Arrowland

by Paul Kane

  THE AFTERBLIGHT CHRONICLES

  ARROWLAND

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  An Abaddon Books[TM] Publication

  www.abaddonbooks.com

  abaddon@rebellion.co.uk

  First published in 2010 by Abaddon Books[TM], Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited, Riverside House, Osney Mead, Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

  ISBN (.mobi): 978-1-84997-300-7

  ISBN (.epub): 978-1-84997-299-4

  Editor: Jonathan Oliver

  Cover: Mark Harrison

  Design: Simon Parr & Luke Preece

  The Afterblight ChroniclesTM created by Simon Spurrier & Andy Boot

  Copyright © 2010 Rebellion. All rights reserved.

  The Aferblight ChroniclesTM, Abaddon Books and Abaddon Books logo are trademarks owned or used exclusively by Rebellion Intellectual Property Limited. The trademarks have been registered or protection sought in all member states of the European Union and other countries around the world. All right reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

  For Richard Carpenter, as much of an inspiration now as he was back then.

  'Then Robin Hood bent a very good bow,

  To shoot, and that he would fain;

  The stranger he bent a very good bow,

  To shoot at bold Robin again.

  "O hold thy hand, hold thy hand," quoth Robin Hood,

  "To shoot it would be in vain;

  For if we should shoot the one at the other,

  The one of us may be slain."'

  - Robin Hood Newly Revived

  (Traditional Ballad)

  Chapter One

  The first sign they were in trouble was when a crater the size of a garden pond appeared ahead of them.

  There had been very little sound until that moment - then an almighty bang which hurt the ears. This was accompanied by a rocking of the vehicles they were directing up that particular stretch of road.

  Mick Jamison, in charge of the lead truck - or, as he called her, 'Stacey' - pulled on the steering wheel to avoid the smoking hole, then glanced in his mirrors to see his companions doing the same. Those using horses and carts, however, had to calm their animals first - not an easy task when none of the animals were used to loud noises. A couple reared, kicking back at the carts and riders.

  Mick snatched up his radio, but it hissed static. "Jesus," he said, looking through the windscreen and spotting the tail of another mortar winding its way down to earth. This one struck the side of the road, but had just as much impact. Even with all his years of experience - before and after the nightmare known as The Cull - he struggled to control the tons of metal and cargo.

  This hadn't been part of the deal. Actually, there hadn't even been a deal. Unlike his jobs before the virus, when he'd been employed by the large haulage companies to transport goods, there was no paperwork for this gig. Back then it had been a nice, relatively safe job - the only danger being from other, less careful drivers on the motorways. People who took chances, nipping in and out of traffic at ridiculous speeds, driving all night without taking stops when they felt tired. But in all his years in the delivery trade, Mick himself had never been in a single accident. He'd certainly never been fired upon.

  These were different times.

  He'd realised that when the people in his neighbourhood had started dropping in the streets, bleeding from every orifice, coughing their guts up onto the pavement. He'd realised it when he'd reached his girlfriend's house and found her-

  That seemed such a long time ago now, years beginning to feel like decades.

  If he'd been left in any doubt that things were different, the gangs and cults roaming the streets had soon changed that. At first only disorganised handfuls, then in greater numbers as they'd banded together for a common cause: mayhem and destruction, making the most of the lack of authority figures.

  Some had even come from overseas to wreak havoc, like that insane Frenchman they'd heard about - De Falaise. In pre-virus times, he would have been locked up for doing what he did, attempting to take on the mantle of Sheriff of Nottingham. As if that hadn't been bad enough, there had been that Russian, the self-styled Tsar, a year or so later. Mick had lost friends to him and his forces when they invaded Britain, cutting a swathe through towns and villages.

  Yes, he had friends - even in these bleak times. Especially in these times. Because just as there were those who gathered together to cause chaos, there were others intent on bringing some semblance of normality back to these shores. It was how the markets had started, how he'd become involved in them - stumbling on one particular outfit not far from Wickham. He was impressed that communities had pulled themselves together enough to produce their own food, replacing what had been taken for granted before. Impressed that they were cultivating links with their neighbours, using a barter system now that money was obsolete.

  The markets and trading system had been steadily growing, so when Mick got wind of the fact that folk were also delivering these goods, picking up the traded items in the process, he offered his services - and his truck. He'd felt like a bit of a spare part all this time, on the road, hiding out in Stacey's cab and living on whatever he could find in out of the way places, scavenging whatever fuel he could from abandoned vehicles; some days even wishing he'd caught that virus along with the rest of 'em. At least now he could make himself useful, doing the only thing he'd ever really been good at. He was working for - and with - good people; helping to make a difference, perhaps even helping turn things around.

  Then came reports of convoys being attacked by armed raiders. These weren't like earlier encounters, small parties chancing their arm in the hopes of coming away with a vanload of fresh beef or eggs; easily driven off by the weapons they carried to protect themselves. No, these guys were well organised and extremely well armed.

  Up until now, they'd been lucky. Mick and his mates hadn't come face-to-face with them. He could fool himself into thinking it was just like old times on the open road again. If you ignored the fact that due to the scarcity of diesel, some of the transportation had to be of the old fashioned live variety.

  That luck had just run out. On their way up through Corbridge, towards the Scottish border, they'd suddenly become the target of those legendary raiding parties. Mick recalled the pattern: first creating confusion from a distance, an attempt to cut off the route ahead; next cutting off radio communications, probably with some kind of jamming equipment.

  Then they would attack.

  And if the stories were to be believed, not many of Mick's group would survive.

  Another mortar fell to the right of Mick's truck and he grappled with the wheel again, almost tipping the vehicle over - clipping the edge of this new crater but not falling into it. Some of those behind were not as fortunate, or as skilled. One truck, being driven by a guy Mick had known only a few months called Jed Elliott, tipped into the first of the holes head-on. It was now stuck there like some kind of mole burrowing into the ground. Mick thought about stopping, but saw something in his mirrors which made him press down on his accelerator instead.

  Jeeps and motorcycles - quite obviously military issue from their colour - had joined the party, skidding down hillocks on either side of the road. A couple of the jeeps had no roofs; mounted on top were huge machine-guns, spitting out bullets as the raiders opened fire. They raked the road ahead of one particular cart, and the two horses pulling it broke free of their re
ins, running for freedom, leaving both driver and cart at the mercy of the raiders.

  If they had any.

  Already the lead bikes had caught up with the truck behind Mick's. Riding on the bikes were pairs of raiders, one handling the steering, the other clinging to the back. Both were dressed similarly, though: goggles over their eyes, breathing masks over their mouths, wearing thick, leather gloves and boots. Some kind of dark tartan Mick wasn't familiar with flapped in the breeze, overlaying the combats beneath. And at their hips hung what appeared to be claymores, with rounded guards over the handles.

  As he watched, one bike pulled alongside the truck and its passenger fired some kind of hand-held harpoon, like he was hunting a landlocked metal whale. A length of rope unfurled with it and the next thing Mick knew, the raider had leapt from the bike and onto the truck, swinging from its side. The raider launched himself forward, until he came level with the driver's door, then grabbed hold with his free hand before letting go of the rope. Next he produced a handgun and shot out the window. The driver, a woman called Kimberly Johns, looked terrified when the glass shattered, but at least she was still alive. Mick saw her reach over and bring up the rifle she always carried in her cab, but before she could use it the raider had tossed something inside. Within seconds, the cab filled with smoke, and the truck began weaving. That explained the breathing masks. Through the smoke, Mick saw Kim's outline slump against the big wheel, and gradually the truck ground to a halt.

  Again, he knew he should stop - but Mick had problems of his own. More bikes catching up, two flanking him, both carrying raiders with similar harpoons. They were going to pull the same stunt on him. "Shit!"

  He sped up, but his vehicle wasn't meant for racing. They could outrun and outmanoeuvre him easily. That didn't mean he should just give up, though. There were alternatives to running, and he wasn't going to let them take Stacey without a fight.

  Mick lined up one of the bikes in his mirror, making sure it was directly behind him. Then he stamped on the brakes: not enough to tip the truck, but enough to cause the bike to slam hard into the back of his trailer. With a certain amount of satisfaction, he noted the dislodged raiders sprawled across the road, their bike laying a few feet away from them.

  Another two bikes joined the remaining one on his tail. Mick accelerated again, but already they were firing their harpoons - up and into the top of his trailer. At least two of them swung over. Mick heard them trying to break into the back - then their footsteps across the top of his truck, heading for his cab.

  Unlike Kim, he didn't carry a gun, had never used one in his life and didn't intend to start now. But he was far from unarmed. Even back in his early days, he'd kept his trusty baseball bat - a holiday present from a cousin, now long dead - down the side of the seat. His fingers curled around the handle. Mick didn't know how much use it'd be against bullets or gas canisters, but if even one of those raider bastards stuck their head in here, they'd get one hell of a shock.

  Mick flinched when he heard the gunfire, however - waiting for the bullets to pierce Stacey's cab.

  Then him.

  Ceallach held his bike straight, but off to the side of the truck in front of him.

  He'd seen what this driver had just done to Ròidh and Machar back there, braking so that they'd run slap bang into the truck. Ceallach glanced across at Garbhan, on the bike running parallel, and Flannagan riding his just a little behind. They'd deposited their kinsmen onto the truck: Neas and Osgar were hanging by their harpoon ropes, while his partner, Torradan, had climbed on top to see if he could take out the driver.

  Neas had smashed the lock and Osgar pulled up the back of the truck, which rolled into the trailer's roof. Ceallach watched as the pair peered inside. It was a fine haul today, the back of the truck filled with sacks of potatoes, crates of cabbages, carrots, tomatoes and cucumbers. If an army marched on its stomach, then they would be going far.

  Just as she had promised.

  Towards the back of the truck were more sacks. But as Osgar swung in and approached them, he seemed to stop, cock his head, then stumble backwards. Neas, directly behind him, moved towards his companion - then was catching him as he fell.

  Ceallach frowned. What the fuck was happening in there?

  Neas fell back as well; it looked for a second like he'd lost his footing and both men were about to tumble out of the truck. Ceallach angled his bike slightly, just in case - signalling the others not to get in the way. Then Neas straightened up, but let Osgar go at the same time. Neas was reaching for his pistol, but even before his hand was at the holster, he was spinning as if he'd been punched. Ceallach inched his bike closer to see what was going on.

  It was then that he saw what was sticking out of Neas. Thin wooden shafts, with feathers at the end, embedded in his shoulder and midriff. Neas had fallen to one side, providing a better look at who'd done this. There, rising from under some covers, hidden amongst the sacks, was a man.

  But not just any man. This one wore a hood and held a bow in his hand - and Ceallach knew immediately who he was. The man whose legend had spread across this entire island over the past couple of years; the man who had dispatched that Frenchman at Nottingham Castle; who'd led his troops into battle against the might of the Tsar's forces, armed with only arrows and swords. Some of it was made up - had to be! Christ, how could one man take down attack helicopters using that kind of weaponry? To hear people talk, you'd think he was bullet-proof or something. Rubbish. Yet Ceallach felt a twinge of fear when he looked at him, especially when he saw the man's eyes under that cowl. It felt as if he should be ordering a withdrawal before it was too late.

  Osgar, who had been wounded in a similar way to Neas, clambered to his feet again, clutching the parts of his body now punctured by The Hooded Man's arrows. It was a clumsy attack by an already defeated opponent, and Hood dodged it easily enough. But then he did something else, something he probably wouldn't have if Osgar had stayed down.

  Hood shouldered Osgar, almost giving him a fireman's lift, then he bent slightly before throwing him out of the back of the truck. Just as his aim had been true with the arrows, so it was with this man's body, which struck Garbhan's bike full on, knocking the rider off and dragging the bike itself into Flannagan's path. Ceallach swallowed hard as he saw Flannagan hit the obstacle, the still moving bike tipping up and pitching its rider over the handlebars.

  The result, which Ceallach left behind him, was a tangled mess of bodies and machinery. Hood stepped forward, standing on the edge of the truck, taking aim at the final rider and his bike.

  Ceallach manoeuvred sideways, avoiding the arrow by centimetres, and drew his pistol to fire a couple of rounds. Hood took cover behind a crate, while more of Ceallach's bullets bounced off the metal of the entrance.

  Another close call with an arrow convinced Ceallach to veer off, hopefully out of the Hooded Man's line of fire. Then he accelerated, gesturing wildly to Torradan, who was still on the roof.

  "Inside!" shouted Ceallach, but knew the man couldn't hear him through the mask. He pointed his own gun downwards and pretended to fire, hoping Torradan would get the message. The man shook his head in bemusement. Ceallach couldn't blame him - who would have expected there to be a man with a bow and arrow in the back of the truck they were hijacking?

  "Shoot!"

  Torradan pointed downwards.

  "Yes, for fuck's sake! Through the roof!" shouted Ceallach, knowing again his words would be lost. An arrow whipped past the side of Ceallach's head and he struggled to keep balanced. He swore, spitting the words into the mask. But at least it had the desired effect of getting through to Torradan, who now began shooting down at the roof of the truck.

  "Now," whispered Ceallach, "let's see if you really are bullet-proof, Hooded Man."

  Robert Stokes looked out from the back of the truck.

  The biker who'd been firing at him had skirted round the side, trying to get away from the arrows Robert was loosing in his direction. He'd keep f
or a moment or two, while Robert scanned the horizon, searching vehicles that they'd left behind in their wake. Looking for -

  There!

  The raiders who were checking the backs of trucks, of carts, were getting just as much of a shock as the two who'd broken into this one. Because there were his Rangers - trained men and women - waiting, hidden, unbeknownst even to the drivers of this convoy, and now jumping up to tackle the armed men.

  At the same time, the jeeps that had accompanied the bikers were being set upon by Rangers on horseback - horses that were used to the noise - led by one of his best men: Azhar. They were springing their own sneak attack. Mirroring what the bikers had done, the horses were carrying Rangers, who were jumping over onto the jeeps to fight the gunners.

  Satisfied his men were handling the situation, Robert risked a peek around the edge of the truck. He spied the remaining biker, making hand gestures to the raider on the roof. Confident the rider was distracted, Robert leaned around and fired off an arrow. His aim was thrown by the movement of the truck, though, and the projectile went wide. But only just.

  More frantic hand gesturing followed, then the first shot through the ceiling. Robert retreated just in time to avoid it, pressing himself up against the wall as three more came in quick succession.

  He primed his bow and fired upwards. There was little chance of an arrow going through that metal, especially at this range, but thanks to the idiot above him, there were now several small holes in the trailer's roof. Robert's knack with the bow and arrow had always been good, but since he'd stepped out from behind his desk back at Nottingham Castle - to fight the Tsar and The Morningstar cult - it had improved beyond measure. So it was no problem now to guide his arrows through those holes, returning the favour to the man above him.