by Glenn Cooper
“Well don’t.”
“You ready?” Willie asked.
“Yeah, let’s send them cunts back to Hell.”
They were afraid to use a torch lest they attract a Heller on walkabout so they gingerly made their way in the dark around the retirement-home buildings until they were back at the cafeteria. Their plan was simple. They’d both sneak inside just far enough for Del to toss the bomb inside. Then Willie would push the button, a large explosion would ensue, splattering the Hellers, and they’d go back to bed.
Del pulled himself up from the flowerbed until he was high enough to look through the cafeteria windows. An open refrigerator door in the kitchen cast some light into the dining area.
He lowered himself.
“Well?” Willie whispered.
“The bastards are lying all over the floor.”
“Are they asleep?”
“Well, they’re not dead, are they?”
“Ready?” Willie asked.
“I was born ready,” Del growled, raising his revolver.
They went around to the side door of the cafeteria and tried the knob. It turned and with a few shuffling steps they were inside.
Monk was sleeping beside Heath.
He was a light sleeper even while drunk, a survival skill honed by two centuries of roving. He heard something and poked Heath.
Heath was lying with his face in the crook of his elbow and produced a muffled something.
“Wake up, Heath. There’s someone coming.”
Heath groggily lifted his head. “Is there now?” he said. “I’m never too tired to rip someone apart.”
23
Trevor’s horse was scrawny and incapable of sustaining much of a pace. As he rode along the rutted westbound road toward Devon he remembered that the first time he rode a horse was only two months ago. He busied himself thinking about the training he’d gone through with Brian Kilmeade. Now that Brian was out of the picture, maybe he’d apply to the BBC for Brian’s old TV job as a medieval weapons presenter. If he ever made it back.
When those thoughts played out he turned to Arabel, wondering where she was, how she was doing, how the children were coping with the traumatic memories. They were sweet kids. He hoped they weren’t scarred for life. If he survived this he’d make a play to be a permanent part of Arabel’s life. He’d be a good dad to those kids. Maybe they’d get some new brothers and sisters along the way.
He was so deep in thought and hypnotized by the rhythm of the trot that he didn’t see the threat coming as early as he would have liked. But the Cornish soldiers at the head of the pack saw Trevor coming, a speck at first, then a man on horseback. They were riding eastbound, lured by stories of magical channels at Leatherhead and Sevenoaks that could transport a Heller back to Earth.
By the time Trevor saw them the lead soldiers had already quickened to a gallop. Trevor swore and dismounted, tying the horse’s reins to a roadside bush. He shouldered his AK-47, crouched into a firing position, and opened his satchel to get access to more ammo if needed. It was hard to tell how many riders were approaching because they were kicking up a cloud of dust. He hoped thirty rounds fired from a long distance would be more than enough to turn the threat. He didn’t try to take cover. His effective range was over ten times farther than the blackpowder muskets he might be facing.
He controlled his breathing and looked down the iron sights. The lead rider was about two hundred yards away. Trevor was an expert marksman but the sights were fixed and couldn’t be calibrated. He didn’t fault Kyle for that. It was a miracle he’d been able to forge the rifles at all. If he took the man out it would be a lucky shot but it was worth a try to convince the others to turn tail.
He held his breath at full exhale and squeezed the trigger. The rider kept coming. He didn’t see any dirt kick up to the sides and the horse hadn’t been hit so he figured he was high. He lowered his aim point and fired another round.
The rider fell, his foot caught in a stirrup. The horse veered off into the woods. From this distance he couldn’t see the startled expressions of the other soldiers who couldn’t understand how their captain had been felled from so far away.
They kept coming.
Trevor kept firing, hitting two men or a horse with every three shots.
Despite the rising casualties the other riders weren’t deterred.
“How many are there?” Trevor said out loud.
They were a hundred yards away when he emptied his magazine, ejected it, and reached into the satchel for the loaded one. From this distance it didn’t look like there was more than six to eight soldiers left so the spare mag was probably going to do it. But he didn’t want to take a chance; he wanted to quickly reload some rounds into the spent mag before seating the spare. But as his hand explored the satchel, he didn’t feel the spare mag. He didn’t feel loose ammo. He felt rocks.
“What the fuck?”
He took his eyes off the threat and looked inside but it was pointless. He’d been robbed and he was in serious trouble.
One of the soldiers must have thought Trevor was close enough and fired his musket from the saddle. A lead ball splatted into the road short of the mark but uncomfortably close. Trevor briefly considered getting on his horse and trying to ride away but the animal was too pathetic. If he took off on foot into the woods they’d run him down.
He made up his mind. He’d do something irrational. He began running in a zigzag toward them, aiming his rifle and shouting at the top of his lungs.
Fifty yards away another shot rang out. He heard it whistle past. He waited for the next one. And waited. But it didn’t come. He saw the rest of the soldiers drawing swords and it dawned on him. None of them had a gun.
He stopped his zigzagging and began running straight for them yelling, “This is your last chance! I will shoot you!”
One of the riders pulled up and turned his horse around. Then three more. The last three looked over their shoulders at their comrades fleeing and that was enough. They too turned tail and galloped off the way they had come.
Trevor dropped to his haunches, suddenly exhausted. He found himself speaking to Arabel. “Keep waiting for me, all right? I’m doing my level best to get back to you.”
He led his horse past the shot-up men and dead horses collecting their weapons as he went. Soon he had a sword on his belt, three others strapped to the saddle, a crossbow and a handful of bolts. Instead of rocks, his satchel was now loaded with a pistol, powder, and shot. He hated to part with his AK-47 but it was only dead weight. He used his sword to bury it in a shallow grave along the verge and he continued his journey toward Devon.
It was Danny who pried up one of the coarse floorboards under his hay-filled mattress and discovered the dirt under the boy’s cottage was moist and soft. While the boys ate their thin, disgusting gruel, they debated the subject of escape.
They split into opposing camps. The stronger boys, Glynn, Boris, Nigel, and Danny supported escape. The weaker ones, Kevin, Stuart, Andrew, and most vocally, Harry, thought it was a crazy idea. Only Angus stayed silent, perhaps sensing that his vote would be the deciding one.
“If we stay here, we’ll die,” Nigel said. “We’ll get sick or we'll get stamped on by a horse or, or, I don’t know what, but we’ll die.”
“That’s stupid,” Kevin said.
“Why is that stupid?” Boris asked.
“Because it is, that’s why,” Kevin insisted. “We’ll die if we try to get back to Sevenoaks. We’ll get lost and we’ll be eaten by rovers.”
“We’ll get food-poisoned if we stay here,” Danny said. “Or Ardmore will beat the crap out of us for working too slow.”
“If we stay, we’re kissing our homes good bye,” Boris said. “You really want to do that?”
Angus held back and listened as the arguments went back and forth but when he couldn’t take it any longer he got off his mattress and angrily said, “All right. Shut up everyone. It’s four to four and I’m the deciding v
ote. We’re going to go with Danny’s idea. We’re going to dig our way out of here. We’re going to escape. I’d rather die trying than die in this shit hole.”
And that was that. It wasn’t only the strongest boys, it was a majority and even the opposing boys could understand the fairness.
They began that very night. They dug with wooden spoons, working in shifts throughout the night so that all of them had a go, even Harry. It was the ever practical Stuart who had the idea how to conceal the dirt. He tore a hole in his burlap mattress cover and began stuffing it with soil and within a few days, the boys’ mattresses were more dirt than hay.
Finally, the tunnel under the floorboards was four feet in length, long enough to make it under the wall of their cottage and wide enough for even Boris, the largest boy, to squeeze through. On the agreed upon night none of the boys slept. They put their ears to the walls listening until they could no longer hear any laughing or talking from the farm workers. Then they waited another couple of hours to be sure everyone was asleep. They pulled Danny’s heavy, dirt-filled mattress away from the tunnel opening and lifted the floorboards.
“I’ll go first,” Danny said. “Wait here until I come back and give the all clear.”
He was gone for too long for anybody’s comfort. It fell to Angus to convince the rest of them that nothing had gone wrong but even he seemed relieved when Danny’s head poked back up through the floor.
“I didn’t see anyone,” Danny said. “It’s really, really dark. We’ll have to feel our way along the sheep fences till we get to the woods behind the horse barn.”
“The road’s not far from there,” Angus said.
Harry hadn’t said a word all night. He’d been sitting against a wall with his knees drawn up, staring at the floor. “Then what?” he asked.
“You know what,” Nigel said. “I know you’re not thick so you’re just being difficult. Like we’ve planned, we’ll make it as far down the road as we can and when it’s light we’ll hide in the woods in case they come looking for us.”
“So we’ll travel at night, same as rovers,” Harry said. “Brilliant.”
“You never offered a better plan,” Glynn said.
“That’s because there isn’t one,” Harry said. “At least we’re safe from rovers here.”
Glynn went to the wall and pulled Harry up by his arms. “You know the only one who’s safe here, Harry? It’s you. We’re worked half-to-death like slaves while you hide under Bess’s skirt telling her stories and eating better than us.” He curled his hand into a fist and cocked it back. “I’m sick of you.”
Angus ran over and pulled Glynn away from the small boy. Though Glynn, the wrestler, could have thrashed any two of them he didn’t fight Angus. Instead he slipped from
Angus’s grasp and sulked off.
“We’re all going to stick together,” Angus said. “And we’re not going to fight among ourselves. Does anyone want to change his vote?”
Each boy shook his head.
“Then it’s still five to four,” Angus said. “It’s majority rules. We’ve worked hard on the tunnel. Tonight’s the night.”
Danny went through first again, followed by Kevin. They alternated one strong boy with one weak boy until only Andrew, Angus, Harry, and Boris were left.
“Go on, Andrew,” Angus said. “You’re next.”
Andrew began to whimper. “I don’t like small spaces.”
“Go on,” Angus said. “The faster you’re in the faster you’re out the other end.”
“I don’t want to.”
Angus had planned to go last but after a quick word with Boris he said, “Tell you what. I’ll go in right behind you and give you a gentle push to keep you moving.”
“You’ll be right next to me?” Andrew sniffed.
“Yeah, you’ll feel my hand on your ankles.”
Angus talked Andrew into the tunnel and before joining him he told Harry and Boris not to dawdle. Soon Angus was gone too.
“Right then,” Boris said to Harry, “In you go.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“I’m not going,” Harry said, firmly. “I’ve thought it through and I’m staying with Bess. She’s nice to me and I’m scared so I’m staying.”
“Oh no you’re not you little shit,” Boris said, wrapping the small boy up in his beefy arms and picking him up like a rolled-up rug.
“Leave me be!” Harry shouted.
“Shut up,” Boris said. “Do you want them to hear?”
“Yes I do!”
Boris rammed the boy headfirst into the tunnel opening and pushed him in as if he were breech-loading a cannon. The boy’s protestations became muffled and Boris kept pushing him through until there was enough room for him to crawl in after him. Harry tried to crawl backwards while Boris plowed forward but Boris’ brute strength and superior mass overwhelmed the small boy and both of them inched toward the other side.
Angus heard the commotion and half-crawled back into the tunnel headfirst to see what was going on. He felt Harry’s arms pressing against the tunnel walls instead of drawing him forward so he grabbed for a wrist and pulled on it.
“What the hell are you doing?” Angus whispered.
Angus could hear Boris telling him to pull Harry through so he did with all his might. Finally Harry’s head was above ground but the boy was still kicking furiously.
Angus felt a rumbling vibration.
The tunnel collapsed behind Harry.
Boris let out one sickening, muffled cry and was silent.
Harry began to scream.
Again and again.
Angus hit him hard in the mouth twice and he stopped screaming.
“Help me pull him through,” Angus said to the others.
Danny and Glynn tugged on Harry’s limp arms and got him free. Once he was out Angus began digging furiously with his hands through the collapsed dirt.
There were shouts coming across the way from Bess and Ardmore’s house.
Glynn roughly pulled Angus away from the tunnel mouth.
“It’s too late! We’ve got to go!” he said.
“We can’t leave Boris!”
“He’s crushed, Angus. He’s gone. Please!”
Angus got to his feet. He heard more indistinct shouting. It sounded like Ardmore.
“Everyone, run!” Angus said.
“What about him?” Glynn said pointing at Harry.
“Leave the bastard.”
“We can’t do that,” Glynn said. “Help me get him on my shoulder.”
Angus capitulated and soon Glynn had Harry in a fireman’s carry, following the other boys to the fence.
Ardmore’s voice was intelligible now, “Stop them! Hurry along!”
“They’re going to catch us,” Danny shouted.
Stuart was running along the fence when he heard the sheep bleats welling up from the agitated herd. He would later take credit for the brilliant idea, but in truth, after the fact, he could hardly remember opening the gate and running among the herd until two hundred sheep were fleeing their pen.
As the boys fled into the night, Angus could hear Bess’s shrill voice rising over the frightened sheep, ordering her men to round up each and every precious beast. Then he heard one last thing that made his blood run cold.
“Angus? Do you hear me?” Bess cried, “You’re going to pay for this you little bastard! You’d better hope the rovers get you, not me.”
24
Once again they were pulling an all-nighter inside a hot forge, this one within the city walls of Paris on the north shore of the Seine.
The forge master, an eighteenth-century man named Jean, had similar mannerisms and habits to William the forger. Jean had a large belly and fierce eyes and commanded his forge workers like a drill sergeant, bellowing commands, criticizing and slapping laggards with his burn-scarred hands. His English was rudimentary but he and Kyle communicated through the language of iron. Once Jean saw an AK-47
demolish a gourd at fifty paces he grasped the importance of the project and stopped all other work to begin casting the myriad rifle parts. His iron ore was of a lesser quality than the Norse ore Kyle had used at Richmond but it would have to do. The rifles might be more brittle and prone to fracturing under the stress of rapid-fire but they would still be light years ahead of any weapons Stalin’s forces possessed.
When Kyle showed Jean the small rubber molds for the rifle’s screws, Jean was baffled at first.
“What this is?” Jean asked.
“Screws.”
Then Kyle made the universal hand motion of screwing something with a screwdriver and Jean’s face lit up.
“Ah, vis!”
“Yeah, screw.”
“Ah, screw! Yes.”
Emily set up shop in the coolest reaches of the forge searching her memory for every detail of Professor Nightingale’s synthesis of lead styphnate. She wished she had kept notes, but in truth, her recollection was nearly perfect and she was soon grinding and mixing and pouring just as she had done as the chemist’s apprentice.
Well into their first full day of work John arrived with some Italians carrying heavy chests from the royal palace.
“What you got, bro?” Kyle asked, wiping his hands on his apron.
“Giuseppe had an inventory done and decided to donate this stuff to the Kyle Camp Weapons Factory.”
The lids were lifted. The chests were stuffed with ornamental brass pieces, representing centuries of booty from Robespierre’s palace.
“Should make enough bullet casings for an entire war,” John said. “How’s it feel being a merchant of doom?”
Kyle smiled sheepishly. “Back home in Oregon I’d be politically incorrect if I said I was enjoying it but, shit, I am. I always envied what you did. Badass Green Beret. You were a part of something. I never was.”
“Until now,” John said.
“Yeah, until now.”
“You’re turning into a heck of a soldier,” John said.
“Even with a fucked-up knee?”
“Despite your fucked-up knee. You’re also a heck of a man.”
