Sentinels (The Sentinels Series Book 1)

by David Longhorn

  Things take a turn for the better after she nearly kills a guy. One moment, there's nothing in the feeble radiance of her headlights, and the next, a figure suddenly appears waving its arms above its head. She slams on the brakes and her car screeches to a halt among some angry shouts, and a sprinkling of fine old English obscenities.

  Leaning out of the car Rachel shouts,

  “What's the hold-up, fellas?”

  “Look, it's an American!”

  “And a girl!”

  “Reckon it's Betty Grable, then?” She hears a lot of wolf whistles, quickly stifled by a voice of authority telling 'you lot' to 'put a bleedin' sock in it'.

  Sure enough, it's a bunch of British soldiers. As her eyes adjust to the gloom, she can see they're trying to pull their truck out of a ditch.

  The man who's waved her down comes around to the driver's side and says, “Sorry, miss, but with typical military efficiency we've managed to block the road with our bloody three-ton truck, if you'll pardon my French. You'll have to go back, I'm afraid. It'll probably take these clowns all night to get it out.”

  Rachel smiles up at him. From what she can see, he's a good-looking guy, probably a junior officer. Not that she's really out here looking for romance.

  But a girl can't be blamed for looking!

  “Hey, maybe I can help, if you've got a tow rope, that is? And if I can find reverse gear on this thing?”

  “That'd be marvelous, miss! Hang on!”

  He goes back to the truck and finds a tow rope, which is quickly secured to the front axle of the Morris. “No, not the bumper, we don't want to break the nice young lady's motor, do we?”

  There's no way the little automobile can shift an army truck on its own, but with a dozen men pulling on the rope as Rachel works the clutch, the truck is eventually freed from what is, luckily, a shallow ditch. This triumph of trans-Atlantic co-operation is marked with an ironic cheer followed by an off-key chorus of “Yankee Doodle Came to London” that reduces Rachel to giggles.

  “Don't you guys know ‘The Star Spangled Banner’ or something?” she demands of the young officer as he unfastens the tow-rope.

  “Sorry, miss, this lot are a bunch of bloody philistines,” he grins. “Well, we'll be on our way and let you get on.”

  “Hey!” she cuts in. “Maybe you guys can help me? I'm looking for a place called Duncaster?”

  “Well, that happens to be where we're going, miss. If you just follow us, we'll be there in half an hour or so. Assuming that genius Jenkins doesn't land us all in the ditch again!”

  “That's great. My name's Rachel, by the way. Rachel Rubin, and I'm a reporter.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Rubin! Lieutenant Tony Beaumont of His Majesty's Royal Corps of Engineers, at your service.”

  “Well, Lieutenant Tony Beaumont, would you care for a lift? I could do with an extra pair of eyes on these dark country lanes.”

  “That's very kind of you, miss! Happy to oblige. I'll just explain the situation to my team and then we'll be off.”

  Soon they're on their way. Rachel explains to the lieutenant about her assignment for the agency, and her need to gather information about England in wartime.

  “Ah, local color. Very important,” says Beaumont. “Don't forget to mention the terrible food. And all in very small portions!”

  “I know,” she says, laughing. “I couldn't believe it when I ordered dinner at my hotel and got what looked like yesterday's leftovers!”

  “It's the terrible food that keeps us going,” he says. “After enduring British Army cuisine, nothing that happens during the actual fighting can be that bad.”

  They chat as Rachel follows the truck, weaving through a maze of little country lanes. Tony Beaumont is good company. One thing that's impressed her is the way the Brits still manage to be cheerful, albeit in their low-key, cynical way.

  The British don't have that much to be cheerful about, what with their disastrous record so far. Since hostilities commenced in September 1939, the conflict with Nazi Germany was marked by a steady stream of retreats, sinkings, and evacuations. While nobody's talking about defeat, not yet, nobody is under any illusion that the war will be over quickly. With America still neutral, the British stand alone against the Nazis.

  ***

  Johnny Riley hasn't had a lucky night. The first two farm buildings he tried were locked, and the third place has evidently changed owners. Once he'd been welcome to sleep in the barn, but tonight his approach triggered a furious outburst of barking dogs. He chalked a warning symbol on the gate for other wayfarers and moved on.

  “Looks like another night under the stars, Johnny, me old lad,” he muses to himself as he limps slowly towards Duncaster, his ill-fitting boots now giving him serious trouble.

  After a few minutes, he reaches the point where the road cuts through the belt of dense woodland that borders Duncaster on its inland side. It occurs to him that there should be enough twigs and branches to make a fire, perhaps even a shelter of sorts.

  Riley changes course and leaves the road, easily picking his way through the trees, thanks to his dark-adapted eyes. Best not light a fire too near the road or the village, just in case. Some busybody would be out telling him to dim the lights out.

  Them and their bloody blackout!

  Soon, he's out of sight of the road and has found a small clearing. He's gathered enough firewood by now and the little mound was ideal for a fire. Riley, a responsible countryman in his own way, doesn't want his fire to spread. He sets down his pack, carefully builds his fire, and takes out a box of matches to light up the twigs. Orange flames start leaping up as they warm his hands. He takes his boots off, moaning at the relief, then gets out some Cheddar and a few slices of bread. A bit of toasted cheese will cheer him up, take his mind off his sore feet. He searches for his pocket knife.

  For a second, he pauses to wonder about the eerie silence.

  Riley has made his way through enough woods by night to know that they're never truly silent. Owls, foxes, badgers, nightjars, and other kinds of birds and beasts have their own distinct cries. Yet tonight, he can hear nothing but the gentle whisper of a light wind stirring the leaves of the trees.

  “Gah! It's nothing to worry about,” he says loudly to boost his spirits. But after he opens his knife, instead of slicing a piece of cheddar, he stands up and turns around slowly, peering into the trees. His small fire throws a feeble glow a few yards; only the nearest tree trunks are touched by its flickering orange light.

  “Anybody there?” he shouts, afraid to hear his voice breaking in fear.

  Come on, lad! Old soldiers don't jump at shadows.

  Then an unpleasant thought occurs to him. Life on the road is tough, and not just because of officers and magistrates. There are beggars who prey on others; dark-souled men who won't hesitate to beat you senseless or slit your throat for nothing more than the shirt off your back. Riley has defended himself more than once.

  “Hey! Anybody there?”

  He raises the knife so that the blade gleams in the firelight. There's no reply, of course – only the sound of the breeze in the trees, a wordless whispering that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere.

  Nothing to be scared of, he tells himself. You've camped out a thousand times.

  “You come out now, and show yourself!”

  Something about the breeze bothers Riley. He looks down at the fire, and sees the flames leaping straight up, unmoved by the slightest movement of air. Yet, he can hear the breeze; it's growing louder.

  Why can't I feel it on my skin, then? Because it's not a breeze, you old fool.

  He can't deceive himself any longer. The whispering's not that of a gentle wind playing through leaves and branches. It's something very different. The insistent sound grows louder, more articulate, and it sounds hateful and threatening. He can't understand the words, but the sentiment behind them is clear enough.

  All around him rises a thin chorus of hostile voices. />
  He spins around again, waving the knife at shadows as the sound closes in. Shadows, shadows everywhere, and somehow it seems to him that there are more shadows than trees to cast them.

  Then he sees it.

  The form stands at the very edge of the firelight, so that all he can see is a blurred outline. He squints into the gloom, trying to make out a face in the flickering glow.

  Surely there must be a face? You can't whisper without a mouth.

  “What d'you want?” he shouts, trying to boost his courage by making as much noise as possible. But again, his trembling voice betrays him.

  “I've got a knife!”

  As if they can't see that, you bloody fool!

  Frightened and confused, he steps forward, waving the blade again. This brings him between his fire and the intruder so that his own shadow blots out what little he could see of it. And as this happens, he senses more than sees the figure moving rapidly towards him.

  “You keep off, now!” he yells, but his nerve has gone.

  He slashes out and feels the four-inch blade encounter something. But, there's no cry of pain from whatever he's struck at, just a snickering as the thing gets closer and raises two very thin hands, wickedly long nails catching the firelight.

  Riley drops the knife and turns to run, all thought of toasted cheese forgotten. He flees blindly past the fire, maddened with terror like a wild animal that senses a predator in pursuit. He leaves the clearing and plunges noisily into the undergrowth, heading towards the village and desperate to leave the darkness of the woods.

  As he runs, Riley feels sharp-nailed fingers clawing at his back. They're weak, at first, but seem to grow stronger, as if feeding on his fear. He screams as a bird bursts out of cover and flies past his head. Disoriented, he almost falls, regains his balance, and runs on. There's something bright ahead of him – moonlight glinting off the waves of the North Sea. A line of black rectangular silhouettes reveals the cottages of Duncaster. He feels a surge of hope, but then another gaunt figure springs up in front of him like a monstrous Jack-in-the-box. He tries to swerve around it, stumbles, and falls. He lands awkwardly and is winded.

  The clawing hands are much stronger, now, becoming even more substantial. As Johnny tries to crawl on towards the light, he feels them ripping through his clothes. He rolls over to look up at the grotesque things looming above him, and his last remnant of sanity slips away. He gropes for his war medal, takes out the one thing he owns of any real value.

  “Leave me alone and just take it!” he implores, holding out the dull metal cross. “I never done nothing!”

  If his attackers can hear him, they show no sign of willingness to bargain. One figure raises its hand. As he anticipates the slashing stroke, Riley feels a sudden, terrible pain in his left side. He sees the horrifying face above him fade to blackness, realizing that the heart which had endured so much in war and peace has finally failed him.

  Chapter 2

  The overcast clears just as they approach Duncaster, following the rule that English weather only improves at the moment it doesn't matter. As Rachel follows the army truck towards the coast, she first spots the silhouette of a church tower, revealed by the blue glow of the summer night.

  Peering at the cluster of buildings ranged alongside the tower, she makes out what seems to be a single street that leads up to the church. It's only as they get closer that she realizes the buildings are dangerously close to the cliff edge. And on closer inspection, the church tower is undersized. She recalled from her research in London that part of it fell into the sea some years before.

  She's so tired after the long drive from London that she almost runs into the back of the truck.

  “Watch it!” shouts Lieutenant Beaumont.

  As she hits the brakes she can just make out the grinning faces of the soldiers in the back of the truck. It occurs to her, a bit late in the day, that she's definitely in some kind of military operational zone.

  Will my regular press pass and travel documents cut it? Or will I just be told to turn around and drive back to London?

  Some British coastal areas have been closed off completely, with the locals evicted from their homes so that the military can run invasion training exercises and test new weapons. And yet the friendly young officer sitting in her passenger seat said nothing about restrictions.

  Best not bring it up. Why complicate the issue?

  “We're here, miss!”

  “I kind of gathered that,” she replies, with a rueful smile.

  “Say, do you know where the Green Man is?”

  In response, the young officer points to the biggest of the buildings that looms on the landward side of the road.

  “That's it. The local inn. Are you staying there, miss?”

  “Well, I'm supposed to have a reservation, but it doesn't look as if they're open.”

  “Oh, that's just the blackout,” he replies.

  Of course. Even way out here in the country it's against the law to show a light. German bombers can spot it from God knows how far away.

  The men start to get out of the truck with a fair amount of grumbling. Beaumont opens the passenger door and then, before closing it, points to one side of the inn.

  “We're living under canvas, for the moment – there's a marquee in the field round the back” he explains. “Great fun, if you like being cold and damp and stepping in cowpats. Good luck, miss. I daresay we'll see you later! And thanks again for the help!”

  “My pleasure. You can buy me a beer sometime!” she calls as he returns to his unit and starts signaling them to go through a gate in the fence. The soldiers head into the field and disappear behind the inn.

  Rachel climbs out of her little car, moving stiffly after nearly three hours crammed behind the wheel. She stamps around and stretches, trying to get the blood circulating through her body. A gentle breeze ruffles her hair and plays with the stockings on her legs. It feels good. She's about ten yards from the cliff edge. She can hear the beat of the North Sea waves on the shore, and the moonlight glistening on them is breathtaking.

  She turns from the view to try and awaken the landlady of the Green Man. The woman might have gone to bed by now, as she was a good two hours late. For a moment, Rachel thinks she sees one of the soldiers standing on the other side of the inn, leaning against a fence. There's certainly a figure, but it's impossible to make out any details in the moonlight.

  “Hey there! Need any more help?”

  She's half-raises a hand to give a mock salute before she realizes her mistake.

  No, it's just a lonely little tree moving in the breeze. This light really does play tricks on your eyes.

  Rachel peers more closely at the moonlit shape. Is it a tree or a man? Then she feels a chill run down her spine as she makes out a face, skull-like with gaping mouth and eye-sockets. The sea-breeze blows more strongly for a moment, ruffling a ragged cloak and stirring a few strands of lank hair around the hideous face.

  Oh my God it's a corpse! Someone's propped a dead body up against the fence!

  Stifling a scream, she tries to keep her sanity despite the panic welling up inside her. It's insane, of course. Nobody would do such a thing to a corpse, least of all here. And then she realizes that there is a much simpler explanation.

  It's obviously a scarecrow. A pretty grim-looking one, but that's kind of the point.

  She feels like an idiot as relief washes over her.

  Some fearless war reporter you turned out to be! Frightened by some old clothes on a stick, probably with a turnip for a head.

  But a small doubt surfaces.

  Why would anybody prop a scarecrow against the fence at the end of a field? Shouldn't it be in the middle, to scare off the crows or whatever pests they get around here?

  She figures there must be a good reason to prop it up there. She's a city girl, after all, and knows nothing about English country ways.

  It has to be a scarecrow, probably just dumped there by some farmer.
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  This moonlight plays tricks on your eyes.

  Of course, she could just walk up to the thing and make sure. Instead, she resolutely turns her back on the scarecrow and walks up to the door of The Green Man. She tries not to imagine the scarecrow slowly climbing over the fence, setting its feet onto the gravel, then advancing with stiff, slow steps towards her, arms outstretched.

  She knocks at the door. There's no answer for a few moments, and she hears a slight creaking noise, as if something old and stiff is moving.

  Just the wind, nothing to worry about.

  She's about to knock again, and do it more loudly, but she hears a window opening above her.

  “Yes? Who is it?”

  “Hello!” she calls out, trying to keep her voice level. “I'm Miss Rubin. I have a reservation. I spoke on the phone to a Mrs. Bishop?”

  “Oh yes, miss, I'll be right down! Just you wait there, now!”

  There is a pause, then the window slams shut. She hears footsteps descending wooden stairs, then the reassuring sound of bolts being slammed back. A flood of yellow light almost blinds her.

  “Come on in, miss! Sorry, I was just getting ready for bed; I was expecting you hours ago!”

  Molly Bishop, the landlady of the Green Man, is a dark-haired, statuesque woman who radiates calm and good humor. She offers Rachel the inevitable cup of tea before leading her up three flights of narrow stairs to a little attic room, apologizing all the while for not having something better.

  “All our biggest rooms are taken, you see, miss. Very busy it is, even with the war and everything, just fancy that!”

  “No problem,” says Rachel. “Believe me, I could sleep in a ditch after that journey!”

  Then, realizing what she's said, she adds, “But I'm sure the room is really lovely!”

  Molly laughs, throwing a glance over her shoulder.

  “I'm sure it's a bit small by your standards, miss, but the mattress is clean and soft, and it's nice and quiet round here. I reckon you'll have noticed that already!”

  “It certainly is quiet. I'm not used to the countryside at all. I noticed a scarecrow out in the field – it gave me quite a scare, I can tell you!”