The Plague Series | Book 3 | The Last Soldier

by Hawkins, Rich

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Morse woke sweating and hyperventilating from his trance-state with his hands scratching at his chest and a frantic cry in his throat. He looked down the road to where it entered the woods, and in the trees he saw several hooded figures watching him, motionless between the thin dark trunks. Their faces were hidden, and they clutched rifles to their bodies.

  They moved towards him silently through the trees.

  Morse raised his gun stepped to the side of the road, to hide behind the protruding foliage, but as he crouched he heard the crunch of feet upon stones behind him and before he could turn around the tip of a barrel was put to the back of his head, and all he could do was raise his hands and hope the bullet would take him cleanly.

  *

  The armed men came down the road and stood watching, with their rifles aimed at him. Others emerged from behind Morse and surrounded him, their faces obscured by gas masks or flaps of cloth with eye holes and torn slashes for their mouths. They wore poorly-fitting combat fatigues under their dark jackets. Heavy boots moving silently over the ground.

  They were dressed like the men in the whorehouse, like those who’d abducted Florence.

  The Order of the Pestilence.

  The barrel of the gun was taken from the back of his skull. One of the men snatched his MP5 from his hand while another took his other guns and then patted him down until he was relieved of every weapon and piece of ammunition.

  Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. His tongue stuck to his palate. Lips dried to paper. One of the men, a tall specimen with broadly sloping shoulders, put a gloved hand to Morse’s face and tilted his head, examining his neck, looking for bites, puncture wounds and signs of infection. He stretched Morse’s eyes wide to scrutinize them. Morse didn’t resist, even when the man shone a halogen penlight into his eyes to leave a blurred afterglow on his vision.

  The men were silent.

  The tall man stepped away but still faced Morse. There was a Glock pistol in a quick-release chest holster on his tactical vest. An SA80A2 rifle hanging from one shoulder over his long, thick coat. The black portals of his eyes in the gas mask were apathetic towards him.

  The men took hold of Morse and tied his hands behind his back. Then they pulled him towards the trees, and he was sure he would die.

  *

  They took him through the woods and onto another road where a military truck waited. They threw Morse into the back of the truck and most of their number climbed in after him to sit on the benches either side of the vehicle. Two of the men lifted him up and seated him, and he did not look into their faces or attempt to struggle. The canvas canopy obscured the outside world. The men were but shadows around him.

  The engine started with the heavy growl of some carnivorous animal. The truck trembled around him. The men were muttering, but he couldn’t discern what they were saying. And when the truck started down the road, rattling and bouncing over and around potholes, Morse bowed his head to his chest and wondered who the men were and what they wanted with him.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The truck began to slow a few miles on and then idled for a moment. Morse heard men’s voices and the sound of metal gates being opened. He kept his head bowed and his eyes down. The plastic binding chafed his wrists. When the truck moved on, he sensed an ending to the journey, and soon enough the truck stopped again and the men began to disembark. Two of them grabbed him by his arms and dragged him along and he jumped down to the ground with them, and he only didn’t fall over because they took hold of him again. He looked at his feet. Thick grass and mud. The men didn’t release his arms.

  He blinked at the dim light and looked back the way the truck had come, down a dirt track towards a large metal gate set into a high stone wall that stretched a hundred yards before it vanished beyond the curve of a rise in the ground.

  He was jostled away from the truck, and when he looked up in the direction they were taking him, he saw a great manor house about two hundred yards away, set against the grey sky. Around the house were canvas shelters and tents in military green. Several trucks, vans and Land Rovers were parked nearby. Figures in combat fatigues and jackets ambled around the tents and vehicles.

  “What is this place?” Morse said.

  The men answered by pulling a burlap sack over his head, and took him towards the house.

  *

  They had taken Morse to a room, where he now waited at a metal table, his hands tied to the back of the chair he sat upon. Across the table was an empty chair. His arms were aching and stiffening. At least the men had removed the sack from his head.

  He looked around the room. There was nothing on the table or the walls. Strip lighting stung his eyes. The floor was concrete. He shivered in the cold air.

  All of his weapons, equipment and clothes had been taken, and they had dressed him in shabby hospital scrubs. His bare feet were filthy and his toenails needed cutting.

  The door opened. Raising his face from his chest, he watched the door swing inwards and realised he was biting the inside of his mouth.

  A tall man entered the room. He had a long, greying beard and his shaven scalp was painted with runic tattoos. He appraised Morse and said nothing. Morse glanced at the pistol in the man’s chest holster and recognised something in the way he was standing, straight-backed and rigid. He wondered if the man was ex-army.

  The man stood to one side of the doorway as an older man entered the room clutching a walking stick in one gnarled hand. He wore a thick woollen turtleneck sweater under a tweed jacket. Corduroy trousers down to black shoes. His head was completely hairless; even his eyebrows were missing. He was short and very thin.

  The man looked over at Morse with a slight frown on his face. Eyes that appeared agitated around the edges, as if he were sensitive to the light. He squinted slightly as he walked to the table and sat down on one of the chairs, wincing as he bent his knees. He leaned on the walking stick with both hands resting on it between his legs. He looked at Morse.

  The tall man closed the door and stood against the wall.

  “Hello,” the old man said. His voice was soft and well-spoken. One side of his mouth curled.

  Morse shifted in his chair. “Hello.”

  The old man moved his fingers on the top of the walking stick. “We know who you are.”

  “Yeah? Who am I?”

  “You are Joseph Morse.”

  “And who are you?”

  “My name is Alec Jardine, and behind me is my dear friend Guthrie.”

  Morse glanced at Guthrie then looked back to the old man. “How do you know who I am?”

  “I believe we have a mutual friend. A girl.”

  “Florence?”

  “Correct.”

  “Is she alive?”

  “Of course she’s alive.”

  “You abducted her. You took her away from me.”

  “In a way, Morse, that is true. It is also true that you killed two of my men.”

  “Self-defence,” Morse said. “They tried to kill me.”

  “I understand. I would have done exactly the same. I actually quite admire your tenacity. How exactly did you find us?”

  “One of the men I killed had a map in his pocket.”

  Jardine raised his eyebrows. “You’ve come a long way. I commend you. Guthrie thinks you’re ex-army. He saw the tattoo on your left arm. What regiment were you in, may I ask?”

  Morse hesitated. “Irish Guards. A long time ago.”

  “See much action?”

  Morse tried to push away the images of the Burned Man and the dead people in bombed out buildings. “Northern Ireland. A few other places.”

  “Commendable. I’ve always had the greatest respect for our armed forces.”

  “Our armed forces are gone.”

  Jardine touched the sagging skin under his jaw. “And that is a great shame. They fought so bravely against the infected, but it was all in vain.”

  Morse stared straight into Jar
dine’s eyes. “Is Florence okay? Have you hurt her?”

  Jardine looked genuinely shocked. “I would never hurt Florence; she is a very special girl, as I’m sure you know. That’s why you both returned to Britain, is it not?”

  “You know about her…gift?”

  “Oh yes. She indeed has a gift, a very special one.”

  “Can I see her?” Morse asked.

  “Not at the moment,” Jardine replied. The overhead light glistened on his scalp. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “Is that her choice or your choice?”

  Jardine smiled, thin and humourless. “A mutual agreement.”

  “If you’ve hurt her, I’ll kill you.” Morse’s shoulders tensed and blood fill his head.

  Jardine’s smile faded. His eyes hardened. “No need for threats, Mr. Morse. You seem to misunderstand the position you’re in. Florence is happy with us. She wants to be with us. We are her family now, not you. She no longer needs your protection. We are not her captors; she came to realise she is supposed to be with us. And you’re alive only because she persuaded me not to execute you. This is my favour to her. You should be thankful for your life.”

  Morse’s pulse filled his head. “Where are we? Are we near Black Heddon?”

  The smile returned to Jardine’s hairless face. “About two miles from the village. A place called Darlington House. It used to belong to some distant relative of the Queen, and was turned into a refugee shelter during the outbreak. Eventually the refugees abandoned this place. Then we found it and made it our home.”

  “You’re the Order of the Pestilence,” Morse said.

  Jardine raised his eyebrows. “You’ve heard of us?”

  “A little bit.”

  “Well, news doesn’t get around like it used to.” Jardine paused and dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief.

  Morse sniffed. “You sound like a bunch of oddballs.”

  Jardine merely smiled. “We are devoted.”

  “Devoted to what?”

  “The Plague Gods.”

  “Well, that’s insane.”

  “We see the Plague Gods as kindred beings that have come to this world to spread the gospel of their flesh. They want us all to join with them.”

  “By becoming infected,” Morse said.

  Jardine shook his head. “No, not at all; the Plague Gods have promised my people the gift of ascension. It is something much more than mere infection. We will become part of them and we’ll experience true joy.”

  “You’re deluded.”

  “You lack faith. The Plague Gods have blessed us. This is the next step in evolution. My men are righteous.”

  Morse spat on the floor. “If you’re all so fucking righteous, why did you have a whorehouse upcountry?”

  A note of confusion in Jardine’s voice. “Excuse me?”

  “Your whorehouse. Where your men kept women in shitty little rooms and chained them to their beds – where your men killed them.”

  “It’s more of a waystation for my soldiers, when they’re further up north. My men need to satisfy their urges. That’s just the way it is. Men need release from war. Women serve their purpose when they’re on their backs.”

  “I killed all your men at the whorehouse,” Morse said.

  Jardine blinked and looked past Morse’s shoulder. “I see. That’s unfortunate. But let’s put that to one side for now.”

  Guthrie didn’t move, but his eyes never left Morse. Always watching.

  Jardine picked at one fingernail. “You see, Morse, like Florence I have a gift. The same kind of gift; and I too have felt its pull upon me recently, beckoning me to the south, where ascension awaits. That was the direction you and Florence were heading when my men encountered you, right?”

  “You have some sort of a connection with the Plague Gods, just like Florence?”

  “Yes, in a way.”

  “How?”

  “They came to me in my dreams. I sensed Florence before I even saw her. I knew she was out in the wastelands, within reach; it was like a homing beacon. Florence is very gifted. She even knew that you were nearby; that’s why my men went out to intercept you. All the children here are gifted.”

  Morse frowned. “There are other children?”

  “Yes, Morse. We’ve been waiting for all of the children to join us, and Florence was the last one to arrive. And we will be leaving soon, but you will not be joining us.”

  “So you’re going to execute me, after all.”

  Jardine wiped his damp mouth with the handkerchief, then folded it and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “I considered keeping you as a slave, but I fear you’d be too much trouble. We have something else in mind.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  There had been no food or water in the hours since Morse had spoken to Jardine. The lights had been turned off, and he remained tied to the chair, staring into the pitch black, swallowing the lump in his throat as his lower body became numb.

  No sounds of movement or activity outside the room; no footsteps or voices. Maybe they had left him here to rot. But Florence wouldn’t let that happen, would she?

  He wondered if the room was flanked by others. He tried not to think of cool, fresh water in his mouth and down his throat. How long did he have left until his heart gave out?

  Unknown time passed and his vision dipped in-and-out of focus. So tired. Everything fading.

  When he passed out he dreamed of terrible gods with human faces.

  *

  He woke terrified in the darkness, breathing hard through a dust-filled mouth, cold sweat dripping from his face; his nerve endings were on fire, and he was certain someone was here to kill him. Tensing at the anticipation of an unseen hand upon his shoulder, hunched over and trembling, he tried to gather spit inside his mouth.

  On the other side of the room, near the door, a small flame appeared in the dark, and beyond it was a face revealed in the flickering light. A visiting phantom.

  “Florence,” Morse whispered; his voice dry and painful at the back of his mouth. He was unsure of the vision facing him from across the dark. “Is that you?”

  She approached on soft footsteps. The smell of the burning candle. The low scuffle of her white robes upon the floor. She stood beside him, put the candle on the table and placed a bottle of water to his mouth. Looked at him with something like pity. He drank from the bottle, hesitantly at first, but as the cold water sluiced over his teeth, gums and tongue and down his throat, he gulped several mouthfuls before Florence pulled it away. He sat there gasping. The water loosened his guts. Florence screwed the top back on the bottle. Morse was scared to look at her in case closer scrutiny revealed her as a pale figment and she’d melt away into the dark.

  “It’s good to see you, Morse,” she said with genuine warmth in her voice. Morse’s heart burst. “I was worried about you.”

  “I’m okay,” he said. “Have they done anything to you, Florence? Anything bad?”

  “Jardine has taken care of me. He has a gift, too.”

  “Yeah, he said.”

  “The Plague Gods will make us into something greater than human. More evolved.”

  “This is insane, Florence. Untie me and I’ll take you away from here.”

  “You have to let me go,” she said.

  “I can’t. I promised to protect you.”

  “You did protect me, Morse. Your work is done. You’ve been like my father, for all this time, since you found me. I wouldn’t have survived without you. But now it’s time for me to move on. Nothing can stop the ascension. Me, Jardine, the other children; we’re all linked to the Plague Gods. It’s why I was called back to Britain. We have to go to Hallow Hope.”

  “Hallow Hope?”

  “It’s where we’ll find ascension.”

  “They’ve brainwashed you, Florence.”

  “They’ve helped me. I see colours and hear sounds you will never understand. In my dreams I speak to the Plague Gods and they tell me things you wo
uldn’t believe. All sorts of secrets. And I can hear your fragile heart, Morse, ticking down to its eventual end. It’s tired, and so are you.”

  “This is madness, Florence. The Order has killed people. They’ve enslaved and killed women.”

  “You have to let me go, Morse. Don’t come after me.”

  “I can’t let you go.”

  “You have to.”

  “I can’t…”

  “Goodbye, Morse.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  He sat in the dark, shivering and mumbling, reciting the names of people he’d known in the long ago years.

  The Order of the Pestilence had departed south. When he realised he’d been left behind in the locked room to die of thirst, he was overcome by hysteria and panic, and he kicked at the table and thrashed in his chair until his legs gave way and he collapsed to the cold floor.

  He lay on his side, tears on his face, nodding his head to the beat of his heart and whispering to the room’s occupant ghosts.

  *

  Unknown time passed. In the cold dark, the memories of old army mates came to visit him. The memory of Belfast kids throwing stones at him on his patrols. He’d been screaming for a long while, but now he was silent, and in that silence he heard their footsteps and scrabbling hands on the floor. Whispering his name. Naming his sins. Pinning the blame. When he closed his eyes, it made no difference to the dark.

  His army mates gathered around him. They were muttering something, but it was muffled, as if their mouths were stuffed with cloth or their heads were bowed too close to their chests. He asked them what they wanted, but they ignored his questions and kept gibbering like fools. They smelled of ash and blood.

  He craved water and tried to remember the taste of it in his mouth. Delirium filled his mind. Waking dreams about thirst and isolation. He whispered his service number, name and rank. Prayed to pagan gods. Asked for Christ, Vishnu and all the terrible entities of mythology. But only the Devil answered and spoke warmly of preparing the way for his descent to hell.