by RR Haywood
North Korea is the hardest. That’s where Harry is shot, and it’s the only time they need to throw a grenade to gain space to get back through the Blue, with Emily clamping her bare hands on Harry’s bleeding arm.
Emily stayed on Harry, screaming for a medic, as they landed in the portal room. Straddling him, with blood pushing between her fingers, coating her hands. It was only a flesh wound in the end, but there was a lot of blood. Harry didn’t flinch. The dressing was applied and he carried on as if nothing happened.
‘Maggie! This is Mother . . . Don’t you fucking dare . . . For the love of god, don’t do it . . .’
‘I already am . . .’
Cavendish Manor on a screen. Mother screeching into the radio.
The same words spoken by Miri. Emily speaks twice. Once in German and once in French. Languages learnt via an intracranial device she wore as a child that she told Miri about in Berlin when a plan was forming.
How do you stop a government, Mr Ryder? You show it a power beyond its own. You show an ability to come back and kill it whenever you wish.
They ate because they knew the day would be long, ferocious, savage and unforgiving. Between each deployment, they gulp fluids and take pain relief.
There is no time to rest. They have a time machine. It could be staggered and done over days, but they go while the energy is high, while the ferocity of the fight is still in them. To take that energy with them into each place to do what must be done.
When the final one is finished, they go back to Berlin to a time before the staging area was ever established. They go back to hide explosive charges to blow the street and make the first statement when Alpha leads his team away.
A plan formed. A plan executed.
A hundred million years in the future, in a glade just in front of a shimmering blue light, Miri kneels next to a young soldier, while in the distance Cavendish Manor burns from the aviation fuel of the gunships.
Two minutes for all of them. Months of planning and a whole day to achieve perfection of execution.
She knows that right now in each bunker and emergency room there is chaos and disorder caused by her, but there are also speakers still connected to the hacked radio network from this place.
‘Time travel is possible. I have the device. I have the inventor. I do not want anything from you. My name is Maggie Sanderson. I will bend time to win . . . and I will win . . .’
She stubs the cigarette out and places it in the plastic bag with the others. The soldier watches her. Confused. Mesmerised. She places the bag down next to him. ‘Make sure Mother gets that.’
‘My mum?’ the young soldier asks, bewildered.
‘Not your mum, Mother. You’ll know soon enough, and tell her from me if she harms you, I will find her. What’s your name?’
‘Private Armstrong . . . Colin . . . Colin Armstrong.’
‘Goodbye, Private Armstrong. Been nice meeting you.’
‘Wait! Who . . . What . . .’
Miri and Ben go through the Blue. The young soldier sees it. They walk through a solid wall of light, then it’s gone. Just gone.
‘Did she say anything else?’ Mother asks him, days later in the concrete underground cell.
Colin shakes his head, then stops to look round at the scary men standing round the Prime Minister. ‘She said . . . She said, if you harm me, she’ll find you. She knows my name . . . I told her my name . . .’
The PM nods. Mother smiles. ‘You’ve been touched by an angel, Colin. Maybe a devil. I don’t know. Either way, you are free to go . . .’
About the Author
RR Haywood is an Amazon All Star author. He is the creator of the bestselling series The Undead, a self-published British zombie-horror series that has become a cult hit with a readership that defies generations and gender.
Living in an underground cave, away from the spy satellites and invisible drones sent to watch over us by the BBC, he works a full-time job, has four dogs and lots of tattoos. He is also a certified, badged and registered hypochondriac, for which he blames the invisible BBC drones.
Should you not have a drone to hand, you can find him at www.rrhaywood.com.
