by M. W. Duncan
Chapter 4
Watcher, What Did You See?
Brutus sat in the van, the window down, his arm outstretched catching the drizzle that fell. The air was frigid and the rain freezing, but whilst sitting inside the van he found a comfortable compromise.
Brutus had driven up to Glasgow and had been watching The Owls of Athena’s building for the last two days, sleeping in the back of the van when he needed. He was still a few streets away, by the river Clyde, but close enough to observe without arousing suspicion.
Brutus revealed his plans to nobody. He sent the rest of his team home to their families with orders to have them ready to travel. Families were a hindrance; they created priorities. That’s why Brutus kept himself free of such anchors. But he recognised the priority of family was essential to his ambition for the future. His men would fight harder if they knew their families depended on that, and hard fighting was sure to come. His plan was to battle a shadow organisation with seemingly unlimited resources and zero accountability. And the odds of winning? He never cared for odds. If he paused to consider, he’d find them stacked against him.
In the two days since arriving he detailed on a notebook all vehicles that arrived and left. There were regular arrivals, small trucks and a few buses. The occasional construction vehicle came, and left soon after. A high wall surrounded the building, a manned gate barring entry into the compound. Beyond, the building looked out of place, architecture from America or China suddenly landing in the Scottish city. It was tall, a dark hue in colour, and in the dullness of the day appeared almost obsidian. At the summit, a helicopter pad.
The river ran so close to the wall, Brutus assumed some kind of protected marina existed. Smart, he admitted. If the roads were impassable then the building would make use of air and waterways. It was a building designed to outlast the coming catastrophe.
And Brutus wanted it.
But how to gain entry?
The drone of an aircraft engine thundered overhead. Brutus leaned out the window, gazed up to the grey skies. A helicopter gunship, an Apache raced overhead. He wiped the rain from his face. It was almost inconceivable that they would be flying over a British city. He chuckled at the thought.
He pushed open the door and stepped out. The rain fell heavier. His shoulders felt the cold. He walked to the river’s edge and took a piss. Nobody was about. Nobody cared. Glasgow, like many other cities in the UK had almost ground to a halt.
An old pram lay abandoned a little to his right. It had been exposed to the elements for a time, the cover with tears, the wire frame rusted. A thought struck him. A way to enter the building. It was risky, and relied causing fear to another human. He excelled at that skill.
Brutus finished his piss, redressed himself then dug his ankles into the mud, pulled the pram from the stink and hauled it up to the street. He gave the contraption a kick to make sure no river rats remained. Nothing scuttled out. One wheel was slightly buckled. It would do as a prop.
It would be dark in a few hours. Brutus had enough time to grab something hot to eat before he enacted his new plan.
***
Night fell quickly. The rain stopped but the stench of a storm lingered. Brutus knelt between two abandoned cars, their windows smashed long ago. The old pram, now soaked in petrol, lay next to him, his lighter doing somersaults as his fingers flicked it around and around. Down the street, the lonesome glow of headlights appeared. A most welcome sight. He waited for the truck to approach closer, flicked his lighter into life, and tossed it into the pram. The cover caught with an ardent burst of light.
Brutus shielded his face from the heat, rocked back to his feet, then kicked the pram onto the road. The truck’s brakes screeched. The pram was hit and tumbled over and over.
Brutus moved keeping low and using the cars as cover.
The driver jumped out. Brutus came from behind, threw a sharp elbow to the back of the neck. The driver stumbled forward. Brutus grabbed him by the back of his reflective coat, pulled his Glock out and pushed the barrel into the driver’s neck.
“Do what I say and you don’t die. Get back into the cab.”
Brutus dragged him backward and they both entered the cab. He manoeuvred himself over to the passenger seat, keeping the weapon trained.
“Please, please. Take what you want.”
“I’m not here for what you’re carrying. Close the door and start driving. Slow.”
The driver, a fat, balding man of advancing years turned to Brutus, opened his mouth but said nothing. He put the truck into gear and accelerated.
“I’m going to talk. You’re going to listen. If you do everything I ask, you’re going to live another day. Understand? Don’t speak unless I ask you to.”
He nodded.
“I’m not here for you, I don’t care who you are. All I need is to get into the site you’re heading to. Killing you means nothing to me. Get me in there and you go back to your life and this will seem just a nightmare.”
He nodded again.
“What kind of security are they boasting?”
“Security cameras. A manned gate. Sentries on the wall. That’s all I’ve seen when making deliveries.”
“What checks do they do when you get to the gate?”
“A quick inspection of the rig and they check the paperwork and my ID.” He turned to Brutus. “Please don’t make me do this. Just let me go and you can drive in.”
“Shut up.” Brutus pushed the barrel of the Glock into the driver’s cheek. “We’re nearing the building. Do as you’d normally do.”
Brutus manoeuvred himself behind the seats and into the sleeping compartment directly behind the driver. He pulled the curtain closed leaving enough gap to see the driver clearly.
The truck slowed and the driver lowered the window.
“ID please. And open the door.”
The driver opened his door, pushing it out wide and handed over his ID badge.
“Everything alright tonight?” asked the guard, shinning his flashlight around the cab.
“Of course,” said the driver. “It’s been a long ride.”
The guard looked between the ID and the driver’s face. He nodded, handing back the badge. “Make your way inside.”
The truck was again moving.
“Tell me what you see,” whispered Brutus.
“Another wagon is about to leave the yard. There’s a crew waiting to unload. Four men and a forklift driver. A guard is standing up on the loading bay. He’s armed with a rifle or something.”
“Pull up like normal. Keep everything as it should be. What are they wearing?”
“Safety gear.”
“Like the coat on the peg back here?”
“Pretty much.”
“How much freedom are you given when they’re dealing with unloading?”
“We generally don’t go far. Stretch the legs sort of thing. It takes about thirty minutes for them to unload me, then I’ll be on my way back to the depot.”
“You and I are going for a walk. Remember, I—”
“You don’t want to kill me, but you will if you have to. Trust me, I just want to get home.”
He backed the truck into the loading bay. The cargo door opened with a rattle, and the forklift moved with a warning rhythm of beeps.
“Get out, walk around the cab, meet me on the far side.” Brutus pulled the coat on and slipped out the door, closing it quietly behind him. The forecourt was a choking haze of exhaust fumes. Men went about their tasks, shouting to one another. There was enough activity and dark recesses in the yard to provide suitable cover. For the moment, nobody questioned their presence. Together, they moved across the yard. They reached the inside of the building, a maintenance stairwell.
“Stay close.” Brutus scanned for security cameras. None.
Cobwebs made patterns in corners. Dust suggested the stairs were rarely used. A cupboard nestled out of view behind the first stairwell. Brutus pulled the double doors open. Empty.
/> “What are you doing?” asked the driver.
“Did I ask you to speak?”
An idea formed so quickly, that Brutus acted without weighing up options. He seized the driver by the throat, spun him around, locked his arm around his neck and placed his free hand over his mouth. Brutus heaved back, lifting the man from his feet. Brutus put all his strength into squeezing the life from him. He weakly grabbed at Brutus’s arms and face but could not find purchase. His arms slipped slowly down and his body became limp. A final rattle gurgled up from deep within him. Brutus dropped him to the floor. He chanced a quick glance back out the door to make sure the brief struggle had not aroused suspicion. Nobody came.
In the moment he found the cupboard stairs, he discovered his way back out of the sanctuary. He would spend the next half hour scouring the building then return to the lorry and drive it out. Or if there were extensive security checks before leaving he’d simply scale the wall.
***
Eric and Carter sat around the kitchen table, everyone else in the house was in bed.
“Carter, I need to talk about something with you.”
“Go on.”
“If I’m delayed and things here get worse I want you to look after my family until I get back.”
Carter chuckled a little. “Ever the pessimist, Eric? You know you don’t need to ask me.”
Eric looked around the room, tapping a finger at the table. “If the infection hits, staying here isn’t going to work. We need somewhere defendable and isolated.”
Carter scratched his chin, then snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it,” he said. “One of the company’s clients is building an impressive rural home out in the sticks. It’s about a three-hour drive from here. I provided some personal security for him and his family before all this happened.”
“They wouldn’t be at home?”
Carter shook his head. “They were living out of the country and this was a holiday home for when they came back. It might not be fully constructed but it’ll offer shelter and some breathing room when we need it. I’ll get the address and mark it on your map.”
“Good. I’ll get Jacqui to pack essentials in the car. Food, water and blankets. The camping supplies we have, too. Should the worst happen, we’ll be ready.”
“It’s going to be fine,” said Carter.
“Yeah,” Eric said not believing himself.
Fourteen hours later Eric was in the air, rocking back and forth in the Chinook. The last time he rode in one, they were fleeing Aberdeen, watching destruction rain down on Aberdeen Airport. Then, it was crammed full of last minute refugees. Now, Eric was the only passenger, the crew his only company. He was strapped down, his weapon between his legs, barrel down.
The flight bounced, the aircraft rocked violently. Eric grasped the rails to his side. Flying was never something he relished. Eric’s mind raced with a constant miasma of second guessing and regrets. Carter was more than capable, and Eric had left him more than half of the ammunition. Jacqui. His kids. Jane. He would not stop worrying until he returned home and saw for himself that all were safe.
The Chinook gave another lurch downwards. The pressure made his spine feel like it might push through his skin and rip at the seat. It levelled. Out the window the far north winter still held an iron grip, the land blanketed by white. Eric could not be sure, but it felt like they were losing altitude. The crewman at the hatch said instructions to Eric, but they were stolen away by the noise of the engines. The crewman tapped his headset twice, then pointed to Eric. Headset! He found a set hanging to his left and reached out.
The Chinook dropped, sudden and violent. The crewman at the hatch was thrown from his feet, his harness being the only thing to stop him from being bounced around the interior like a ball. Eric grabbed the rails, his knees squeezed tight holding the gun.
The aircraft was going down. The crewman shouted more words, but none could be heard.
Fear. Panic and thoughts of his family. Eric closed his eyes. He mouthed words of pleading, not to any God or any power.
The engines screeched. Thick black smoke filtered into the compartment. Burn to death, or be smashed into the ground? Don’t be scared, he urged himself. You’ll survive. Jacqui and the kids need you. Don’t be scared.
The world exploded and Eric fell into a void.
***
Ryan Bannister was being followed. Someone behind was matching his steps. When he slowed, they slowed. He was scared and did all he could to stop himself from breaking into a run. It was that flight or fight response thing threatening to overtake his decision-making process.
Stay in public view. They won’t touch you when there’re people about.
He hoped he was right.
He kept to the sidewalks where people huddled under umbrellas. He stopped at a coffee stall, the rain tapping on a narrow canopy. He ordered whatever was first on the board. Ryan fumbled for a few soggy bucks in his pocket and handed them over. His hands shook. He added sugar to the coffee, trying to look casual and lazy. It was too much. He hated sugar in his coffee. It gave him horrendous migraines. Stop shaking!
People continued to make their way under umbrellas, their heads unseen, their gait quick. Women stood to his left, enjoying hot beverages. He wondered how many sugars they had. One woman was quite hefty, so he decided she took two sugars and drank at least a dozen cups each day, possibly accompanying each with an almond biscuit or a slice of poppy seed cake. He looked to the display of sweets: iced donuts, banana cake, cream-filled lamingtons, choc-chipped muffins in concertinaed, paper holders. There were no sweets sitting on a plate before the hefty lady. She must have scoffed hers down smartly before a companion asked to share. A couple kissed below a streetlamp, uncaring of the rain saturating their clothing. They kissed passionately. Their relationship must have been new and fresh, perhaps adulterous. Yes, he decided, those two were enjoying an extramarital affair. What would they say to their respective partners about their drenched clothing when they returned home? Perhaps they weren’t returning home this day. Perhaps they were booked into a hotel close by, a cheap place with gaudy wallpaper and faded towels. Why weren’t they there now instead of getting wet?
“Hey, buddy! Your change,” said the vendor, holding out his hand.
“Oh, thank you,” he mumbled, and reached across. He bumped one of the women and apologised profusely.
Perhaps the person following him was a private detective, watching the kissers. Probably not. What if the person was Law? But it was not Law’s style. He always made his presence known. Perhaps it was another test put in place by The Owls of Athena. He was loathed to move from the stall in case he found himself in a street where nobody walked. Ryan sipped his coffee. Far too sweet. But it was hot. Very hot. He could throw it into the face of his assailant.
Nobody stood out from the crowd. Had he imagined it all? Paranoia? Perhaps weeks of stress were finally catching up. He jabbed his thumb and index fingers into his eyes and massaged gently. How many canisters had he placed around the city? He could not remember. Many hundreds he was sure. Not for the first time, Ryan suffered a sudden bout of guilt, and considered going to the authorities and coming clean. And then what? Someone else would be employed to do the dirty work. If he wanted to survive, this was the price.
A memory of childhood struck him. A quote from the Godforsaken church he was forced to attend for a period. He hated it. An antiquated, gothic building that seemed so out of place in the city, surrounded by the modern. It felt like being stuck in some unfamiliar past while there. Where his mother found solace in her faith, Ryan found frustration. It left him with more questions and a lingering anger toward those who had faith.
You will hear of wars and rumours of wars, but see to it that you are not alarmed. These things must happen, but the end is still to come.
He patted the shelf of the coffee stall and walked out into the rain, taking his unfinished coffee with him. He moved with brisk purpose, passed through the main streets
of the city, and out to the quieter ones. The windows of the buildings he passed were empty. The streets darkened. He wanted to get back to his apartment. A closed door with a heavy bolt would keep him safe.
Ryan rounded a corner into another street.
“Ryan Bannister? I need you to kneel on the ground with your hands on your head. Do it now.”
Ryan took a step back, squeezed his coffee cup a little too tight, and the hot liquid spilt over to his hand. “Shit,” he complained, dropping the cup and shaking his hand. His one and only defensive weapon was gone.
The figure before him wore sweat pants and reached behind his back.
A blonde female, dressed in a similar manner, stepped closer to Ryan’s left.
“Do as he says,” she urged.
“I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t know you. You can’t touch me. I’m not doing anything unless I see a badge.”
“I won’t ask a second time. We’re Special Agents. Down on your knees and hands on your head. Slow.”
“Let me see a badge, and then we’ll talk.”
Both agents drew weapons. Neither aimed directly at Ryan, but in a heartbeat they could have him dead.
“Last chance,” the male agent said.
Flight won over fight. Ryan ran. He ran blindly. He turned and moved as fast as he could back the way he came. Two gunshots rang out. Ryan dived to the ground. He rolled into the verge, scampering behind a trashcan, and focused on every part of his body to work out where he had been hit. There was no pain. Is that what it was like? He’d heard adrenalin often kept pain at bay. But no ten metres behind him the male agent lay on the ground, arms wide and unmoving. A third figure stood over the female agent. She too lay on the ground, clutching her shoulder.
“Ryan, get over here, now.”
Ryan peeped over the trashcan. “Who are you?”
“Law. Come over here, now.” Law kicked a gun away from the female’s reach. “Pick that up.”
