by Paul Kane
"Jesus," Jack whispered. "You traitorous-"
"I did it for my Elaine," protested Mills. "They're going to kill her. And… and your plan, it's never going to work in a million years."
Jack huffed. "You think so?"
"I know so. They'll be expecting something… De Falaise will murder the hostages."
"Weren't…" croaked Robert, then coughed. He turned to the man again. "Weren't you listening earlier? He'll murder them anyway."
Mills shook his head, not willing to accept the truth. The next stage was lashing out again. "It's your fault they took her in the first place! All this is your fault. It's you he wants! If only you'd left them well enough alone to do what they wanted."
"You'd have been even further up shit creek, pal," argued Jack, then looked over at Tate. "Sorry, Rev."
The holy man wasn't really listening, he was too fixated on the scene before him.
Robert rolled off Mills, and rubbed his windpipe. The man didn't try to get up, didn't even try to escape. Jack and the others came and grabbed hold of him, dragging him away from Robert. "Don't hurt him," their leader managed.
"Hurt him? I know what I'd do, given half a chance," Jack told Robert.
"He was just scared for the person he loved."
Another snort. Then Jack told them to take Mills away and put a guard on him. He knew too much about what they were planning for them to just let him go.
Tate came fully inside, leaning heavily on his stick, and waited for Robert to look up. "If…" Robert coughed. "If that's an… an example of support in the villages, we don't stand a chance."
"You don't believe what he said, do you?"
"Trying to assuage your guilt, Reverend?" Robert said in broken words, massaging his throat.
"Guilt?"
"About persuading me to do this – setting all this in motion." Robert coughed again.
"It wasn't me who persuaded you, Robert."
He fixed Tate with a stare. "People are probably going to die because of me. You do know that, don't you? Maybe even Mark."
"And how many live today because of you, answer me that? How many of the men out there have a purpose now?"
"I'll probably get them killed as well."
"It's their choice to follow you. Their decision. In a broken world like this, you should feel proud of that."
There was someone else at the flap of the tent, a female face, and Robert looked past Tate, locking eyes with Mary. "I just saw that man Mills being taken away and…" She rushed over and knelt down beside Robert. "You're hurt."
He waved a hand to let her know he was okay, aware of the half-smile on Tate's face. "Remember what I said, Robert," said the Reverend, then left.
Mary watched him go. "What's he talking about? What went on here?"
But Robert didn't answer her, because he didn't quite understand it himself.
It was somehow connected to a dream he'd been having before he felt Mills' hands at his throat, that much he did know.
Though whether good or evil had won this particular battle, he couldn't really say.
The knock roused him from his slumber.
He saw a shape almost on top of him – looming over. Hands were reaching down. It brought back flashes of the dream he'd been having. A struggle of some kind, a fight with The Hooded Man. They'd had each other by the neck, each fighting to squeeze the life out of the other.
But this was no man – it was the woman from Hope. His doll. And she wasn't trying to strangle him, he saw that now. No, she was shaking him, rousing him even further from his sleep. Pointing to the door.
Or was that just a cover for what she'd really been about? It was unlike her to be so animated, certainly in the bedroom.
De Falaise looked at her suspiciously. Then he rose, pushing her to one side.
"Oui, oui… I am coming," he shouted, pulling on his gown as he marched over to the door. "This really had better be good."
Tanek was standing there. "It is."
For the briefest of seconds De Falaise noted the bigger man's interest in what was beyond him: the body of the naked woman on the bed. That made him feel good, the fact that even his right hand wanted what he owned. Perhaps he would hold onto her just that little bit longer – especially if she was becoming more… responsive.
"So?"
"A boy," Tanek said simply.
"What?" De Falaise rubbed his tired eyes. "What are you talking about?"
"Javier recognised him when we brought the new prisoners through."
De Falaise frowned. "As who?"
"One of Hood's gang."
The Frenchman beamed from ear to ear. "Really? You are sure? Give me a few minutes to get dressed and I will be with you."
De Falaise closed the door and clapped his hands. "Did you hear that, mon cherie? It would appear that we have an added bargaining chip." He began to put on his clothes, looking up only once or twice at the woman. She was leaning against the headrest, knees pulled up close. She regarded him with an odd expression, somewhere between defeated and catatonic.
"I will return," he promised her. Then he exited the room and closed the door behind him.
Gwen clutched her knees, pulling them even tighter to her body.
She'd been so near to grabbing him, a fiery strength rising in her. She could have done it, and done it easily – but the knock at the door had thrown her into panic. In an instant she had altered her stance, from attacker to concerned 'companion', rousing him. Had he bought it? There was no way of telling, but the news about the boy had probably chased any immediate thoughts about her from his mind. The very idea that they'd stumbled upon one of The Hooded Man's gang, and completely by accident, was nearly enough to make the Frenchman dance a jig on the spot.
Gwen knew which boy Tanek had been talking about, as well. It had to be the young kid with the tousled blond hair. Good God, what on Earth would that maniac do to try and get information out of him? Let Tanek loose? Would he do that?
Of course he would – the man had no scruples.
It was at that point, as she imagined Luke or Sally in his place, Gwen began to cry. She'd never cried for herself in all the time she'd been at the castle, but she did then.
Because she knew in her heart that she had failed.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The weekend, they'd said.
A couple of days now to turn the men into the finest troops Sherwood had ever seen – able to face a superior enemy, with superior firepower. Could it be done? Possibly, but only if they returned once more to the basics of fighting.
Robert had already been giving some of his men lessons in the use of bow and arrows, even how to make their own. Granger had proved the most proficient, and volunteered to oversee the development of those particular skills. Obviously it would be madness to send the men into battle against machine guns without them being similarly armed… But Robert's own preferred weapon had the added advantage of being quiet and the ability to take out a target from a surprisingly long distance. He'd proved this again and again on strikes against De Falaise's troops.
For his part, Tate was teaching the men hand-to-hand combat. They'd had virtually no training in this while in De Falaise's army, the Sheriff preferring instead to rely solely on firepower. That was all well and good when your enemy was far enough away, but what about when they were on top of you? Robert couldn't help grinning when he watched a pair of younger men try to take Tate down.
"Come at me, then, let's see what you're made of," the Reverend had said. They were on the floor in seconds, with the minimum of effort, the holy man hardly having to move. "I see… It appears we have quite a lot of work ahead of us, then."
On that first day after the plan had been outlined – and after the attempt on Robert's life – two people came to him for a talk. The first was Bill.
He began in his usual gruff way. "Judas Priest. Sure ye know what you're doin'?"
Robert shook his head and regretted it immediately. He coughed loudly.
"Aye, I heard about the Mills thing. Shoulda been more grateful for what we were tryin' to do. For what you've done for all of 'em… All of us." He looked at Robert then, seeing whether his roundabout way of apologising had worked. Robert nodded to tell him it had, and that he was grateful. Men like Bill very rarely said they were sorry, if ever. This was the closest he was ever going to get.
"He thinks the world of ye," added the farmer, "Mark."
Robert closed his eyes, picturing the boy's face – trying not to imagine what he must be going through at the castle. Hoping he could hold on until they mounted their rescue attempt.
"We're goin' to bring him back," continued Bill as if reading his thoughts. "Bring 'em all back."
"I hope you're right," said Robert.
"Aye. Listen, I've bin thinkin' – you'll need a way of knockin' out that pillock on the castle roof an' his pop-gun." Robert would hardly have described the high-powered sniper rifle De Falaise's man had as a 'pop-gun', but then compared to that cannon Bill carried around with him…
"Have any ideas?"
Bill smiled. "As a matter o' fact, I do. Care to go for a little drive?"
Robert was reluctant to leave the forest at such a crucial point, but Bill promised him it would be worthwhile. So they'd taken one of the jeeps out, travelling east. Bill had refused to tell him where they were going, leaving it as a complete mystery. "Just hope no one's got to 'em first or wrecked the place," was all he would say.
"Look, are you going to tell me where we're heading?"
"Towards Newark – that give ye any clues?"
Robert didn't need any, especially when they turned off, following the brown and white signs which eventually led them to a large car park and concrete runways. He stuck his head out to get a better glimpse of the corrugated metal hangars, camouflaged grey and khaki aircraft left abandoned outside to rust. The air museum, once a thriving tourist attraction built on a former World War Two airfield, was now empty and neglected. It was somewhere Robert had always intended to take Stevie but just never got around to it, never found the time. How he would have marvelled at the planes. Robert felt a twinge of guilt as they drove in, because it was way too late and the only reason he was coming here now was because he needed to save another boy.
Bill parked the jeep in the virtually empty car park. Anyone with any sense working here would have returned home to be with loved ones when the plague hit, the owners of the few cars that remained probably left it too late. Whether they'd see any bodies here today depended on if the clean up crews had bothered with this place. Robert just hoped it hadn't appeared on De Falaise's radar.
Thinking along the same lines, Bill took out his shotgun as he climbed from the jeep. "Can never be too careful," he said, as if Robert needed telling. He already had his bow raised.
As they walked over towards one of the hangars, Bill pointed to various aircraft.
"See that, it's a BAC Canberra bomber. In service up until the '70s. There you have a BA Sea Harrier. A Vertical Take Off and Landing aircraft, it was still in service with the UK and US Marines up until… well, y'know. Best all round fighter-bomber in the world. Oh, that there's an Avro Vulcan bomber. Superb British heavy bomber in service until the 1980s, last used against Argentineans in the Falklands Campaign, the nuclear bomber of the UK. An' over there's an Avro Shackleton. Old turbo-prop bomber…"
Robert gaped at him, astonished.
"What?"
"Aeroplanes? I just never…"
"Wouldn't have pegged me as an enthusiast?" Bill tutted. "Have to say, I'm not really. Me uncle was ex-RAF, nuts about these things. Taught me all I'll ever need to know, even took me up on a few flights in his civilian life. This place was like a second home to him, God rest his soul."
"And you know how to fly these things?"
"Aye." He closed his eyes, imagining the cockpit. "Airspeed indicator, heading, altimeter, fuel gauge, landing gear, throttle." With his finger he traced the position of each instrument. He finished with a tap in the air in front of him. "Yoke. Simple."
"So, your plan is to take one of them up and what? Strafe the castle? Use a few of those relics of missiles they have here?"
"Naw," Bill replied, as if he'd even considered it as a serious suggestion. "This is a museum, lad, not a military installation – leastways it hasn't bin for a good many years."
"Then what? He'd see us coming a mile away in one of those things!"
"Who said I was thinkin' about a plane?" Bill winked.
He directed Robert across to one of the hangers and smashed open the locks. They stepped inside – the light from windows above illuminating the scene. Robert saw more aircraft: one grey, one red and blue, another silver and yellow, all remarkably untouched. He guessed the survivors of the virus had other things on their minds than visiting air museums.
"I did think about an early Gazelle. The Sud Aviation SA 341 Gazelle prototype they have here, but this is more manoeuvrable." He strode over to a helicopter, which had a huge see-through bubble on the front. It was a bit like those Robert had seen in old reruns of M*A*S*H. "Westland Sioux Scout/Trainer. Very quick, very small. Somethin' to draw his fire, but hopefully avoid it."
The doors opened wide and Bill undid one, swinging it outwards. He climbed inside it and stuck a thumb up to Robert, who followed him.
"She's not fuelled," Bill called to him, "but I daresay I can scrounge up some aviation fuel from around here somewhere. They used to have demonstrations all the time."
"And how do you intend on getting it out of here?" said Robert, asking the obvious.
"Same way they got her in." Bill pointed down. "She's on wheels, look. Once we clear some space, we can tow her through the hangar doors. Bit of an effort, which is probably why no bugger else's bothered, but it can be done."
"This is insane," said Robert.
"More insane than what you're plannin'?" Bill asked, not expecting a reply. "Look, we've got the element of surprise – that bloody Frenchman 'asn't got anything that flies."
"As far as we know," Robert pointed out. "That doesn't matter – the sniper will shoot you out of the sky before you can get close."
"I may look as rough as a badger's arse, but I'm pretty nifty once I get up there. Besides, while the bastard's shootin' at me, he's not shootin' at anyone else."
Robert had to concede that. At the same time he also had to wonder just why Bill was so eager to launch himself – literally – into this suicide mission… not that he could talk. Was it because he felt bad about what had happened to Mark? Or did he really think he could pull it off? Robert didn't question him, just helped Bill to get the chopper out into the open, using the jeep to tow it from the hangar. The side caught on the nose of a plane that was a little too close for comfort, but in the end they managed it.
"We should have brought more men," Robert complained to Bill.
"An' take 'em away from their trainin'? They need all the help they can get. Anyway, it's like I said: a surprise."
After that Bill filled the chopper with fuel they managed to scavenge: enough to get the thing home – and both of them – plus stocks of it for the Nottingham run. Robert stared at the flying machine in front of him. He'd never flown before, apart from three or four holidays abroad with the family. He definitely hadn't been suspended above the ground in a bubble and didn't relish the prospect now.
"It'll be fine," Bill assured him. "A doddle. Tell ye what, I'll show ye."
And he did, beginning with the main differences between how a plane and helicopter fly: one creating lift by angling the wings, the other by manipulating the rotor blades to change the angle at which they meet the air. He took Robert through the pre-flight checks, explaining briefly what the main controls did – from the collective control stick through to the cyclic control joystick and, finally, the tail rotor pedals on the floor. "So, no accelerator?" enquired Robert, only to get a groan from Bill.
Next he walked Robert through the instruments, stopping w
hen he noted the man stifling a yawn. It was as if Bill needed an outlet for all this information, like he'd been bottling it up inside for years and it was all coming out now he had a captive audience. "Anyway, ye get the general idea. Time to go."
He made Robert strap himself him in, warning him that it had been a while since he'd done this.
"How much of a while?"
Bill didn't answer, instead he put on the earphones and instructed Robert to do the same. With nothing else to occupy him, and more to take his mind off what was about to happen than anything, Robert watched Bill as he started up the chopper. Bill patted the instrument panel that lay between them. "At-a-girl." When he noticed Robert looking at him, he explained: "They can be very sensitive, needs a light touch. The biggest mistake new pilots make is to 'over control'."
Robert had to admit, the take-off was incredibly smooth. Even so, he gripped the end of his bow, squeezing tightly until they were up in the air.
It was an odd sensation and Robert wasn't sure whether he loved or hated it. He thought that it would be interesting to fly the length of this land, see what had become of it. See who had survived where – and what had been destroyed.
It was a land worth fighting for, Robert finally realised as he saw it stretching out in front of him in all its beautiful patchwork glory. It was a land worth keeping free. If ever the human race was to get back on it shaky legs again then men like De Falaise had to be defeated.
"All right?" asked Bill beside him.
"Just drifting."
"Aye," said the ruddy-cheeked man, coaxing more speed from the chopper as they headed back to familiar forest terrain.
Once they'd landed on the outskirts, Robert and Bill made their way back to the camp to find new faces waiting for them. Strangers in their den. Robert's first instinct was to bring up his bow, but Jack raised a hand, jogging over to explain.
The men and women were from communities the Sheriff had terrorised, communities Robert had been trying to help. Though these were new, and small, they represented the first seeds of rebuilding this part of England. The people that made up their number had found each other, in spite of all the odds, and built new friendships, relationships and homes. Now those they cared about were in danger and they wanted to do something about it.
