Broken Arrow ac-8

by Paul Kane

  Broken Arrow

  ( Afterblight Chronicles - 8 )

  Paul Kane

  Paul Kane

  Broken Arrow

  CHAPTER ONE

  " Nothing's forgotten.

  Nothing's ever forgotten."

  Robin of Sherwood, by Richard Carpenter.

  It was a blood moon. A hunter's moon.

  And she was most definitely being hunted. As she ran down the road, almost slipping on the icy surface, she looked over her shoulder. She couldn't see her pursuer, but she knew he was there — and he was close.

  The light from above gave the snow-covered streets a crimson tinge. She pushed on, dodging the rusted carcasses of vehicles that hadn't been used in an age. Not since before the world went to Hell — and you could actually believe you were there tonight. Once this road would have been jam-packed with motorists making their way through the city. Now it was simply full of memories and ghosts.

  It was a different place, and it wasn't safe anymore to be out at this time of night. She knew that, yet she'd ventured out anyway. Clutching the bag containing a half dozen cans she'd managed to scavenge from various shop storerooms, she was beginning to wonder if it had been worthwhile. After this amount of time most of it had already been picked over by the starving survivors of the virus. There weren't that many, granted, but they'd been living on their wits and whatever they could find for a long while.

  Folk had raided houses first, homes on the outskirts — rather than head into the towns and cities; because gangs of thugs had banded together there, hoarding the lion's share of food and other items. Only those stealthy enough to creep in and out could get away with it.

  Or at least that had been the case before…

  Word had reached people far and wide that the gangs were no longer in control. That they were being driven out. Whether it was true or not, nobody could confirm, but when people are hungry enough they'll believe anything. She'd believed it. And she'd risked her life because of it.

  Now she was paying the price.

  She ran as fast as she could, skidding as she turned a corner, legs everywhere. Looking up, she saw it: a dark shape on top of a hill, the edges defined by that glowing red sphere above. A castle; the very heart of the city. For a moment she considered making for it, but she knew she'd find no refuge there. Whoever was following just out of sight would surely follow her there, too. Then she'd be trapped.

  Might be help up there? Might be someone who could-

  She shook her head. There was no-one living there, no lights, not a sign of life at all. No, her best bet was to try and lose her persuer in the narrow streets.

  She heard the footfalls behind — boots crunching the snow. She had to keep moving, didn't have long before they caught up with her. Pulling the bag in close to her chest, like a mother cradling her baby, she ran into the labyrinth: a warren made up of houses that seemed to be leaning in to watch her progress. It shouldn't be too hard to get lost in here, to hide until the hunters had passed by.

  Another quick glance over her shoulder told her it would be harder than she thought. Now she saw him, and the fact that he was revealing himself meant the hunt was almost at an end.

  The man was wearing a hooded robe, which prevented her from getting a good look at his face. She caught something glinting, something the man was raising up.

  A knife, twenty inches or more long. She'd seen their like before in old horror movies back when she was in her teens, usually wielded by masked killers. One slice could cleave someone in half.

  If he had been alone, she might have reasoned that this was just some nut, using the apocalypse as an excuse to live out his fantasies. But there were more where he came from. Many more.

  They emerged from the shadows, all hooded, all wielding those deadly weapons. She froze, realising that her situation was so much worse than she'd imagined. The lead figure came closer, reaching a hand up to pull down his hood.

  She let out a gasp when she saw his face — or what there was of it.

  Perhaps this place wasn't only populated by ghosts, but by the living dead as well? The skull was white — or at least would have been were it not for the moon's influence. The eyes were sunken and black, merely sockets from which this thing stared out. In the middle of the forehead was a symbol she couldn't quite discern, etched into the bone.

  I'm going mad. I must be.

  When she finally found she could move again, what she'd witnessed gave her feet wings. Head down, she sprinted faster than ever: up one street, down another. The ground beneath her was still treacherous, but somehow that didn't matter anymore. She lost her footing a couple of times, but ignored it, desperately trying to get away from the nightmare she knew was behind her.

  Rounding a final corner she let out gasp. It was a dead end. The houses seemed to lean in closer, as if to ask: 'Well, what are you going to do now, then?'

  She had no answer. Looking quickly to the left and the right she thought about trying a few doors, bobbing inside the buildings that were mocking her. But she'd be just as trapped inside as she would have been back at the castle.

  Instead, she headed back up the street in the hopes she might find a way out before the dead men arrived. She'd taken only a few steps before her exit was cut off.

  A figure appeared at the mouth of the street, seemingly materialising out of nowhere. Then, seconds later, others joined him. She counted ten at least. The leader, slightly taller than the rest began to walk towards her. She backed off, knowing that she didn't have much street left before she hit a wall, but in no rush to meet her fate.

  "P-Please… Please just leave me alone…"

  He took no notice — they took no notice — approaching now as one, swinging their machetes.

  "What do you want from me?"

  The dead man at the front paused, contemplating this question. Then he answered in a hollow voice: "Sacrifice."

  They didn't want her physically, as so many had before. Didn't want to paw and molest her — why would dead men want that? They wanted her to join them; to become one of them. To give up her life so that she could exist forever walking these streets, preying on the warm blooded. Maybe living forever wouldn't be so bad?

  But what if, when they killed her, she stayed dead? Or, even worse, went to a place that made this look like Heaven — as impossible as that might seem? She looked again, searching for a way out, a way up perhaps?

  Then she saw another hooded figure on the rooftops. The bastards were up there as well! She was well and truly finished. The hunt was over. Bowing her head, she sobbed, accepting the inevitable.

  One of the walking dead fell. At first she thought he might have slipped on the wintry ground. Blinking tears from her eyes, though, she spotted something sticking out of his shoulder. Something long and thin and feathered.

  She traced the shot back to the figure above her. Even as she looked up, he was falling, legs bent to take the strain of the landing. The shape rose, standing between her and the dead men… except she knew now they weren't dead at all, not if an arrow from this man's bow could fell them. This man who wore a hood just like her enemies.

  With his free hand he waved her back. Then he plucked another arrow from the quiver on his back. He'd loaded it and fired quicker than she had time to register, already reaching for another.

  Two more of the 'dead' men dropped. But that didn't stop others taking their place, charging at her rescuer. He had time for just one more shot, but it went wide — his aim spoilt because he had to avoid a blow from one of the swinging machetes. Too close to rely on his bow, the hooded figure let go of it and pulled a sword out of his belt. He used this to block first one machete swipe on his left, then another to his right. Metal clanked against metal, but the ma
n seemed as quick with this weapon as he had been with his arrows.

  As she watched, he pushed one of the robed men back, headbutting a second — dropping the man like a stone. A roundhouse kick sent a third into the wall, and she heard a definite crunch of bone. But he couldn't be everywhere at once, in spite of how it seemed. A couple broke through, machetes high, ready to be planted in her.

  The hooded man punched one attacker in front and elbowed another, before swinging around and chasing after the ones making for her. He leapt and landed on them, taking them both down just inches away. She fell backwards, landing on the snow, bag falling from her grasp.

  The three men struggled to their feet, each one determined to get up first and have the advantage. The hooded figure narrowly avoided a machete swipe to the stomach, arcing his body then bringing his sword down to meet the challenge. No sooner had he thrown off that man than he had to meet the other's blow. This he did but the force knocked him back, hard, into the wall. A flash of gritted teeth, and he slid the hilt up to the man's hand as they struggled to force the weapons out of each other's grip. The stalemate was ended when the first assailant, now recovered, swung again; but the hooded man dragged the figure he was locked onto around, creating a human shield, and the sword buried itself in him instead. The injured man fell to the ground, but her hero wasn't quick enough to avoid a punch that caught him a glancing blow on the chin. Shaking his head, he brought his sword up and into that first attacker, the point emerging from his back.

  Breathing heavily, each puff turning to steam in the night air, he looked across at the woman and she caught just a glimpse of the intense eyes under the cowl; searching her face. Then she saw one last glint of metal just behind him, a machete whipping through the air. She didn't have time to scream or point, but he heard the sound anyway… just not in time to do anything about it.

  The machete halted in mid-air and the blade quivered. As she lifted her head she saw what had stopped it. A large wooden staff, being held by an equally large man. He was wearing a cap and sported a goatee beard.

  "Whoa there, fella," said the big man, with a trace of an American accent. "That's enough of that." Taking one hand off the staff, he punched the robed man in the face, knocking him clean out. The machete clanged to the floor.

  Beyond the giant she saw others: his men. The Hooded Man's. They were armed as he was, with bows and arrows, with swords. They were grabbing hold of her attackers, pinning them against the wall. Two or three of her assailants who'd been taken down by Hood seized their chance to get up and barged past these newcomers, shouldering them out of the way.

  "Don't just stand there," the large man barked, "get after 'em!" Then he held out his hand, helping her saviour to his feet. "Don't worry, they won't get far."

  "They'd better not," said the man in the hood — a hood she realised was not attached to some robed outfit, but part of a winter huntsman's jacket (sliced across the front where the machete blade had almost cut him).

  "If you'd waited for the rest of us, we'd probably have got them all," replied the man in the cap.

  "This woman was in serious trouble."

  "Yeah, and so were you Robbie."

  "What's that supposed to mean, Jack?"

  "You've… Well, you've been out of the game for a little while, boss. You're rusty. That psycho almost had you."

  Robbie grunted, ignoring his friend. Then he turned to her, pulling down his hood as he did so. She saw him for the first time, in the glow of the moon — a glow that gave his features a strange kind of warmth. He was clean-shaven and handsome, just like folk said. Oh, she'd heard the stories all right. Who hadn't? It was why she figured it might be safe to come into York tonight. The Hooded Man and his forces were cleaning up the area, or so went the rumour.

  Finally, she found her voice. "Y-You… You're him, aren't you? The Hooded Man?"

  "What gave it away?" Jack answered before the man could say a thing.

  Though it was hard to tell in this light, she could swear Hood's cheeks were flushing. He nodded shyly, like he was embarrassed to admit the fact.

  "Are you going to help the lady up then, Robbie, or should I offer my services? Which, I might add, I'd be happy to do…"

  The Hooded Man held out his hand and she took it, feeling its strength. Her heart was pounding, not because of the skirmish, not because she'd been seconds away from dying, but because she was this close to him. Could he feel it too? Their connection?

  As she rose, she stumbled slightly, unsteady on her feet. She fell into him and he held her there for a second… before the embarrassment crept back and he righted her, letting go. She felt somehow bereft, but still managed: "Thank you… Robbie."

  "It's Robert," he corrected, stooping to pick up her bag and handing it to her, "or Rob."

  "Or sometimes even Robin," added Jack, grinning.

  Robert sighed. "Only this big lug calls me Robbie, I suspect because he knows how much I hate it."

  The big man feigned a look of mock offence, then grinned again, resting his staff on his shoulder. "And I'm Jack. Always a pleasure to help out a damsel in distress… 'specially one as pretty as you are, ma'am." Once he'd got a smile from her, Jack turned to address his superior. "Looks like all those hours of stake-out actually paid off. We got most of 'em."

  "I wanted all of them," said Robert.

  "Who are they?" she asked as they walked towards the men having their hands bound behind their backs.

  "We're not entirely sure; some kind of cult," Robert informed her. "We've had reports of them cropping up in various locations. It never ends well for their victims."

  She remembered what one of the 'dead' men had said to her during the chase: Sacrifice…

  She could see now, though, that they were merely wearing make-up. Their faces and shaved heads had been painted white, with the area around their eyes black in contrast. They'd done this on purpose, of course; imitating the deceased to intimidate the living. She peered closer at one of them, trying to make out the tattoo on his forehead. The robed figure bared his teeth, snapping like an animal before the young man holding him could pull him away.

  "You might want to get back a bit, miss," he told her.

  Jack clapped him on the shoulder. "You did good work tonight, Dale. I'm proud of you."

  The youth beamed, clearly delighted by the praise. "Are we taking these back to Nottingham?"

  "I believe that's the plan."

  "You're going back to the castle? To Nottingham Castle?" The woman asked Robert.

  He nodded.

  "Then please… take me with you." Robert was silent and she looked at him pleadingly. "I'm begging you. I have nowhere else to go. I've got no-one… not since my mum… my family…" She didn't need to finish that sentence; they'd all been there, it was reflected in their eyes. His especially. The hurt, the pain he'd tried to bury but which still lurked there, slumbering in his mind — and only took a prod like this to wake.

  "Come on, Robbie," said Jack. "The lady's been through a lot tonight; what harm can it do?"

  "All right, all right," said Robert. "You can come along."

  She flung herself at him, giving him a big hug. "Oh thank you, thank you." Jack coughed and she felt Robert tensing up. This was obviously too public a display of affection. Pulling back, she then gave Jack a hug as well. "Thank you. Thank you both."

  "Er… Jack, when the others get back ready the horses."

  "Sure thing," said a happy Jack, walking away, out of the alley, and taking the men and prisoners with him.

  "So," Robert continued, turning to her; he'd looked more comfortable facing death than he did right now. "What's your name?"

  "Me?" She hesitated for a second or two. "Do you know it's been so long since anyone asked me that? It's Adele."

  Robert stuck out his hand. "Well then, Adele. Pleased to meet you."

  She smiled. "And I'm so very pleased to meet you, Robert… The Hooded Man."

  CHAPTER TWO

  So muc
h had changed, and yet so much remained the same.

  Take this place they now called home, for example. The castle itself still looked the same, on the outside at any rate. But inside things were definitely different. Instead of a barracks for an army, this was now a headquarters for the fledgling constabulary they'd built up over the past year and a half. Ever since they'd kicked that Frenchmen's arse; just a handful of them against his entire militia. Robert had killed the self-styled Sheriff of Nottingham himself, while the rest of the men had mounted a covert attack on the castle.

  The castle doubled as a home for Robert and those closest to him. Like Mary, the woman who'd coaxed him out of the forest, who'd taught him to love again after his own wife and son had died from the virus. Like his second-in-command, Jack, a former wrestler from the US who had come to Sherwood to join Robert's fight against injustice.

  And it served as a home to him, Mark, the boy who'd had to grow up way too quickly: a former scavenger on the streets who finally found a new family. He'd first met Robert at one of the make-shift markets on the outskirts of Sherwood, and soon after the man had saved his life — just like he had so many others. He and Mary had taken on the mantle of adoptive parents, loving and protective. But like all good parents, they also set the rules — some of which Mark completely disagreed with.

  Like the one about his training. He was ready, but Robert kept putting him off.

  "You need to face your fears properly first."

  As Mark walked down the East Terrace, towards the Middle Bailey, memories flooded back to him of the first time he came to this place. Bundled into a truck, hands tied, then deposited down in the caves beneath the castle — which now held all of De Falaise's modern weapons (as Robert often said, "His way is not our way."). There he'd been tortured, used to lure Robert from Sherwood. Mark looked down at the stump of a finger, all that was left of the digit that evil psychopath Tanek had cut off and sent to Robert. The stump ached sometimes, especially in winter, and he even felt it there wiggling occasionally. Phantom pains they called it. The mind not letting go of the past.