of ten tin cans from their perch on top of a wooden crate at thirty paces or more.
She'd watched and she'd remembered.
When the handgun ban had come into effect in the UK, David had wanted to take them in. But she argued against it, saying that it was one of the few things they had left of their father, but really just wanting to keep them around the place. She felt safer with them in the drawer. There was a reason she'd looked after them and kept them loaded ever since David had gone. A reason she'd practised with the tins just like her father had when she was young. This was the reason, she understood that now.
Taking them out, her fingers curled around the handles, and it gave her confidence. Mary felt like she could do anything now, anything at There was a banging on the front door – which she had a clear view of from her position. Placing one pistol down on the desk momentarily, she emptied out bullets and stuffed them into the pockets of her jeans, as many as she could cram in there. Skirting back around the desk, she used the living room door jamb for cover and risked a glance out. Heavy boots were stamping against the wood of the front door, but it was holding for now. It wouldn't for long.
Just like Custer, eh? Dad would've been proud, said David.
Great, thanks…
The door was splintering at the lock and Mary knew in seconds they'd be through. She slid down the wall, breathing heavily, waiting to act until she heard the door give completely. She heard it smash open, and turned to fire upwards – assessing the situation quickly before pulling the trigger.
The soldiers burst in and she let them have it. Because of the awkward angle she was at, her aim was a little wide, ricocheting off the stone wall above the door. Nevertheless it was enough to force a retreat.
She smiled to herself – that wasn't so hard. But then a hail of bullets filled the hallway; Mary only just managed to roll back into the living room and avoid them.
"Tin cans don't do that," she muttered to herself.
Luckily they were aiming high, the soldiers either not that well trained or hampered by the smoke that was wafting out of the kitchen and filling the hall, masking her from sight.
Mary looked around for an easy exit. The enormous back windows were probably her best option, but even now she saw shadows there as more men ran around the back of the house, trapping her.
She heard the shattering of windows elsewhere too, possibly the dining room that lay on the other side of the hall. The stairs were between there and here, so a dash for the landing or bedrooms was out of the question. Mary shuffled up against the living room wall.
First order of business was to defend the front door – they'd be coming through that again any moment. Mary rose, twisted her head, and peered around the jamb. Sure enough she spotted figures there – responding to orders given by their commandi
ng officer outside – and she fired blindly through the smoke. Mary dived when the muzzles of their machine guns flashed again, rolling as she did so to reach the other side of the jamb.
There was gunfire at the back of the house as well, raking the stone, shattering the glass of the living room window. Mary fired a couple of shots in that direction to try and ward off any soldiers entering that way.
She risked another glance into the hall, and it was at this point she saw something rolling towards her. It was small and black, ball-like but metallic; it rattled along the wooden floor as it went.
Move, Sis! Get out of there, right now!
"Oh shit!" she cried, scrambling to her feet. Mary was about halfway across the room, already diving for the shelter of the desk, when the grenade exploded in the hallway. The force of it flung her the rest of the way, bouncing her off the top of the desk and pitching her against the far wall, as most of the room appeared to follow behind her.
Mary landed on the other side of the desk, protected from the resultant blast but barely conscious.
Moo-Moo… Wake up! You've got to wake up… Those men are in the house and they're going to hurt you! Please Moo-Moo!
So, her mind was still working then, still keeping up the imaginary dialogue with her dead brother? She drifted in and out of wakefulness, desperate to keep her eyes open. Mary could hear sounds, men calling out to each other. A creaking from above, someone walking on the floorboards upstairs. They were searching the house from top to bottom.
"All clear," someone called.
She blacked out for a few moments, then another voice not far away was shouting, "In here… Look."
"Careful, she's still alive."
"Call Colonel Rudakas, quickly."
Mary was aware of hands on her, of being lifted up – but she couldn't do a blessed thing about it. Again, a few more seconds of blackness, then she felt her face being slapped.
"Hey! Wake up!"
Another slap, followed by a shake – rough hands holding her on either side were pushing her forwards, then backwards, in quick succession. Mary screwed her hazel eyes up tight, then opened them. The figure in front of her was blurry, but she could tell by the peaked cap it was the man in charge, this Rudakas guy.
