Arrowhead

by Paul Kane

  Tanek had raised the crossbow, inserting another magazine, and for a moment De Falaise thought he might shoot him too. But no. Tanek walked over, kicking fallen chairs and bodies aside, and stood before him. Then, in that hybrid Southern European-Middle Eastern accent of his barely anyone got to hear, Tanek thanked him for the warning.

  Taking a couple of bottles of whiskey and two glasses from behind the now deserted bar, De Falaise and Tanek drank and talked, though the larger man would only disclose the least amount of information about himself that he could get away with, all in that monotone voice of his. Information like the fact that he'd once worked as a torturer and knew every single pressure point on the body, especially those that caused the maximum of pain. De Falaise, in turn, told Tanek why he was there, what he was doing, and what he was about to do next.

  "I've been in this business for some time, mon ami, but have always had a craving to see the guns I sell put to better use. To build up an army of my own." He recalled joyous times as a child, playing with toy soldiers - when he wasn't constructing gallows out of Meccano, much to his parents' dismay - sending his troops into 'battle', relishing the authority it gave him even at that young age. "It strikes me that we can look upon this little... incident as either a setback or an opportunity," De Falaise had said, knocking back a shot of the whisky. "And I, for one, have always been an opportunist. There is much to gain from being organised where others are not, from being able to take advantage of a certain situation and use it fully. History teaches us that, if nothing else." And to emphasise his point, he quoted the Carpetbaggers at the end of the American Civil War, who had come from the North, exploiting the South's weakened state to gain money and power. He laughed when he saw Tanek's eyes glazing over. "I apologise. The subject has always fascinated me. History goes in cycles, that is what my old teacher once said. Now he was a dying breed of patriot."

  The more he talked, about moving up into Europe, about gathering a band of men as he went, about taking their fair share of the glory on offer, the more De Falaise convinced himself that night. Before, he hadn't really had much of a clue what to do, but now, as he explained the basics of his spur of the moment plan, the more it sounded like the one and only course of action.

  There was scope here to take control fully. But where to start? Germany? Italy? Or - De Falaise's dream - his homeland of France? But, as they were to discover, it would not prove so easy to achieve. Others, just like De Falaise, had already had the same idea. They were professionals and they'd organised themselves more quickly than he'd had a chance to. It was true that he'd recruited his core group during this sweep of Europe - like Henrik the German with a passion for fine cigars, silver-haired Dutchman Reinhart, an expert marksman, the Lithuanian Rudakas, the broad Italian Savero, and Javier, originally of Mexican descent but now operating out of Spain, who in spite of his belly was a mean fighter. All were former mercenaries, their allegiance given to power and riches, rather than any flag. But together they hardly constituted the army De Falaise had envisaged. And though they'd been lucky in acquiring some weapons and transportation, the group finding bikes easier to manoeuvre in the heat of guerrilla warfare, they'd also been thrashed any number of times and been forced to retreat, losing many good foot soldiers in the process.

  All of which meant that by the time De Falaise and his officers entered France, they were in no mood for the resistance they met there either. On the one hand, it made him proud that his people hadn't just rolled over and given in. But on the other, it meant that De Falaise would be denied the role of Governor here as well.

  "Merde," he'd muttered to himself as they were driven out of Paris by the most powerful gang in charge there. "It was such a good plan, too."

  But there was still hope. Whispers reached them that across the sea, the once 'Great' Britain was but a shadow of its former self. And something about that definitely appealed to De Falaise, as it probably would have done to his old history teacher. Just like in 1066, when William the Conqueror's Norman army had landed at Pevensey beach and then defeated Harold at Hastings, De Falaise would claim the place as his own. William had quashed all the rebellions after he was crowned King, so why shouldn't he do the same? It was also the chance to put right a few wrongs. The outrages of the Hundred Years' War, for example, when repeated attempts to take over France had failed - and then, of course, there was Napoleon's defeat at Waterloo. That still stung. The one-time Emperor's downfall after that had been swift and marked a turning point in the war between Britain and France that straddled the eighteenth and nineteenth Centuries. A war which, at its heart, went back much further.

  De Falaise had to know for sure, however, what condition the island was in. Which was why they'd made the effort of staking out the Channel Tunnel. Sooner or later, he realised, someone was bound to come through it from the other side and then... well, they'd get first hand information about the situation.

  "Everything's gone to shit. It's chaos... Fucking chaos. Why do you think we came through the tunnel? It's like being back in the dark ages."

  How appropriate, thought De Falaise.

  So they'd made the trek to Britain, penetrating the island at Folkestone and working their way up to the Nation's capital. What they'd found en route backed up everything the tortured Englishman had told them. Small groups of thugs roaming the streets, with no imagination, no sense of the 'bigger picture'. Here and there certain areas were 'ruled' by tin-pot dictators, but their troops were few in number and there was no sense of working together for a common goal; at least not on the scale De Falaise was aiming for. In London itself, they found the same thing - nebulous gangs with no one person in charge of all of them. When he came along, all of that soon changed. He'd offered them a simple choice: life, under his leadership and protection, or death - which could either be swift or not, depending on what mood his men were in. Tanek did like to keep his hand in, to practise his skills. Back in the early days, De Falaise had once seen him keep someone alive for a week in constant agony. There was a talent to that, an art.

  But this hadn't been their only reason to visit London. De Falaise needed information. He remembered the day they entered Parliament, the ease with which they'd dispatched the mob that had taken it over; its defences already immobilised at some point in the past. Those morons hadn't had the first clue about defending their position. He could have held the building and stayed there, or perhaps staked his claim on Buckingham Palace. But De Falaise was much smarter than that. All he was after was paperwork: not the documents these street thugs had managed to rip to shreds in their boredom, but the really secret stuff hidden in safes that De Falaise cracked with plastic explosives. He found nothing about the AB Virus, but then he wasn't expecting to here. The politicians had probably known just as little as everyone else and the real secret of what had happened - whether it was man-made, natural or whatever - was probably tucked away in some covert location long forgotten about now, in whatever country its origin lay. Anyway, that didn't interest him.

  De Falaise was more concerned with finding a list of all military installations - Army, Air Force and Navy, plus any American bases - which he eventually did. Especially secret barracks, Special Ops and the like. The defence systems had all been computerised, but when the electricity failed these reverted to multiple key lock systems, which his men got through with explosives. Quite a number of places had already been cleaned out, they found, and when they came across a couple of ex-squaddies still laughably trying to defend one of the installations, they discovered why. Operation Motherland: a botched attempt to round up all military weapons when the dust of The Culling Year had barely settled. Unorganised and misguided, the authorities thankfully hadn't had enough manpower to reach every UK base, particularly further up north. At various sites they found such weaponry as SA-80A2 assault rifles, Enfield L86s, MP5s, M4Comp, Colt Commandos and M203 machine guns, along with Milan Anti-Tank missile systems, LAW 90 anti-armour weaponry, bazookas, grenade launchers and plenty of grena
des. At US installations around Northamptonshire, plus USAF Molesworth, and the RAF/USAF Alconbury Air Base, they came away with M16s, Remington combat shotguns, Minimi machine guns, Colt, Berretta and Sig Sauer handguns.

  And so, on his way to the Midlands, the real seat of power for any invasion, De Falaise not only swelled his ranks, he also built up his arsenal. Clothed in a strange mixture of uniforms and kept going by food supplies and untapped fuel reserves they'd needed to power the vehicles they were driving today (including additional Honda and Suzuki motorbikes loaded onto the trucks) the men he'd picked up along the way didn't seem to regret their decision. Once they were armed to the teeth - though not without a little training 'on site' at the ranges - and had full bellies, they were content enough. Some of the pressure had lifted, they didn't have to think for themselves anymore. They were finally his to command.

  Which brought him back to the present and their last drive up the motorway. He was taking his ever-burgeoning army to set up a headquarters, from which he could spread outwards. But where would they go? That was the question he had thought long and hard about. Buildings like the council offices in Whetstone, like Parliament, were not that easy to defend anymore, as they'd proved. What they really needed was something designed to repel attacks. Tailor made to that one specific purpose.

  So De Falaise once again looked to the past.

  According to guides of the United Kingdom he'd picked up on his jaunt through the capital, there were several castles to choose from in the central area of England that might suit: Castle Howard, for example, North of York; Conisbrough Castle, near the town which featured in Sir Walter Scott's novel, Ivanhoe - and just to the west of Doncaster; or Bolsover Castle, dating from the seventeenth century. But in the end it was a very easy decision.

  The sign on the motorway showed that they were nearing their junction, and Tanek radioed to the rest of the convoy that they would soon be branching off for their target. Their truck led the way into the city itself, down roads that were more densely packed with abandoned cars: so much so that one of the Challengers had to overtake and plough them out of the way, parting the metallic sea like a khaki Moses. It made sense for this behemoth to be in front anyway, now that they were heading into potentially hostile territory again.

  The vehicles made their way into the middle of the city, but saw very little in the way of action until they'd almost reached the bus depot, passing red brick buildings, some with square windows, others arched, many with looted shops below. The square grey building, which looked like it housed a multi-storey car park as well, was obviously being used as some sort of HQ. And the people inside, who leaned over and started firing at the vehicles, were also quite well armed.

  Bullets pinged off the tanks, the trucks and the APCs, as the motorcycle escorts zipped just ahead of the shots.

  De Falaise radioed to Henrik, who was driving the tank up front. He could imagine the man, still chomping on one of those cigars he loved so much, loading a live shell and then working the tank gun so that it pointed at the depot. The thunderous roar that accompanied the blast was deafening. It took out a chunk of the building's side, and with it most of the people who'd been firing at the vehicles. When the smoked cleared, a blue sign with a white 'P' on it was dangling from the corner of the wounded building.

  More gunfire, this time from the ground level. Men and women emerging from the white classical-looking buildings to the left. De Falaise's men returned fire using the range of rifles they'd amassed which, even in their rookie hands, were more than a match for cannibalised handguns and shotguns. Some hostiles were even using air rifles!

  The skirmish lasted all of ten minutes. It was obvious that, as elsewhere, no one was anywhere near ready to fight such a superior foe.

  That proved to be the case again as they carried on up towards the market square, its fountain long-since dried up. Packs of armed people used the city's buses and trams - some of which had been tipped onto their sides - for cover. More shells from the tanks caused them to calm down and a series of rockets were launched at the square's council house, cracking the grey-green clock tower dome and the pillars that stood out front, while the stone lions that guarded the entranceway looked on. Its inhabitants raced from the building, fleeing like mice from a skirting board. They held their hands in the air, not saying a word as De Falaise's men took them prisoner. Each would be offered the same 'opportunity' to serve in his employ.

  Onward they went, trampling what little resistance they encountered like a size fourteen boot stamping on an ants' nest. To De Falaise's surprise and delight, he found the main object of their campaign virtually untouched. Not one person appeared to have had the same notion as him, to use this as their base - when it seemed such an obvious candidate. They entered through the black metal side gates round the corner from the main arched gateway, letting their vehicles inside.

  Once his men had established that there was nobody in residence, De Falaise and Tanek stepped out of their Bedford to survey the area. The gardens were in turmoil, now that there was nobody to maintain them: in fact they were creeping over onto the path, snaking their way towards his future residence. To his right, De Falaise spotted a war memorial, the names of the dead who'd fallen in action. And he could just see some steps behind all the foliage, beneath which were two archways set into the rocks.

  But there would be time to explore both the grounds and the inside later. For now, De Falaise just wanted to drink this all in.

  The grand majesty of the square, cream-coloured building - not the original one, by any means - was steeped in history, and had reinvented itself several times over. It was also still here to tell the tale; standing in front of him for a reason.

  "So," he finally said to Tanek. "What do you think?"

  Tanek grunted, but De Falaise couldn't really tell whether it was in approval.

  Then, turning to the rest of his men he said with a sense of pride: "Gentlemen, is she not magnifique? Our new home. I give to you the famous... Nottingham Castle."

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was their new home, and they were very proud of it.

  Life was good.

  Clive Maitland stepped back, took off his glasses, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Although he'd complained before, he'd never worked as hard as he had in the time since the virus. Back then he'd only had paperwork and a handful of unruly children to contend with. Now he was getting this community back on its feet; a new community that was made up of what was left of many others. He was proud of the fact that he'd drawn them all together, that were it not for his efforts they might have just faded away, not quite sure what had happened to the world, but positive that they wanted nothing whatsoever to do with the new one they'd found themselves in.

  They'd lost more than he could ever imagine. Loved ones dying right in front of them, and there was nothing they could do about it. Clive had been single, had never really had a relationship that had gone past the 'let's be friends' stage, and had no surviving family save for an aunt who now lived in Canada. Or at least she had lived in Canada, until the virus caught up with them over there. His Aunty Glenda had been type AB Rhesus Negative, he was pretty sure of that because his Mum used to comment on how rare a group it was.

  Much rarer than O-Negative.

  In a funny sort of way, though, he'd had the most to lose of all. None of the kids that he'd taught had survived, leastways he didn't think so; he'd certainly never come across any of them in the post-Cull period. Sometimes he saw their faces in his dreams; his nightmares. Christ, what a time that had been...

  He'd seen registration in the mornings dwindle down to virtually nothing. Then again, there were hardly any teachers reporting for duty either. In the weeks that followed it soon became apparent that the human race was facing its toughest test since the floods of Biblical times. Only instead of drowning in water, people were drowning in their own internal juices. It didn't take a genius to work out what would happen next.

  So, when the au
thorities had tried to round up survivors, burning the dead in the streets or in their houses, Clive had driven away from the towns and cities, his estate car laden with cans of petrol, food, and bottles of water. He'd driven as far north as he could, finding, quite by chance, a tiny little village - if you could even call it that - out in the middle of nowhere. The kind of place they put on picture postcards advertising Britain to tourists. The authorities hadn't touched it, and Clive doubted whether they'd ever get round to it in time. But, like everywhere else, the dead were in the streets, and they were in their homes.

  The stench was incredible, but he'd covered his mouth with a scarf and dragged the bodies from the two main streets - all this place boasted - into one of the fields. Then he'd gone into the houses, carrying out men and women, parents, grandparents (one old man had died alone in his cottage, just sitting in his rocking chair, blood staining his light blue shirt), and children. They'd been the worst of all, because again it brought back scenes of the playground, the classroom. But Clive had to be strong. They weren't coming back and there was a definite risk of other diseases if he just left them as they were. Diseases that the survivors could catch if they weren't careful. Wouldn't that beat all, dying from a secondary virus? The dead would have their revenge after all.

  Whether there hadn't been anyone with O-Neg blood in this village or they'd simply left, he had no idea. All Clive knew was that there wasn't another living soul here, which suited him fine for the time being.

  After burning the bodies, careful to do it in the most secluded spot he could find in case the smoke should draw unwanted attention, he set about biding his time.

  When he'd been a teacher, the most important subjects had always been Maths and English - even the government said so. People who taught stuff like he did were virtually second-class citizens; that's how he'd always felt, anyway. But what good was Shakespeare right now, and why would you ever need to work out a quadratic equation when faced with the end of the world? Clive's subject - Sociology - had suddenly been promoted to one of the most important, along with Woodwork and Metalwork (sorry, Technology, as they called it these days), people who worked with their hands. Not to mention the domestic sciences, and those who also knew how to grow food.