Arrowhead

by Paul Kane

  Clive was more than familiar with how the structures of society operated; realised that it would be better to sit out all the violence and mayhem which would follow the collapse of reason and logic. Without law and order, without the police and judicial systems, everything would go to rack and ruin. One day, a dominant force or authority might well take control, hopefully for the better good - but meanwhile it was time to build up smaller communities so that the values of civilisation were not lost for ever. It was time to go back to basics.

  First things first, Clive had to gather that community. This he did eventually by travelling round other rural areas, searching for survivors. It was in a medium-sized village just outside Derby that he came upon Gwen, a young woman who had also decided to live rather than just give up. He first saw her sitting at a bus stop as if waiting for a number 22 to come along. Thin, but naturally so, she was dressed in jeans and a jumper, her auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, and she was smoking a cigarette.

  "Hi," he'd called from his car. "Are you okay?"

  She took a drag on the cigarette, looking over at him. When she stood up, Clive saw the bloodstained carving knife at her hip.

  "Look, I don't mean you any harm. I'm searching for other survivors."

  There must have been something about the tone of his voice, perhaps the kindness in it - or maybe it was his inoffensive appearance? - that told her she didn't need to defend herself this time. She'd gone over to the car and, after a moment's hesitation, climbed inside. When he'd coughed at the cigarette smoke, she'd thrown it out of the window. "Sorry, I had quit before..."

  Clive nodded.

  She told him her story, of what it was like in Derby now - exactly how he'd pictured it. Gangs of hooligans were in charge, acting like animals. With no fear of reprisals and after seeing people they cared about die in such a horrific way, the darker side of human nature had emerged. Like him, Gwen had been single, and she'd tried to hide away in her house, down a street not far away from the Metro Theatre. There she pretended everything was okay. It was when a trio of men broke in and tried to attack her that she'd had to defend herself with the knife. She'd got out the back window, and run - away from the house, away from the city. That's how she'd lived since that day, alone, on the run.

  As Clive drove, he explained what he was trying to do and asked a) if she wanted to join him, and b) if she would help in the search. Gwen had thought about this for all of ten seconds before replying yes. All she really wanted now was a chance at normal life, or as close to normality as anyone got these days. Clive could relate to that.

  Together they'd scoured the outlying regions of Derby, Mansfield, Sheffield. There had been some frightening moments, like the time Clive had stalled the car just as a nutter brandishing a cricket bat had appeared to start battering the vehicle.

  "Six... Six...?" he'd shouted as he hammered the paintwork. "Umpire, he's out, surely?" One look at the man's wide eyes and slavering mouth told them that he'd lost his mind completely. Fumbling with the ignition, Clive had restarted the estate and backed it up away from him.

  However, slowly but surely, they grew in number, bringing the sane and willing people they found back to the safe haven Clive had created for them. As he said to each and every one of them, it didn't matter what the place had been called before: now the village was named 'Hope'. They'd even made a sign, which they planted on the main street.

  It was a name Reverend Tate definitely approved of. They'd found this very special man one day, on his knees, praying inside a vandalised church. The thugs that had been desecrating the building were strewn around him. Tate had crossed himself and risen, leaning on his thick walking stick, asking what he could do for the newcomers. When they just stared at the felled men, Tate's explanation had been, "The Lord moves in mysterious ways." (Later they learned that the Reverend actually taught self-defence out in the community to the vulnerable. "God helps those who help themselves," he'd explained, patting his stick. "But not that way.")

  The small, squat man, who walked with a slight limp and looked like he'd probably been bald since his teens, had hesitated when they'd asked him to come with them, arguing that he couldn't leave his flock. When Clive pointed out there were precious few of those left, and that the new flock he was gathering would need religious guidance, Tate finally agreed.

  Clive was pleased he had, because he enjoyed his late night chats with the holy man, who suggested that there was a rhyme and pattern to all of this, that it was part of God's plans for them.

  "Everything happens for a reason," Tate often said to him, "even if we can't see what that is right now."

  "You really believe that?"

  "Don't you?" the Reverend threw back at him. "He spared you, spared all of us for some purpose. And I think you might well have found yours, Clive. Your brains, your leadership qualities have saved these people. Saved us all."

  It was true that without him the community of Hope would still be out there, lost. He'd organised them, found out what people's strengths were and put them to practical use. For example, June Taylor was a former midwife, so she had medical knowledge. Graham Leicester used to work in a garden centre, but as well as cultivating flowers he'd also had his own allotment. Clive worked in conjunction with him, at first taking over one of the large greenhouses they found in someone's back garden, but then on more ambitious schemes such as planting crops out in the fields. This is where Andy Hobbs, who used to be a gym instructor, and Nathan Brown, who had worked as a farmhand one summer, came into their own: ploughing the fields so that Hope would have a good harvest this year. It was only recently, in the last six months or so, that Clive had got wind of the markets where food and other items could be traded, so every now and again they would visit these with produce or whatever else they had to offer. Already, the 'economy' - however rudimentary - was getting back on its feet it would seem, society finding a way of rebuilding what had been destroyed. This also proved an opportunity to touch base with other burgeoning communities.

  Though they were small in number, maybe thirty people at most (others were much, much smaller), they all got on and were working towards something together. Without Clive's influence and guidance there would have been none of that.

  And without his pro-action he would never have met Gwen, who, over the course of time they'd known each other, had become extremely important to him. In the days before the virus, Clive doubted that a woman as good looking and kind - and, let's face it, pretty much perfect - as Gwen would have even looked his way, although she always told him he was wrong. Now, in this bubble, this experiment - a micro community really - he was rapidly becoming her whole world. They'd already 'adopted' a couple of the little ones they'd found on their searches, some no more than five or six, alone and scrabbling about for food or water. But one day, Clive realised, there would come a time when he and Gwen might start a family of their own. They'd even talked about asking Tate to marry them. They weren't the only ones, either. Folk, of all ages, were pairing up, whether it was for companionship, or love, or a human instinct to carry on the species.

  Which was why he was out here today, working on turning the tiny village hall into an even tinier school. He was fixing up the place with the help of young Darryl Wade. The lad was barely into his twenties, but had been trained well by his handyman father before he'd died - in the hopes Darryl would take over the family business one day. It was this kind of passing down of skills Clive sought to encourage. The world no longer needed IT experts, estate agents or insurance brokers.

  Outside in the sunshine, Clive was sanding down the first set of desk tops. He'd been working hard all morning and was looking forward to the communal dinner they would have outside the local pub, with freshly baked bread (that was one of Gwen's talents) and fresh meat picked up just recently from one of the markets: lamb today, if he wasn't very much mistaken. And as he placed the glasses back on his head, bringing a figure walking towards him into focus, Clive smiled a greeting at Gwen. All th
ings considered, life was good in Hope, and much better than the alternative.

  "Hello you," said Gwen, carrying a tray of blackcurrant juice across from the house they'd picked out together. She looked over at the desks, then at the work he and Darryl had done on the door to the hall. Gwen nodded, suitably impressed. "Been working hard, I see."

  She placed the tray down and Clive gave her a kiss. She was wearing a flowery summer dress, even though they were barely into the spring, her auburn hair loose, flowing over her shoulders, and Clive thought that he'd never seen anything so beautiful in his life. He slipped a hand around her waist and she placed an arm over his shoulder. They both looked at the hall, knowing that in years to come it would probably become the true embodiment of Hope.

  "Who's looking after Sally and Luke?" Sally was their little girl's real name, Luke was the one they'd given their boy when they found the poor mite.

  "June's got them; they're happy enough playing out in the garden. Where's Darryl?"

  "Inside; he's taking a look at the rafters. Apparently there was quite a bit of rot up in the roof. That's something else which'll need sorting out."

  "There's time," Gwen told him.

  "There is," he agreed, kissing her again. "For all kinds of things. Gwen, I-" There was a noise in the distance that made him pause. "Do you hear that?"

  Gwen cocked an ear. "Sounds like an engine."

  Clive listened again. "Sounds like lots of engines."

  "Might just be someone passing by up on the main road," she offered, but her expression told him she was worried. They never had visitors to Hope - not even from the other communities they'd made contact with - and that was the way they preferred it.

  The noise was drawing closer.

  "Does... does that sound like a motorbike to you?" asked Gwen.

  Clive took her hand and ran down the street, rounding the corner. The people of Hope had come out of their houses to see what was happening. Andy and Nathan had heard the racket and ventured down from the upper field. Graham Leicester was approaching from up the street, running towards Clive. "Men..." he spluttered, out of breath.

  But then Clive saw for himself. They rode up the small street behind Graham, just as Clive had done all that time ago when he first came upon this place. There were three on bikes, the rest in jeeps. All wore uniforms, but as they got closer Clive could see they were a mishmash of Army, Navy and Air Force, British and US; obviously stolen. As were the weapons they were brandishing, heavy duty rifles and pistols. Some looked uncomfortable handling them, others looked very much at home. One of the soldiers on the bikes stretched out a leg and kicked Graham over into the dirt when he passed.

  It was now that Clive realised his fundamental error. In seeking to gather together people who could make this community flourish, leaving behind the violent and the psychopathic, he'd left this place wide open to attack from the same. Hope had no defences whatsoever, and they'd been too reliant on its isolated location to shield them from the outside world. Now that outside world had found them, and they were about to pay the price.

  Several men climbed from the jeeps, their boots stomping the street. And their apparent leader, his paunch so big he only just fit inside, got out too. Andy ran at one of the soldiers, swinging a hoe, knocking the man to the ground. For his trouble he was hit in the back of the head with the butt of a rifle. He went down hard and stayed there.

  The man with the belly waved his hand, giving the signal to open fire. There was some hesitation, but then muzzles flashed, spitting bullets at the cottages which housed the people of Hope. These men didn't appear to care whether there were folk inside or not. Windows shattered, walls were pock-marked. The sign they'd made came crashing down to the ground. From somewhere Clive heard screaming, but couldn't tell if it came from a man, woman or a child. Gwen held on to him, and he pressed her head into his shoulder, covering her ears.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  The fat man gave another signal and Clive watched as small objects were tossed at the cottages, and at the pub. Seconds later, the first of the grenades exploded. There followed two or three more, drawing out the rest of the inhabitants of this place. They fell to the ground, covering their heads. Behind Clive and Gwen, Darryl appeared, his mouth gaping open. Then Clive saw June with the kids; she had Luke in her arms, crying, while Sally was holding her hand.

  This isn't what I promised them.

  Their leader held up a hand for them to cease, simultaneously pulling a pistol from a holster with the other. "That's enough," he shouted. Clive detected a slight Hispanic accent when the man spoke. He walked down the small street, eyes darting left and right, as if daring anyone else to trying something.

  "So, people of..." The man looked down at the fallen sign they had made. He chuckled. "People of Hope. My name is Javier. Major Javier. Who here speaks for you?"

  Clive made to move forwards, but Gwen tugged at his shirt. She shook her head, but he patted her hand to tell her it was okay. "That would be me," Clive called out.

  Javier looked him up and down, perhaps wondering how such a man could have banded together the group; how he could have commanded such respect and loyalty without the threat of fear. "And you are?"

  "Clive Maitland," he said, trying to toughen up his voice but failing miserably. "And I demand that you-"

  "Demand? You demand?" He lifted his pistol and pointed it at Clive, who bit his lip. "Well, let me tell you what I demand, little man. I represent the new power in the region and he has sent me out to meet his... subjects. In fact, he's sent out many more of his men to do the same. His name is De Falaise of Nottingham Castle, so remember that. In the years to come everyone will know it. Cooperate and things will go smoothly for you. Oppose him, and they will not."

  "What does this De Falaise want with us?" Clive asked.

  "Your fealty, your tribute," came the answer. "You have stocks here of food?"

  "They are for trading, for feeding my people."

  Javier wagged a finger. "Except they're not your people anymore, are they? Were you not listening, Señor Maitland?" He waved a hand around to indicate the community of Hope. "They belong to De Falaise: just as this village is now under his 'protection'."

  So this was what would fill the void. He'd been expecting something one day, but not this. Not a return to the old days that history warned them all about. "He's like a monarch, then," observed Clive. "Or would he prefer Sheriff?"

  Javier thought about this for a second. "Sheriff? Yes, I think he would like the sound of that title very much. We will take most of what you have to feed our troops." He rubbed his inflated stomach. "Like me, they are all growing boys."

  Clive stepped forward. "But how are we expected to eat? There are children here."

  Javier paused before answering. "That is not my concern. But if you keep this up, we might well be tempted to take a few... other things back with us as well." He leered over Clive's shoulder at Gwen. "She's yours, yes?"

  "She doesn't belong to anybody!" snapped Clive.

  "What did I just say? You all belong to De Falaise. And I think he would be more than happy if I brought her back for him." Javier pushed Clive aside and made for Gwen. Darryl looked like he was going to do something, but the raised pistol dissuaded him. Clive knew that Gwen no longer carried the knife she'd once used to protect herself. If only he'd left her at the bus stop, she might have been safe. Or she might be dead already, he told himself. At least this way they had a fighting chance.

  "Wait... wait," said Clive, following Javier. "Look, take the food - you're welcome to it. We'll manage somehow." There were a few gasps from the villagers, but he knew they'd understand. This was one of their own at risk, and any of the women could be next.

  Javier turned. "I don't need your permission. And the more I think about it, the more De Falaise will be pleased if I bring back such an elegant lady." He stepped forward, reaching out to touch Gwen's cheek. Her face soured, then she bit the hand he was proffering.r />
  "Ahwww!" screamed Javier, sticking it under his arm. "You'll regret that!" He struck her across the face with the pistol, sending her reeling back.

  "Gwen!" shouted Clive and dove at the fat man. He didn't want to join the rest of the survivors in their grieving, couldn't bear to lose the only person he'd ever truly loved - not now, not like this. But sensing the imminent attack, Javier spun and fired a single bullet. It hit Clive in the ribs, tearing into him and out the other side. He dropped to his knees, glasses falling from his head. Clive clutched his side, bringing one hand up and seeing the blood there - his blood, spilling out of him like juice from a punctured carton. The people of Hope gaped, horrified. Gwen lay on the floor, blood and tears pouring down her face.

  "I have to ask myself, is it brains?" said Javier as he approached Clive. "Is that why they follow you? Is that why she looks at you that way?"

  Clive didn't know how to answer.

  "I think it is." Javier leaned over him and snatched the glasses from his head. "You want to see them, Señor Maitland? Want to see those brains?"

  "No!" shouted a voice. Someone, a blur to Clive, was moving towards them. It was too big and bulky to be Gwen, that was for sure. He squinted and saw the outline of Reverend Tate there. "In God's name, no!" He brought down his walking stick hard across Javier's shoulder blades. The Major let out another cry, then spun on his second attacker. Clive saw Javier raise his gun, but Tate grabbed his arm. The two men wrestled for control of the weapon. Other soldiers were coming across to help, but not quick enough. Javier was struggling to bring the pistol up, Tate attempting to stop him - but it was obvious who was winning.