Arrowhead ac-5

by Paul Kane

  "Give me a hand, would you."

  "Who're you, little lady?" asked Jack.

  She nodded towards the dead man. "I'm the 'little lady' who did that. Now stop asking stupid questions and help me – he's been pretty badly injured."

  Jack did as he was told, then said, "We'd better get him back to Sherwood."

  "Sherwood, right, of course…" She rolled her eyes. "Oh, hold on, could you take him a second?"

  "Sure," said Jack, puzzled, watching as she rushed back into the house. She emerged a couple of seconds later, tucking one of the Peacekeeper pistols into her jeans, and holding the other.

  "There might still be some wheat and corn left in the barns if you want to tell your men, and we can load up the animals those scumbags slaughtered. No sense in wasting the meat, we might as well salvage what we can."

  "Wait a second," said Jack. "You're coming with us?"

  "Yeah, well… you have someone who can look after him?"

  "Can you?"

  "I've done my fair share of tending to the sick," she answered.

  As they began to carry Robert away, he turned to the woman and asked weakly, "What's…what's your name?"

  The woman gave him a worried smile. "Mary. My name is Mary."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Again, the dream…

  Robert somehow knew that he was unconscious rather than sleeping, but that didn't appear to matter. It came anyway, different as always.

  This time he could see more faces belonging to the people who stood by him at the lake. The large figure of Jack Finlayson with his staff, for example, more defined than he had been before. Now there was Mary, standing holding those Peacekeepers of hers – with Mark hiding behind, peeping out.

  He looked down into the surface of the lake – while it still was a lake – and saw his reflection, the Stag-Man from the last dream staring back up at him.

  What am I? asked Robert. Who am I? Why do you keep showing me this?

  The reflection didn't answer, but Robert knew what it would have said. He was tied to this place, connected. Then the reflection vanished, consumed by the fire that accompanied the Frenchman's walk across the lake.

  Even before Robert could reach for his bow and arrow, De Falaise was firing into the crowd, randomly hitting Robert's men. There was confusion as his people panicked, each one trying to find cover. He saw them diving to the ground, throwing themselves behind bushes and reeds.

  When he looked up again, De Falaise had a hostage.

  It was Mark.

  The Frenchman laughed as he held the gun to Mark's temple.

  No! screamed Robert. He attempted to move forwards, ignoring his fear of the fire, his only concern being to rescue Mark. But Robert found he couldn't shift. Looking down, he saw that he'd caught several bullets when the Sheriff's weapon had discharged. He fell to his knees, tears flooding his eyes. Robert reached out to Mark, his form flitting between Stevie and the boy he now knew.

  Robert fell backwards, gazing up at the clear blue sky. He felt pain, but it was an odd sensation: disjointed, like the wounds didn't really belong to him.

  A face hovered into view above him, concerned, frightened. It was Mary. She was asking if he was all right, then telling him to keep still, that she was putting pressure on the bullet-holes, stemming the blood flow. Promising him that he'd be okay.

  But even as she uttered these words of comfort, her own appearance was changing. Suddenly the words were being spoken by Joanne, the face that of his dead wife. He began to shake, twitching as he lay there bleeding to death on the bank of that flaming lake, the heat reaching for him. Joanne was trying to hold him down, pleading with him to keep still. Her face pulled out of his line of sight for only a second, but it was enough for the features to change again.

  This time, when she dipped her head again, it was a skull – not white and bleached like you might see in a science lab, but faded and yellowing, with shreds of skin still hanging from it.

  Robert struggled to get up again, but the skeleton – a real, honest to God skeleton now – was holding him down with more strength than he could find in his weakened condition.

  The skull drew closer to his face, coming in for a kiss. He brought up his hands and tried to fight it off, but as it filled his field of vision, the blackness of the eyes obliterated everything else.

  Until there was nothing left…

  Robert's eyes snapped open.

  It was dark, very dark. But that was only because his vision was still adjusting to the half-light; torchlight under cover. His head was pounding and his body ached. But it was his arm that throbbed the most. He was suddenly aware that he'd been stripped down to his boxers, his bottom half covered with a blanket. The familiar 'ceiling' of the makeshift tent that served as his home slowly greeted his eyes, and he relaxed slightly. Tentatively reaching across he felt the bandage around his arm, where the bullet had grazed him. Only a flesh wound, but sometimes those can hurt the most.

  There was something wrong with his face; it felt strangely naked and exposed. Robert touched his chin, his cheeks. His beard was gone. For some reason this was even worse than being in his underwear. He couldn't believe that had happened while he'd been unconscious, and wondered just who would have had the balls to do it anyway.

  He heard a rustle and sat up, seeing the figure at the other end of the tent. He squinted and Mary's face came into focus. She was holding a clipboard and writing on it. Robert pulled up the blanket, trying to hide his semi-nakedness.

  "Hello again," said Mary looking up. She gave a little laugh when she saw his actions. "Don't bother on my account. Who do you think it was undressed you? Had to if I was going to wash your clothes. They really stank."

  Robert rubbed his chin again, furrowing his brow.

  "Oh, yeah, that too. I figured you'd never let me do it while you were conscious. Don't worry, I'm very good at it. Used to have to shave my dad all the time when I was growing up – never used a knife before, though. And that hair could use a bit of a trim at some point as well."

  "What… what happened?"

  Mary placed the clipboard under her arm and crawled over beside him. He pulled back slightly. She noted his discomfort and increased the distance between them a little. "It's all right, you know. You haven't got anything I haven't seen before… Under that beard, I mean." Mary smiled. "You shouldn't cover it up; your face. You're quite good looking, in a sort of mean and moody way."

  "You didn't answer my question," Robert said, feeling the blood rush to his bare cheeks.

  "The short answer is, you passed out in the truck. Had a bit of a turn actually – put the wind up that mate of yours, the big guy."

  "Jack," clarified Robert.

  "Right, Jack. In fact you scared me a bit too. You even stopped breathing at one point."

  Robert's frown intensified. "I dreamed I was dying."

  "It was no dream. We had to give you the kiss of life."

  Robert looked at her.

  Mary closed her eyes slowly, then opened them again. "All right, I had to give you the kiss of life. Don't worry, I knew what I was doing. I have some medical knowledge; I looked after my brother when he got sick… And the animals, of course… not that I'm comparing you to… oh, you know what I mean."

  He continued to stare, saying nothing.

  "You're very welcome, by the way," said Mary, her tone hardening.

  "Er, thanks," said Robert.

  "That's better. Now, how do you feel?"

  "Strange. A bit out of it; sluggish."

  "That'll be the sedatives. The injections I've been giving you."

  "What?" He clutched his arm.

  "There was all kinds of good stuff in the medical packs from the trucks. Helped you sleep, helped with the pain… The priest guy-"

  "Tate."

  "Yeah, Tate – I'm getting there with the names – he showed me where everything was. To be honest, it's a wonder you didn't fry when my garage blew."

  "What was in the
re anyway?"

  "Fuel for the tractors. We always made sure we had a good stock in and I've only been using it when necessary. Fields don't plough themselves, you know."

  She leaned over to examine his arm and he shuffled backwards, recalling the skull-thing from his nightmare.

  "Hey, what's wrong? I've been looking after you for two days now and-"

  "Days?" Robert couldn't believe what he was hearing.

  "Your body needed time to heal itself," explained Mary. "You took a bit of a tumble."

  "That's one way of putting it."

  "Not for the first time, by the looks of it. I always say that there's nothing a good long rest won't cure and this is a perfect example. Don't worry about what's been happening out there, your men seem to have everything under control. They're still delivering stolen stuff back to people it was stolen from…" Mary thought about this for a second. "If you see what I mean."

  "You talk a lot," said Robert.

  "Not really, that is not usually. Not that there's such a thing as usual in this case. Sorry, I'm rambling again, aren't I? What I mean is, I think I'm making up for not having talked to anyone for so long, not since my brother…" She let her silence say what she couldn't.

  "I'm sorry," Robert said.

  Mary looked down. "Yeah, well, I'm figuring that it happened to a lot of folk. Especially talking to some of them around the camp."

  Robert nodded. "What were you doing when I woke up just then? Looked like you were making notes or something." He gestured to the clipboard under her arm.

  "What? Oh, this…" She took it out. "It was the only spare paper I could find; the back of some inventory or other." Mary turned the board around and Robert saw sketches of himself; not lying unconscious as he had been for a couple of days, apparently, but upright head and shoulder views: one of him with the hood, one without. The one without looked just like him… and again the beard was gone. He took it from her and examined it more closely.

  "You're very good," he said.

  Mary shrugged. "Had to do something to while away the hours." There was a pause before she spoke again, changing the subject. "Tell me something," she began, then shook her head, not wanting to continue.

  "What?"

  "No, it's really none of my business."

  Robert moved forwards, letting the blanket drop a little. "What?" he repeated.

  "Who're Joanne and Stevie?"

  Robert's lips tightened.

  "I only ask because you said both their names when you were out of it. Practically screamed them, in fact. I asked round camp but nobody's called Stevie and there are definitely no Joannes. No one seemed to know who-"

  "You did what?" Robert's voice rose and he threw down the clipboard.

  Mary recoiled. "I'm… I'm sorry I just-"

  "Just what? Thought you'd try and find out about my past? I hardly even know you!" Robert was edging forwards now, his face red with anger. "I want you to leave now."

  "No," she snapped back, folding her arms. "No, I won't. One thing you ought to know about me right off is that I will not be bullied – my father and brother found that out. So did that colonel back there at my farm. Now, I know you came to my 'rescue' and I really do appreciate it, but I saved your life. Twice. You of all people don't get to speak to me like that."

  Robert rubbed his forehead with his hand. "Please, I just want to you go." His tone had softened and he was trying hard not to let Mary see him cry.

  This change of tack seemed to throw her. "I didn't mean to upset you, honestly. I was just curious, that's all. It's really nothing to do with me."

  Robert looked at Mary. He did owe her a lot, but did he owe her an explanation? Could he bring himself to tell anyone about what had happened?

  Tate's words rang in his ears, "And those people back there, do you not think they would give everything they have to turn back the clock? Don't you think that they lost people they loved as well?"

  Mary had lost her family to the virus, and now her home to fire. What made his suffering any worse than hers?

  "I should go, like you said," she said softly. "Leave you in peace."

  She made to get up, and he suddenly found himself reaching out a hand and placing it on her arm. Mary turned and looked into his eyes.

  "Wait," he said. "I-"

  "Robbie! Robbie!" Jack's deep voice interrupted him. It was coming from outside the tent at first, then seconds later it was inside, along with Jack himself. He stuck his head through the gap. "Robbie… Oh, I didn't realise I was interrupting something."

  "Mary was just…"

  "…checking on the patient," she finished for him. They shared a look of complicity, with just a dash of guilt thrown in.

  "I see." Jack seemed far from convinced. "Like the new look, by the way. Very smooth."

  "What exactly do you want?" asked Robert.

  The big man faced Mary. "Is he up to coming outside, little lady?"

  "I'm up to it," Robert cut in before she could answer.

  "Good, because I really think you should see this, buddy."

  When Mary left Robert threw on some clothes, which he noted had been washed, wincing as his body protested. He probably shouldn't be going anywhere, still needed to rest, but Jack's tone told him that he was needed urgently.

  In the middle of the camp a few of the men had gathered around. Slowly, Robert made his way towards them, waving down both Jack and Mary's offers of assistance. Inside the circle was a man, probably only in his thirties, but he looked much older: he was losing his hair rapidly, there were heavy bags under his eyes, and he had a ripe, purple bruise on his forehead. His hands were shaking as he sat on a log, a blanket covering his shoulders. Tate was filling a bowl full of stew from the campfire to feed the man. When he took it, and the spoon, he nodded a thank you to the Reverend. Robert noticed that his hands were still shaking as he took the food and began to eat.

  "What's going on here, who is this man?" Robert asked.

  "Robert, you're up." Tate turned towards him, concern etched in his face. The rest of the men there did the same, their fascination shifting from this poor wretch to their resurrected leader. It made him uncomfortable, the way they were staring at him: some of them no doubt saying to themselves, So, he can be hurt after all – he isn't invulnerable. Others were probably thinking exactly the opposite, that he'd been caught in the explosion and lived to tell the tale.

  "Yes and I asked a question," he replied, trying to deflect the attention away from himself.

  "His name's Mills, comes from a community just outside Ravenshead," said Bill, who'd been leaning on a tree at the back. "We just delivered there week before last; De Falaise had left 'em starving."

  "He says he's got some very important information," Jack added.

  "Okay," said Robert, "I'm listening."

  "Allow the man to eat." Tate let his stick take his weight. "He's about ready to pass out."

  Mills held up a hand. "It's all right… really… I need to tell you all this…" He looked around at the faces present, then settled on Robert's. "It happened late last night. They… they came without any kind of warning… started… started…"

  Robert came closer. "Who came? What did they do?"

  "For Heaven's sake, Robert, can't you see the man's distressed!" Tate snapped.

  "Yes, I can. And I want to know why."

  Mills was choking back a sob. "They took my Elaine. Came into the village and just took her… right out of our house. I'd only just found someone who…" He sniffed back another tear, then said with hatred in his voice: "It was the Sheriff's men."

  It still amazed Robert how easily that name had come back into usage, and how rather than some comic strip villain it now stood for everything that was wrong in this world – striking dread into the survivors of the virus. "They've taken people before," Robert commented, not wishing to sound cold but regretting the words as soon as he'd said them.

  "Not on this scale." Mills sighed heavily. "They took at least sev
en people, maybe ten, and they told those who were left behind that they were going to grab more from different villages. Places loyal to you." It might have been Robert's imagination but had there been a veiled accusation in that sentence? All he'd been trying to do was help them, protect them from this monster that had taken up residence in the castle.

  "What do they want them for?" asked Tate, his voice gentle but firm. "Slave labour?"

  "They… They said they were going to kill them… unless…"

  "Yes?" coaxed the holy man.

  "Unless The Hooded Man surrenders himself to the Sheriff."

  Robert had been expecting this. De Falaise was a chess player and this move was intended to draw his enemy right into the middle of the board.

  "They have only till the weekend to live, then the Sheriff will begin executing them," Mills blurted out, "publicly, by hanging them in the grounds of the castle. Beginning at daybreak on Saturday."

  Jack whistled, and immediately apologised for his tactlessness.

  "He can't do that," Mary said, then turning to Robert, "Tell me he can't do that."

  "Oh, he can," Robert assured her, "and he will. Unless I give myself up to him."

  "Now hold on there just a goddamn minute," Jack said, "if you do that, who'll be left to stand up for these people? The Frenchman will just walk all over them again."

  "Jack's right." This from Bill. "The whole thing'll start over again. Everything we fought for will have bin for nothin'."

  "And," chipped in Granger, who had been standing silently in the crowd till then, "the Frenchman is just going to kill the villagers anyway. The guy's a psycho."

  Robert stepped even closer. "You say that they're doing this all over the region?"

  Mills nodded.

  "How many people do we have out there at the moment, delivering to villages?"

  "Not that many, why?" Jack said.

  "Why? Because they're in danger. More than they ever were before. The chances of our men and the Sheriff's men running into each other are much higher."

  "Oh no," said Bill, standing upright.

  Robert hobbled over. "What is it?"

  Bill gazed at him, wide-eyed. "We have a team out deliverin' not far from Newstead today. They set off early this mornin'. Tony Saddler's leading it, you know, the ex TA bloke we recruited from Kersall."