The Last Line Series One

by David Elias Jenkins

  And that was when it hit him who the Berserkers were and what their next target might be.

  From a deep place within his brain, Usher’s reason was starting to resurface. He needed to get back to the safehouse and report in.

  19

  The Berserkers of Fury One crept through the forest, sniffing their way towards the fence line. A sign ahead of them bore the Ministry of Defence Logo and the letters STG.

  This was what they had waited for, been trained for over the past three months, carefully trained in the gladiatorial school that was the Secret Arena, systematically brainwashed and corrupted by the vampiric venom of the consigliore Mr Styx, enhanced to the level of the mythical Viking berserker by gradually increasing doses of the Feral, the stolen essence of the great Bear. They would never return from the Blood-Dream now, their own veins ran thick with violence that would never fade. Their bodies had changed irreversibly, each soldier barely remembered what it was to be human. They were pure rage now, bloodlust and violence, all reason was gone, other than the mission they had been programmed to perform. Whatever their past lives had been was a distant dream now, and to look at them they could no longer truly be called human.

  They had little memory now of the painful experimentation aboard the Proteus that had transformed them. Their lives before that as soldiers of Empire Two were nothing more than a vaguely remembered dream. Those men were gone forever and only the rage remained.

  Their eyes shone out from their faces as burning orbs, some nocturnal orange, and some fiery red. Their skeletal structure had altered, rib cage expanding and thickening, limbs lengthening. Their muscles were bunched and bulging, more hypertrophied than even decades of steroid use could achieve.

  Thick distended veins covered their skins, a map work of furiously pumping rivers sending oxygen to their increased mass. These veins, which throbbed and pulsated dark blue, distorted their features. Their teeth, sharpened and enlarged, gnashed together in rage and a continuous stream of thick drool dripped from their chins.

  Yet these berserkers still had the training and instincts of soldiers. They were kitted out with body armour and ballistic plates, Glock pistols in drop holsters were strapped to their thighs, combat knives to their boot. Across their tactical vests they carried stun and fragmentation grenades, four hundred rounds of spare ammunition. Strapped to their backs they each carried Remington shotguns with breaching ammunition, and slung across their shoulder they carried either Heckler and Koch MP5’s or SA80 rifles.

  They were here for one purpose. Eliminate the Special Threats Group.

  Remove the enemy’s capability to respond, prior to the Unseelie Court launching their main attack, the first of its kind in six hundred years.

  Six pairs of red eyes glowed dimly in the foliage surrounding the army base.

  They were only forty miles from Aberdeen in Scotland, but this was the Cairngorms, one of Britain’s national parks and also one of the wildest most rugged parts of the country.

  In the four and a half thousand square kilometre park, wildcats and pine martins lived alongside red deer and badgers, while salmon glided through the icy cold rivers and streams. With fifty five peaks over nine hundred metres, this was a breathtakingly mountainous country, and in winter offered some fine ice climbing and skiing. It was here that the STG had chosen to establish their base. What had originally been an RAF listening station, had been expanded in the seventies when the Americans had been stationed there, then throughout the nineties the army had used it as a base camp for their outdoor and mountain training exercises.

  The STG had been given it as a base of operations in two thousand and three for two reasons. Firstly, the secretive nature of their work meant that they could conduct their unusual tests and operate some of their strange equipment in relative isolation, away from the prying eyes of the public while still close enough to civilization to be deployed at short notice.

  Secondly, they were assigned to such an isolated station because some elements within the British government had always found the notion of a military unit specializing in dealing with the supernatural to be an embarrassment and an anomaly that had no place within the armed forces.

  Whether it was highly developed electronic detection devices designed to pick up on the unique heat signatures or electromagnetic signals given off by Unseelie, or whether it was their unusual relationship with materials such as iron or sodium, the STG headquarters was designed as a very well protected anti magic fortress, that had kept any Unseelie infiltrators at bay for over a decade.

  That was the entire point of the Fury Squad, a commando team that, being outwardly human, could bypass both the magical and technological defence mechanisms of the STG.

  They were about to find out if that was true.

  At a signal from the leader, they advanced. Three gave cover while another two set about disabling the electric fence, which would have been a mystery for most Unseelie, and cut the wire.

  Then all hell broke loose.

  20

  Aboard the Proteus, Isaiah argent stood behind his marble desk.

  Behind him, the World Tree had grown larger, filling almost the entire wall. Its thick branches writhed and pulsed like some leviathan from the deep. He looked out of the window at the rain lashing down outside. His cruel mouth turned up into a smile.

  “Soon they will have a storm to deal with that will drown them all. A fire to blacken their skin, the earth will shake their last courage from them.”

  Argent turned around and gently stroked the skin of the tree. In its centre a black hole bubbled like tar. A thin membranous sheet between worlds, ready to be burst.

  Suddenly the intercom blared on his desk. An officious voice spoke through it.

  “Mr Argent, there is a shore to ship communication coming through on your private number, shall I patch it through?”

  Argent looked at the little crackling box in disgust. He was far more adept with technology than most Unseelie but still he despised it. All those fiddly little electric parts.

  “Yes, but not on speakerphone.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Argent picked up the old fashioned black telephone receiver on his desk. He smiled when he heard the voice. His contact.

  Argent nodded slowly as whoever was on the other end of the line spoke. Whatever was said Argent seemed pleased.

  “All of them? The entire facility?”

  Argent’s brow furrowed.

  “Stragglers? I don’t want stragglers. I want them all rounded up and killed. I’m paying you a lot of money to get a job done and expect it to be thoroughly completed.”

  Argent listened to the explanation on the other end.

  “You’re a hunter aren’t you? So hunt. Every desperate animal has a bolthole. You know these animals intimately. Flush them out and kill them.”

  Argent replaced the receiver and stood looking out his window at the storm.

  Finally. The STG diminished. Too clever by far those particular stinking humans. No more obstacles now.

  Argent placed a bony hand on the window and shivered as he heard the World Tree crack and strain behind him as it grew another few inches.

  21

  Three members of Empire One sat in the corner of the pub, in a shadowy secluded booth that was close to the fire exit, offering the best overall view of the room and the quickest exit if required. Apart from one grizzled old drunk at the bar, they were the only ones there.

  Brock, Charlie and Stromberg sat hunched in their long coats, nursing pints and saying very little. They took turns to nervously glance at the entrance to the pub. They perked up when at one point the door swung open, one hand clenching their pint glasses, the other sliding subtly to their coats to grip the handle of their pistols.

  It was only an old regular walking his Yorkshire terrier, nipping in for a quick half. He nodded at the landlord, who mumbled Evenin’ Clive and began pouring him a half of bitter.

  Stromberg released the grip of his pistol
and wiped his sweaty palm on his jacket. The Australian swept back his dirty blond fringe.

  “Where are they? You reckon they been taken?”

  Brock looked at his watch. He was the calmest of the three.

  “Give it another while. They will have gone broken routes, made sure they weren’t followed. They’ll be here.”

  Charlie was drumming the table nervously with his fingers, until he noticed Stromberg staring at him.

  “Sorry Strom, I’d rather be fighting than this. All this spooky sneaking around, it ain’t me. I’d rather have a stand up rumble.”

  Brock put one huge bronzed hand on Charlie’s arm, gave it a reassuring squeeze that would have bruised a lesser man.

  “This was the plan Charlie, if we ever went comms dark. Until we find out what hit us and who we can still trust, we stick to the plan, ok?”

  Charlie nodded and glanced at the door.

  Empire One had set this contingency three years before. If the STG was ever attacked, if they were ever personally targeted or if security was severely compromised, they were to drop everything, lose all mobile phones, go completely off the grid and meet in a particular nondescript pub in a small town in England where they had once had a random wild Christmas booze-up. They had never gone through any official channels and told no one of this plan outside their own team. They had unofficially called this place Death Gulch Saloon.

  As soon as word had reached them that the STG headquarters in Scotland had been attacked, they had made one phone call into Colonel Greystone. He was shaken and unharmed, had not been on site at the time. He gave them as much information as he could then told them to lay low until they had more. Then they had ditched all comms and instantly reverted to this plan.

  As far as they knew, the STG in the UK had not just been attacked, it had been virtually annihilated. A single commando team had managed to bypass almost every aspect of the facility’s anti-magic protection. That had been their weakness. They had only ever envisaged an attack by the Unseelie Court and had set up the defences accordingly. Against conventional attack it was moderately protected, but never designed to hold up against a force like these berserkers that the Court had set against them.

  Stromberg shook his head.

  “They surely couldn’t have done it alone though.”

  Brock nodded. “We’re compromised, and until we find out to what degree, paranoia is our best friend.”

  Charlie flicked his head at the door. “Heads up boys.”

  They looked up and saw Isaac walk in, scan the room for threats, clock them, then got himself a pint of stout at the bar before coming to join them as casually as he could.

  “Afternoon gentlemen. No tables left at The Ivy?”

  Isaac gave them a grin but the others could see the dark circles around his eyes. He was as stressed and worried as the rest of them. Brock slid a chair out with his foot.

  “Good to see you. Heard anything?”

  Isaac shook his head. “Nothing new. Lots of casualties, lots of hardware taken out, data destroyed. Tactical teams four and six put up a good fight but they were all caught off guard, everyone was. They don’t think there were any survivors in the response wing. What we’ve lost in personnel and skill sets we have also lost in tech. The kinds of weapons we use are so specialist they aren’t found anywhere else. For the time being we have nothing but rocks and harsh language.”

  Charlie cursed under his breath. “I had mates in there.”

  Isaac shook his head and sat down. “I know Charlie, I know. We’ll get even. It’s all just bits and pieces just now boys, scraps of information. They couldn’t have done it alone though, they knew just when to attack, when there was no more than a skeleton crew on.”

  Brock grunted. “We just thought that ourselves. Whoever it was I’ll make them eat that fucking Ghostcoin, piece by piece.”

  The four of them knocked their pints together, took a long sip. Stromberg wiped froth from his lip. “Agreed. They get flayed.”

  The pub door opened again and in walked Usher.

  The four of them breathed a collective sigh of relief. He had been the one truly isolated member of the team and they had all been afraid that the STG being attacked would also mean his cover getting blown. None of them had wanted their boss to fall into the hands of the Russian mafia or the Unseelie Court. He looked haggard, unshaven and tired, but to their surprise uninjured. They had expected a few war wounds from his bouts in the Secret Arena. But his fight club tales could come later.

  Isaac moved along one space and pushed his chair out for Usher.

  “Boss, you ok?”

  Usher nodded. Up close he looked tired and pale. His first encounter in the Secret Arena had taken its toll. “You all still got all your fingers and toes, boys?”

  Brock grunted in affirmation. “We’re ready to fight boss, when we know where they are. Christi? She ok?”

  “She’s fine. I called the safe house, she’s destroying files and covering our tracks then she’s gonna join us here, she’ll only be a couple of hours or so.”

  They were all stressed, nervous and exhausted. They had been hit and they didn’t know the extent of it. For all they knew they were being targeted as they spoke. There was a lot of pent up emotion, but for the moment they knew they had to stay frosty and practical, sort out the basics.

  “Kruger?”

  Usher shook his head. “No word yet, but that grizzled old bastard will smell anyone sneaking up on him at a hundred yards, slot them right there.”

  Charlie shrugged. “No doubt. I pity the poor bastards they send against him, if only for the smell. So where do we go boss? We need kit and we somewhere to lay low until we get a plan together.”

  “Christi’s on it. We’re switching safehouses, there’s one we’ve used before that was totally off-books, we set it up ourselves for the Manchester job last year.”

  Brock smiled. “She’s a darling that one. Ever get the feeling Mama’s looking after us?”

  Usher sipped his pint. He knew Christi would hate being called that, but she always did have their backs.

  “All the time.”

  Stromberg glanced over at the landlord, who was lighting up his own pipe and watching the horse racing on a television mounted on the wall. He took this as tacit approval against the smoking ban and flicked a cigarette out of his own softpack.

  “Thank Christ for that. So boss, update us. Have you been up close to these things that attacked us. How do we fight them? What the hell are they? Because it looks like we just got our arse handed to us.”

  Usher took a deep breath, made sure there was no one sitting near them.

  “More than up close. This battle elixir, the Feral. I’ve fought on it. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced, and it definitely isn’t natural. Part chemistry, part magic. Pure aggression, strength and healing. It’s a soldier’s dream. I only took it once at the lowest dosage and I could have got lost in it. The blood-dream they call it. These things that attacked you in London, Isaac, the same things that attacked the STG, they’re completely overdosed on the stuff. It’s changed them, evolved them into those monsters, made them more than human.”

  “So how do we stop them?”

  Usher shrugged. “Knowing the smallest taste of what it feels like to be one of them, I have absolutely no idea. I don’t know if they can be stopped.”

  Isaac drew up his chair. “Is our man still aboard the Proteus? If everything else has been compromised, maybe he has been too. His Intel coming out was solid, maybe he’s had direct access to this creature the Feral is coming from, knows its weaknesses.”

  Usher agreed. “As far as I know, the Colonel is the only one who knows the identity of our mole in the Chromium Project. Greystone knew we were porous as an organization, didn’t want to take any chances. We don’t leave one of our own behind without support. Once the Court finds out who he is he will be public enemy number one, especially if he knows how to stop these things. They’re trying
to wipe us all out. We won’t make it any easier for them.”

  They clicked glasses, grim faced in agreement.

  Stromberg looked impatiently at his watch.

  “If that old bastard has gone to the wrong pub I’ll wring his scraggy neck.”

  “Don’t worry, he’ll find his way here soon enough.”

  They all had a moment’s silence, the shared fatigue suddenly catching up with them.

  The STG would regroup, it had satellite offices across the country, and other facilities abroad, that would no doubt be currently refortifying themselves and reviewing their defences. Usher looked up and was about to suggest getting some food down them to keep their strength up. He wondered what the bar menu was like in their chosen pub, unsurprisingly it wasn’t something they had considered when selecting it. As he opened his mouth to speak he stopped with the word half formed.

  He saw the others were the same, they sensed it too.

  Hairs prickled on their arms, their pupils dilated, time slowed to a crawl. The bitter almond smell permeated their noses. For what seemed like an age Empire One stared into each other’s eyes. The little Yorkshire terrier sitting next to his master at the bar began to hop on its stool and bark at the door. Then it whimpered and jumped down, scurrying away into the pool room at the back.

  As a unit the entire team stood up, flung the table aside, scattering beer and glasses across the floor. They reached into their jackets to draw their pistols ready to face the threat and managed to get them half way drawn before the entire front of the pub blew in, showering everything with mortar dust and glass and knocking them all from their feet.

  For a moment there was no noise, just a cloud of dust and the shockwave. Then the deafening boom followed and the shattering of every bottle in the pub. Flash bangs were thrown in, bright starbursts to stun them further.

  The local dog walker and the old hardened drinker were cut short in mid exclamation before being wiped out of existence in an instant. Fortunately the little canine early warning system had avoided the fate of his master. The landlord was lifted off his feet by the shockwave and thrown broken and torn into the back of the bar, his skin burning off like paper.