by M. W. Duncan
“Signals survivors are approaching,” she explained. “We have a few outposts to pass.”
The outposts were set up at regular intervals on the slope of the hill. At the first outpost, a soldier leapt from his foxhole, levelling his rifle at Eric.
“Hands up and surrender your weapons.”
“Hey, easy soldier,” said Arvid. “He’s with us. I’ve told him he can keep them.”
“You know the rules, Arvid.”
Arvid nodded. “Better than most, but I’ve given my word. That is enough. Okay?”
The soldier waved them through, Arvid’s word going a long way it seemed. No further challenges were received from the other outposts.
Beyond the outposts trenches, little more than ditches, ringed the site. Men in thick clothing dug at a slow pace. Armed men walked the perimeter.
“It’s a tough task, digging in the frozen earth,” said Arvid. “It’s all done by hand. Everyone here takes a turn to dig the defences. Everyone who is able. That’s key to this place. If you’re able, you contribute. Even something as mundane as digging a hole can make a difference.”
“I want to speak with the base commander,” said Eric.
“He’s a very busy man,” explained Arvid. “Very few get to speak directly to him.”
“Who is he?”
“Ah! That’s for someone other than me to tell.”
“Why?”
“And that’s another query to be dealt with by another.”
They proceeded over a section of trench. Within the confines of the small forest, a sea of tents awaited. Many were uniformed, dull-green in colour. Military issue. Cheap, mass-produced shelters, the kind that the UK may have donated to disasters abroad. Now, they needed them at home. Yet there were also some of the kind that were found in households, packed away for summers that never came. Containers and military vehicles were stored to the far side. The tall trees dispersed the smoke emanating from the many fires.
Daylight was fleeing. People exchanged greetings with Arvid and Camilla, and many gravitated toward Skye and fussed over her. Skye loved it. She was gifted small bites of food while Eric received reserved nods and wary glimpses. The military element of the camp seemed to be comprised of many nations. Uniforms from the UK, France, USA and Germany.
“Why don’t we find you a tent and you can rest?” said Camilla, her skis over her shoulder.
They walked further into the camp, through the trees and picked their way through the haphazard placements of tents. Small fires burned, some heating pots of water, others heating outstretched hands. A father and son tossed a ball to each other in the scant space between tents. Another man washed clothes in a bucket before passing them to his partner to hang them on a length of rope suspended between two trees. Some way off, sounds of a guitar were accompanied by claps and voices from those who sang along to the tune. A man stood over a pile of logs. He wiped his brow, leaning on his axe.
“So this is our tent. It’s where we call home for the time being.”
Outside Arvid and Camilla’s tent was an intricate fire pit. A Dakota Fire Hole. To the untrained eye, it was little more than a hole, twelve inches wide and ten inches deep. Above the main hole, a metal grill was placed for cooking on. It was designed to produce minimal smoke. It was unlit. Beside the fire pit, a collection of camping seats waited. In happier times families may have sat around the campfire, melting marshmallows, sharing stories, and sipping on beers. There were four seats, not two. Perhaps camp life here encouraged a measure of normality and communication and friendships.
“And that can be your home for the time being, Eric.” Arvid pointed to a tent not twenty feet away. No fire pit. No chairs. “It’s empty now.”
“Now? What happened to the previous resident?”
“They decided to leave. Get some rest, Eric. I’ll bring you some hearty food in a few hours. Tomorrow we’ll get you registered as an official resident of the camp.”
No fires burned near Eric’s tent but the grouping of trees provided a wind break of sorts, and lessened the chill that threatened to swallow him whole. He unzipped the front of the tent, pulling the flap aside. Inside were two thick sleeping bags with accompanying bedrolls, and a change of clothes that would have served a male and female couple, two drinking flasks and a lamp.
Eric crawled inside. “Come on, girl. It’s a little warmer in here.”
Skye entered, her footing cautious, her nose working even harder identifying the new scents. She appeared and slipped inside the tent, also. He removed his outerwear and stored his weapons by the bedside. He pulled his boots free, and tucked himself into the sleeping bag. He threw one of the blankets over Skye who happily curled up next to him. There was little noise outside. Exhaustion was ready to take him. Eric lay back, using his pack as a pillow. The tent flap was pulled aside and a thoughtful camp member slipped in a large dish of water.
“I think you’ll like it here, girl.”
***
Hector Crispin sat in his chair, head in his hands like a morose king enthroned. All efforts to restore communication with Captain Mathers in Glasgow had failed. Ryan waited for him to say something, and more so to excuse him, send him away.
A clock ticked marking the passing seconds. In the dullness of the room the man’s eyes glistened, betraying his poker face. Hector picked up his glass using both hands when the tremors threatened to overcome control. He sipped at the drink.
Ryan was little more than a silent witness to the man’s alcoholism. The idea that Hector had a daughter surprised Ryan. There were no personal items in the office, no family pictures to indicate friendships, relationships or family, and certainly no daughter. But Ryan imagined her to be beautiful, and a little older than him. Perhaps they could form some sort of bond. If she was hot, so much the better. She’d be intelligent, clever and forthright, cunning and ruthless. Her voice would be like a sharp politician’s. But what if she looked like Hector? What if she drank like him? What if she was overweight? Ryan wondered what her name could be. Sally? No, that was a name for dolls and cats. Marsha? No, too much like a party girl. Anastasia? Yes, that sounded like a name Hector would bestow on his child. And the name Anastasia Crispin held a certain charm. Anastasia Bannister sounded good, too.
Hector set down the glass with a clunk. “We’ll talk again soon, Ryan.”
Ryan didn’t waste any time lest Hector withdrew the dismissal. He opened the door and shrugged at the waiting Law. Ryan tried to give off an air of intimacy with Hector. He pinned a forlorn look on his face, but Law simply pushed past him.
“Law, I wonder if you could have our forces in Glasgow prepare a drone flyover of the facility. I want to know what we’re up against. Put them on alert for immediate action, too.”
Law closed the door.
Whoever was trying to take over the facility in Glasgow was going to discover the extremes of The Owls of Athena’s retribution.
***
Brutus stormed down the corridor. He decided to do this alone for it would require his singular way of thinking. He reached the cells, scanned the keycard and stepped inside. The woman backed up against a wall. Brutus pulled the two bound men out of the cell, kicked the door closed on the woman, then marched them into the freezing corridors. The two men were frail, frightened, reluctant to move, but Brutus’s persuasive hold had them moving. They reached the storage chamber and made straight for the industrial freezers.
“Please don’t,” said one of the prisoners.
“You are about to learn that I do not understand the concept of mercy.” Brutus pushed both men into the cold unit, slammed the doors and left them to freeze. It would take no more than thirty minutes.
Brutus returned to the cells. The woman was crouched on the floor, her arms wrapped around her torso.
“What have you done with them?” Her voice was quiet, but with a distinct certainty.
Outside the cell hung a padded coat on a peg. Brutus pulled it free and threw the garment a
t the feet of the woman. She regarded it with suspicion before standing and putting it on, zipping it high.
The woman was slim, tanned, short blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. She wore no make-up. She didn’t need any. She possessed a natural beauty and her alert, blue eyes suggested a sharp intelligence.
“Nobody is coming to help you,” said Brutus flatly. “All attempts of The Owls of Athena to take control here have failed. I am in control. This place is mine. Your associates are thirty minutes away from death. Their survival is completely up to you. Understand?”
The woman remained silent.
“Nobody is coming to help you, bitch.”
She began to laugh, a low snarky sound. “I don’t think you appreciate the seriousness of your situation.”
“I don’t think you’re appreciating your situation.”
“You’ve walked into your grave, whoever you may be. It’s just a matter of time. I am Helena Crispin. My father is Hector Crispin. And he is the man that will ensure you die in the most horrendous way.”
“Really?” Brutus pulled his combat knife from its scabbard. “I wonder what your father would give to have you back and in what condition.”
Brutus placed the blade of the knife to her throat. She turned her head away, closing her eyes, jaw clenched tight.
“You are a means to an end. I’ve plans for this place, plans that don’t involve you, your old bastard father, nor any of his Owls of Athena. You make yourself useful to me and you might just walk out of here alive, if not unspoiled.”
With the tip of the blade Brutus undid her coat’s zip, and lowered further until the blade was at the point between her breasts. He pushed until her face contorted.
“I realised long ago that life was fragile and ultimately worthless. It’s far easier taking a life than it is to build one. Killing you means nothing. Letting you live takes effort. For now, you’re worth my effort.” Brutus withdrew the knife. “You’ll have access to food, water and warmth. For now.” He sheathed his weapon. “I’ll have one of my men see to your comfort, Miss Crispin.”
She lifted her chin. Her mettle had returned. “What about the others?”
Helena Crispin was an asset and for the moment she was useful. He would kill her yet. The length of her life depended on how useful she remained. Brutus almost wished that she was redundant to his cause.
“Has thirty minutes passed?”
***
“What’s he doing?” Jacqui stood beside Jane, both women peering out the window.
“Digging,” supplied Jane. “He’s been digging traps in the trees. He’s pushing himself hard.”
Carter was in the treeline that marked the boundary of the house, hacking at the earth between the trees with a short spade. A small oil lamp sat on the earth.
“He doesn’t seem himself lately,” said Jacqui. “I don’t know what it is but something’s changed with him. I can see it behind his eyes. Since getting here, he’s different.”
“You know him better than I do,” said Jane. “You think it’s the Crosslys being here that’s done it?”
Jacqui shook her head. “No. It’s what’s happening out there. I think it would make even the most resolute bend a little.” Jacqui rested her forehead against the windowpane. “If Eric was here …” She let the thought go unfinished.
“Oh, Jacqui. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. You know Eric is fine.”
“Yes. He’s still alive. If he were dead I’d know it. He’s gone through worse and come back to us.”
Jane placed an arm around Jacqui and pulled her close.
“We better check the fire in the living room,” said Jane. “If Eric’s out there looking after the world, the least we can do is look after the people around us.”
The Crosslys slept in the living room clustered around the fire. The doors to the bedroom were open so Jacqui could keep an eye on the kids. When the fire was blazing, a healthy heat spread from the living room to the bedroom. But it was now burning low, and Jane would not let it go out. The fire was what kept them alive. Katie and Luke slept soundlessly with blankets heaped upon their small bodies, but the coming cold would be sure to wake them.
“Food’s going to be an issue. There’s not enough for everyone.”
Jane agreed. “We’ve enough canned food and long life stuff to last a little. Guess we never anticipated having more mouths to feed.”
They would eventually need to leave the house and risk the berserk world out there. But that was a problem to ponder another night.
“You should get some sleep, Jacqui. I’ll stoke the fire, then I’ll stay up a bit and make sure Carter is okay.”
Jacqui squeezed Jane, let her go, crossed into the bedroom and climbed into bed. She extended a protective arm over the two kids.
The infected terrified Jane. The lack of food worried her. But she was growing more concerned at Carter’s behaviour. He seemed to have become so single minded in his approach to the situation. The digging continued.
***
Freddo and Taylor kept watch on the walls. Brutus and the other men were in the communication room. The mood was sombre. Magnus busied himself with a pair of headphones and jotted notes onto a notepad, the scraping of pencil on paper the only sound. Murray stood off to the side by the doorway, arms folded, ill at ease in the company of grieving soldiers. Niall watched the floor, elbows on his knees. Ash Gibbons munched on a chocolate bar. Magnus, standing with his back against the wall volunteered to work at the communications station, attempting to glean useful information about the world in which they now existed.
“So what now?” asked Niall. “The infected at our door, and there are a lot of weapons out there with the dead.”
“We’ll collect them soon,” said Brutus. “The convoy was carrying a lot of equipment we can use. As for the infected, let them pound on the walls all they like. There’s no way for them to get inside. We need full schematics for the building. We need to know how everything works. And we need to figure out what we have and what we need. The storage vault is under stocked by half.”
“We need more people,” said Niall. “We don’t have enough to guard the walls and make this place work.”
“And where do you suggest we get those people from, people willing to work for us?” Freddo asked. “People aren’t lining up for employment anymore.”
“There must be people in Glasgow still. Offer them a safe haven and they will come.”
“Silas says he has a small group of men in hiding in the city,” said Brutus.
“And we believe him? We trust him?” asked Freddo.
“No.”
Ash stuffed the chocolate bar wrapper into a pocket. “What about Niall’s idea? Doesn’t seem too bad a suggestion to me.”
“You saw The Owls scum filtering back into the city,” said Freddo. “We send out an open invitation and we’ll wake up with our throats slit.”
“Guys, I might have just found the answer.” Magnus pulled his headphones free, hurriedly wrote a few further notes then spun in his chair. “Whoever was manning this station before we came along transcribed a shit load of radio broadcasts. They marked them with times and dates. There’s a military base set up as a civilian collection north of here. They were broadcasting up until a few days ago.”
“Maybe it’s been overrun.” Niall scanned the notes Magnus made. “Why wouldn’t they be broadcasting now?”
“No signal. But this is the best bit of information I’ve been able to scrounge so far. They’ve supplied the location in the radio messages. It’s around ninety miles from here.”
“Jesus, Magnus,” said Ash. “How are we supposed to get ninety miles? We can barely go outside the walls without being ripped apart or gunned down. And you’re wanting us to go off on some crusade for a place that might not even exist?”
“We can fly,” said Magnus.
“Yeah, the helicopter,” suggested Murray.
“And of course we all know how to f
ly the damned thing,” Ash mocked.
“Silas is a pilot.” Brutus felt the need for some air. “Magnus, try to establish communication with the camp. If we can speak to them, I’ll consider your suggestion. Niall, have Freddo help you collect the gear outside the walls. Ash, find me the schematic plans for the building. I want to know everything about this place. No secrets. No room for error. Once we’ve done this we can sort out where we’ll be living. I want us all on the same floor. It’s been a long goddamned day.”
Brutus climbed the stairs to the top floor and out onto the helipad. He sat down at the edge, letting his legs dangle over the side. No lights gave his position away. Beyond his immediate confines, the city of Glasgow burned. He wondered how many good people remained. Not many, he guessed. The good died off quickly and the evil bastards lingered on, surviving like a virus. Well, it was a virus, he reminded himself. Brutus pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and lit it. The rain was little more than drizzle.
Brutus smoked and watched a city die.
Chapter 10
The Bones Of A Dying World
On his first full day, Eric was stripped down and examined for signs of infection by a soldier who appeared to possess only rudimentary medical experience. His pupils were checked for responses, and a thermometer was inserted into his ear. He was registered in the most basic way: name, date of birth, blood type, physical appearance. His picture was taken on a digital camera. He was shown around the camp.
“That trench over there is the camp’s latrine,” explained his guide. The old man walked with a slow gait. He touched at lanterns hanging from tree branches. “We light these at dark. Helps to see where you’re going at night. No use tripping up and causing more headaches for the medical team.”
