by M. W. Duncan
“My family?”
“Yeah.”
Men walked through the camp lighting the lanterns that hung from branches.
“I have no idea where they are, nor whether they’re safe or not, and we’re sitting here drinking beer by a fire.”
“No one knows much at the moment. So you’re no different from everyone else here.” One arm gestured to the other tents.
Eric shook his head, and studied the spitting flames. Where are you, Jacqui? Are you worried about me, as I am about you and the kids?
Gemma’s hand found his. It was cold. “Things will be okay, I know it. You always make things right.” Gemma shuffled closer. “Look at me, Eric.”
Gemma looked nothing like Jacqui, but in that moment he saw a face that was able to put all thoughts of the current world to bed, if only for that short space in time. Jacqui could do that.
Gemma suddenly kissed him tenderly, and their lips remained touching for an inordinate time. Gemma snaked her arms around his neck, pulling him close. He responded, kissing her passionately.
They separated, breathing hard.
“Gemma, I think you’ve had a little too much to drink, and I … well, I can’t do this.”
“Shh. Don’t talk.” She stood, took his hand and led him into his tent, zipping it closed behind them.
Overhead, the pounding of a helicopter’s engine broke the calm of the late evening.
***
Brutus waited to be admitted to the command tent. Two armed men blocked his way. Silas stood behind him with instructions to keep his mouth shut.
“Weapons,” they demanded. “You’ll get them back when you’re done.”
Brutus surrendered his guns and knife. “Look after them,” he said, and stepped into the tent.
“Ah, you must be Brutus. I am Alex Cunningham.”
Brutus nodded. “This is my pilot Mr. Salt.”
“A pleasure,” Alex said, shaking both men’s hands then sitting.
“Please sit.”
“We’ll stand,” said Brutus.
“If you wish,” said Alex with a voice full of British eloquence. “I must admit your communication was a welcome surprise. There’s little to celebrate these days, but contacting fellow survivors brings hope to us all.”
“That’s a nice helicopter,” said Major Reid, suspicion dripping from his deep tone.
Brutus licked his lips. Respectful diatribe and negotiations were not his forte.
Alex cut in, “I understand you bring a proposal?”
Brutus said, “My associates and I have acquired a secure location within the city of Glasgow. It’s safe from the infected. I offer shelter for your many survivors.”
“And you want something in return?” said the Major.
“We are few in number. Your people would boast our security.”
“They are not soldiers.”
“They can be.”
Alex said, “You’ve not mentioned who you and your associates are, or how you come to us.”
“Yes, and armed with such an impressive rig,” added the Major.
“I will, but I also bring you a warning.”
“Yes?” Alex.
“The Owls of Athena.”
Alex Cunningham and Major Reid looked to each other, then Alex walked from behind his desk.
“Well, Brutus, this facility you have, I’m intrigued. So please, go on.”
“The Owls of Athena are enemy to all who survive. They’re responsible for the virus, and they’re coming for those who dare to defy them.”
“And that is you?” asked Alex.
“And you.”
“We can handle ourselves,” said Major Reid.
Silas stepped forward. “With all due respect, I don’t think you grasp the scope of their reach. They possess the resources to unleash a pandemic and bring the world to its knees, yet you believe they cannot destroy a makeshift camp such as yours?”
“Why would they?” asked the Major.
“Because of him,” said Silas, pointing at Alex. “I know who you are, sir.”
Alex lifted his chin. “Oh, do you now?”
Brutus would have knocked Silas out for talking then stomped on his head, but his words seemed to strike Alex where it mattered.
“I know your face. You might very well be the most senior member of government left alive. What you represent is order and that is the enemy of what they stand for. You could rally the surviving elements of the nation to fight back, and organisation is the enemy of their chaos.”
The Major stepped forward. “We are monitoring the situation.”
“Whatever your goals, as noble as they are, they put you at odds with The Owls of Athena,” warned Silas. “Assume they are everywhere. Assume they know you are here. And assume they are coming for you.”
“We’re on the same side,” said Brutus. “You and I, we’re survivors but not for long without each other.”
***
Helicopters had transported members of The Owls of Athena to the building, and they were guided to the top floor suite for a meeting.
The sat around a large, circular table. Ryan scribbled busily. His task was to take minutes, and Hector Crispin enjoyed extensive notes. Ryan’s roles altered as Hector Crispin saw fit, and to describe him as Hector’s personal assistant was close to the truth. Ryan ran errands, transcribed audio reports from the field, cooked, cleaned, and often in the evenings he was simply required to listen to Hector’s ramblings, all whiskey induced. Ryan did not mind. It meant he was distant from the general population. He didn’t much like anyone else in the compound, and strangely he had come to enjoy the idiosyncrasies of Hector Crispin. And watching the man made time move quickly.
Those around the table wore expensive clothes and maintained an air of elitism. Ryan looked at the nearest man to him. He guessed the suit probably cost the same as two months’ rent. Where would they get their expensive suits now? Perhaps a tailor had been brought in on his flight. Perhaps a designer, too. Perhaps uniforms would become the norm. Ryan hoped they would be a flattering cut.
One of the members motioned to her aide and he poured her a glass of water from one of the decanters on the table. She didn’t even say thanks. She was overweight. No uniform would cover her rolls. No outfit could ever be flattering.
“We are in a good position to begin stage two of the Athena Protocol, gentlemen. By now, you will all have identified pockets of organised resistance within your sectors. Civilian or military, we are to exercise all possible control over them. If they resist, then we destroy them. There can be no doubt, when the time is right, the world will know that we are in control. And of course, should we identify surviving members of the upper echelons of government or the military you will undertake all efforts to neutralise them.”
“What about the maritime forces?” asked an elder member, his dark-rimmed glasses giving him the appearance of a stuffy librarian. “There is still a significant presence that we cannot move against.”
Hector sipped from a glass of water. Ryan had poured it for him earlier, and Hector had thanked Ryan for the gesture.
Hector’s hand shook. “Sooner or later they will run out of supplies and be forced to dock. When they do, we will be ready. Information is key. Observing and waiting for the right time to strike is paramount. You’re right however to highlight the threat it might pose. For the moment I urge you all when acting against a target to use the creatures where possible. Withhold our manpower until necessary. We have identified a senior member of Cabinet in the Glasgow sector. We thought to approach him in order to bring him onside, however we now feel that he should be eliminated. This will be achieved very soon.”
“And what of the situation in Glasgow? Your daughter?”
“She will endure. She knows what is at stake.”
Ryan released his hold on the pen and cracked his knuckles, then shook the cramps out of his fingers. He was pleased to hear that Anastasia Hector, if that was her name, was capab
le of surviving out there. He looked forward to meeting her more and more every day. He gave his hands another shake. There would be a lot more writing. He hoped they had enough ink. The pandemic was merely the first stage.
***
Eric woke to the quiet and darkness of the early morning. Gemma lay next to him, her arm over his chest, an open sleeping bag draped across her hips and legs. She wore a thin vest, her chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm. Sometime through the night, Skye returned to the tent and curled at their feet. Eric rubbed his face. What had he been thinking?
He moved her arm, placing it down by her side. She moaned lightly. Eric pulled on his trousers and boots. Skye looked up but finding little of interest, rolled back over to sleep.
“What time is it?” Gemma sat up.
“This was a mistake, Gemma. Things got confused.”
She fell back to the bedding and threw a hand to her forehead. “You don’t need to explain. We got a little drunk and fumbled around. It was nothing.”
Eric pulled on his coat. “I want you gone from my tent. My family is out there for Christ’s sake.” He grabbed his rifle and headed out to the darkness.
***
Brutus and Silas left the tent.
“I’m going to need my guns back, boys,” he said to the soldiers still guarding the way, and they were handed over.
“Much obliged.” He felt more comfortable to be armed once again.
“That went well, don’t you think?”
Brutus stuck a cigar in his mouth and lit it. He still wanted to stomp on Silas’s head.
“It really doesn’t matter what motivates you, Brutus. You agreeing to take survivors to the sanctuary is helping in one way, while ensuring your continued grasp to control The Owls’ place. Everyone who is left will have something that motivates them.”
“What’s your point?”
“I suppose I don’t have one. Just musing. Are we going back now?”
“I’ve no wish to be stuck out here any longer than I need to.”
Several lanterns lit the way between the tents, some hanging from trees. They were dimmed low, giving off minimal light. The camp felt at rest. Most of the inhabitants hugged their fires, sitting close keeping out the night. Pitiful, thought Brutus. Weak and happy to let others protect them. A burden rather than an asset.
Brutus halted, staring at a figure moving through the trees.
“You know that girl?” asked Silas.
Brutus did not get a chance to answer. Gunfire opened up, close. The two dropped to their knees. Cries of alarm broke out in the camp.
***
Eric stormed to the camp latrine, cursing with every step. Gemma deserved better. She was just a kid, a scared kid. And Jacqui and the kids deserved better, too. What had he done?
He took a piss. Something moved beyond the latrine trench where light from the camp’s lanterns could not reach. Whatever it was darted away. Eric had often spotted others taking a break from the routine of camp life at the edge of the camp, but his gut feeling was that this was a threat.
“Everything okay?” He pulled a lantern from a tree and tossed it over the shallow trench and into the dark. The spiralling light threw out flickers, enough to see.
An infected. Its jaw hung low at its chest. It launched from the shadows. Eric pulled his rifle up and opened fire, unleashing an automatic burst that ripped into the monster. It fell into the hole of shit and piss, but crawled forward on its elbows and grabbed for Eric’s feet. Eric dodged the flailing hands and brought a heel down on its skull. The cranium gave way with a crunch.
Shouts erupted from back along the trail, followed soon after by gunfire. Heavy. Automatic. Sustained.
Eric ran back the way he came, clipping trees and stumbling over mounds of snow. Soldiers were loading weapons and hurrying toward the defensive perimeter. Armoured vehicles rumbled to life, great spurts of black smoke bursting from exhausts. Eric grabbed the magazine at his waist. It was empty. When he left Gemma in the tent he neglected to pick up his tactical vest or ammo pouches. He stuffed the empty magazine into his pocket.
Bright, burning flares shot high into the air, arching and descended into the outer snowfields. Eric reached the command tent. Outside, Alex Cunningham stood flanked by a brace of soldiers. Major Reid shouted orders to the vehicle crews, his sidearm drawn.
“We need to secure the perimeter,” shouted Eric over the engines.
Reid grabbed Eric’s arm. “We need every shooter out there. The sentry positions can’t hold this number alone. We need to offer them fire support. We need to hold them at outer defences.”
“They’re coming from the west, too.”
“Let me worry about that,” the Major snapped. “Get some ammo and make yourself useful.”
Alex was bundled into one of the armoured vehicles. Screams came from tents. One scream broke through all the others.
“Eric!”
***
It was not the first time Gemma had been spurned. She was not peeved, but perhaps minutely annoyed in the manner he departed. Surely he knew she acted selfishly for a moment of pleasure in this maddening place. She needed the closeness of someone, someone tall, strong, mature. And Eric always seemed to be the one rescuing her.
She made her way back toward her tent, and suddenly ducked in the fashion someone might when sensing a thunderclap overhead. Gunfire came from all around. She dropped to a knee and scuttled over to the base of a tree. Others scrambled from their tents. Some grabbed personal belongings or children. Others stood, rooted in fear and confusion.
Strong arms grabbed her and pulled her to her feet. She turned. She knew the face and that scar that ran down his face. But it had a fresher scar running the same length. Gemma tried to grab the knife in her boot. She’d give him a third cut to complain about.
Brutus seized her wrist, swallowing it up in one massive fist.
“Not this time, bitch.” His breath was full of stale cigar. “You gave me something to remember you by in Aberdeen, remember?” He touched a finger to his face. It hadn’t healed well. “Now it’s time that I give you something in return, and I have something that’ll fit your neck perfectly.”
“No! Let me go!”
More gunfire. Closer this time.
Gemma screamed.
***
Brutus and Silas ran away from the sounds of attack with Gemma locked in Brutus’s grip. They paused, Brutus patted down Gemma, searching her for hidden weapons. The lesson of Aberdeen was not lost on him. He touched a knife handle in her boot, pulled it out and threw it away into the snow.
“Give me a weapon,” urged Silas.
“Shut up and move!”
Gemma screamed over and again. Brutus slapped her hard. She gave another scream and he hit her again, harder, and to the mouth.
The landing area was illuminated by two flares. Three infected were heading toward the landing zone.
“Give me a weapon,” demanded Silas. “I’m not standing here with those things ready to eat everything around here.”
The infected circled the helicopter.
Brutus pulled his combat knife free and threw it at Silas’s feet, blade first. It speared the ground. He couldn’t fire at the infected until they were away from the chopper. He pushed Gemma into Silas.
“She’s full of tricks. Watch her.”
Brutus sidestepped out from the cover of the trees. His boots crunched through the snow. The creatures veered away from the helicopter, making a direct line toward him. Brutus raised his AK-47 and waited, letting them get closer, letting them move away from his only means of escape.
Brutus fired, taking the first two down with expert aim. The third reached him, grabbed his weapon and pushed it down before ripping it free and tossing it aside. Brutus dashed back two steps, pulled his Glock, but the creature was on him. The thing was impossibly strong. They locked like a pair of wrestlers. Its jaws worked hard and fast aiming for his face. Brutus struggled hard to avoid those teeth.
If he could just bring the gun to bear. But Brutus was in trouble. It was too strong.
The point of a knife sprang from the infected’s throat. The creature dropped to the ground.
“You may thank me, Brutus, if you wish,” said Silas.
“Where’s the girl?”
Silas nodded to behind Brutus. Gemma lay in the snow, holding her ankle.
“I maimed her.”
“Get the chopper ready to fly. I want us out of here before more of those things appear.”
Behind them more flares descended down at the far side of the camp. Heavier guns fired, booming their payloads. Silas climbed into the helicopter. The rotors started to spin.
Brutus untied a length of rope that was strung up between trees. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to do this properly, but I’m a little pressed for time. I’ve somewhere to be,” he said to Gemma.
“Eric!” she screamed.
“Eric?” Brutus stood still. “What do you mean Eric?”
Gemma wept. “Please let me go.”
“Eric Mann?”
“No,” she whimpered.
Brutus stepped on her injured ankle and pushed.
“Yes! Yes!”
He withdrew his foot and laughed. “It’s like a reunion of old friends.” Brutus reached for her, the rope tight in his hands.
***
Eric ran toward the scream.
“Gemma?” The battle cancelled out his call.
In the trees not far away came an unnatural glow of red. Flares at the edge of the forest. Eric set off again. As he drew closer, the din of a helicopter’s engine broke the sounds of weapon fire. He broke through the treeline and into the clearing. The scene made no sense. A helicopter hovered ten feet off the ground. Gemma sat slumped beneath it, a thick rope around her neck, the end attached to the aircraft. The downdraft caused snow to flurry about her. She grasped at the thick rope, pulling at the makeshift noose.
He called out to Gemma, but the roar of the engine stole the words. In the helicopter door sat Brutus, his legs dangling over the side. Brutus, Richard Desai, a one-time colleague of Eric’s in Black Aquila. Now a murderer, betrayer and enemy to him.
