by Paul Kane
So he has friends, then? Javier mulled. As he suspected there was no way he'd been able to do all this on his own. No matter, I'll fry the lot of them. He brought up his weapon one final time, then felt something hard pressing into his cheek.
Javier's eyes swivelled left and down. They traced the end of the shotgun to another man. "How do," said the ruddy-faced man in the checked shirt and tank top. "I'd be droppin' that about now if I were ye. We don't want no accidents, do we? Nice and slow."
The Mexican began to lower his weapon, which the man with the shotgun took off him.
"When De Falaise learns of this, you will all be in big trouble," grumbled Javier. Even to his ears, it sounded lame.
"That so?"
Javier nodded, but the ruddy-face man just laughed. The battle - the hunt - was over and they'd lost. Javier knew it, his enemies knew it. But the next thing he knew was blackness, as the man turned the gun around and hit him hard with the butt.
Once they'd dealt with the fires and tied up all prisoners left alive, the trio turned their attentions to Robert.
He had barely said a word; just sat propped up against a tree, eyes staring out from beneath his hood. They knew it had been the incendiary from Major Javier's weapon that had done this to him, but none of them knew why. None of them dared to ask. Instead, they discussed what should be done about De Falaise's men.
"I know what I'd like to do to that one," said the Reverend Tate, leaning on his stick. He pointed across at Javier, still spark out and helpless as a baby. A complete reversal of the last time they'd met. "He took a friend of mine away, killed another."
Bill nodded. "Aye. But could ye really do that? A man of God and all?"
"An eye for an eye, the Bible says." But Tate conceded the point. "All right, maybe just a bit of a pummelling, then."
"I'm worried about Robert," interrupted Mark. They both looked at the boy who'd brought them here today, who'd sent word that De Falaise's men were on their way to the forest and that Robert might need their assistance. In spite of the fact the man had turned his back on them earlier on that week, Bill knew that he owed him a debt. And when news reached Tate, even though he hadn't met the man, he came. Maybe it was partly for revenge - a concept he wasn't supposed to believe in - or was it something else? To meet the man who'd taken on De Falaise's troops at the market, the person that people in neighbouring villages and towns were already talking about. The Hooded Man. Someone they might be able rally behind? A figurehead?
A hero?
He didn't look like one at the moment.
"Perhaps I should talk with him?" offered Tate. "I'm used to it after all. Giving counsel. I can be quite persuasive when I need to be."
Mark and Bill both shrugged, then watched as the holy man walked over to the tree where Robert sat gazing at nothingness. They could just about hear the conversation between the two men, which was woefully one-sided to begin with. Tate introduced himself, explained what had happened in Hope, the things Javier and some of his men had done there, when all the community had really wanted was to start over again.
That had done the trick, woken Robert from his stupor. "Start over? There is no starting over. No forgetting the past."
Tate frowned. "No one's suggesting we should forget what's gone before, my son. It's just that-"
"Don't you understand, there's no going back!"
"And where would you go, if you could?" asked Tate, resting on his stick. "To somewhere before the virus, hmm? To save someone you loved? Is that why you're out here all alone?"
Robert's lips were a straight line.
Tate waved over his shoulder. "And those people back there, Mark and Bill, do you not think they would give everything they have to turn back the clock? Don't you think they lost people they loved as well?"
"It's not the same," Robert said. Then, more quietly: "Not the same."
"How can you say that? For each and every one of us, it's personal. I lost parishioners, people I cared about a great deal," Tate continued. "And for a time, the briefest of times, I almost lost my faith as well."
"Faith," huffed the man in the hood.
"That's right. Don't think I haven't questioned what all this was for, what it was about. But still I have to believe there's a purpose to it. That something good might come out of this yet."
Robert looked up, the shadows disappearing from his eyes. "What purpose, what good?"
Tate shook his head. "I honestly don't know. But I do know one thing, if we stand by and let men like De Falaise have their way, then this world hasn't got a chance."
"What exactly do you expect me to do about it?"
Tate leaned in further. "I saw what you did back there, or at least some of it. And I heard about what you did at the market, the people you helped. In spite of what you might say, I know you care. Now, you have a choice. You can turn your back on them." He looked over at Bill and Mark once more. "Even though they came here today to warn you, to help you. You can turn your back on everything again, in fact, detach yourself from the hurt, from caring about anyone ever again. Or..." Tate paused. "Or you can save them. You can lead them. You can stop De Falaise. Now, ask yourself what the people you lost would have wanted you to do."
Robert didn't answer Tate, he just sat there deep in thought. Then he got up. Trying hard not to catch Mark and Bill's eyes, the hooded man strode over to where the prisoners were tied up. He examined their faces one by one, the men he'd attacked, those who'd fallen foul of his traps.
One of them, a soldier Robert had last seen dangling from a net, stared at him. He couldn't have been more than twenty.
"Please don't kill us." The young man spoke with a Southern accent.
Robert pulled down his hood. "You want me to let you go, is that it? So you can return to De Falaise?"
The youth thought about this, then shook his head. "Not after what he did to the others. The men you let go last time..."
Robert remembered what another young man had told him in similar circumstances, almost in tears. "Please... please don't hurt me, I had no choice. He was going to kill me; kill us all." Then Robert looked across at the other troops, saw that they were terrified of the same thing.
"You did these things, joined De Falaise's army, because you had no choice, right?"
He nodded.
"Okay, now I'm going to give you one," Robert told him.
The youth looked puzzled.
"What's your name?"
There was a moment's hesitation before he replied: "Granger."
"All right, then, Granger. I'm going to offer you, offer all of you, a choice." He looked back over his shoulder at Tate. "You can join me... join us. Help take down De Falaise, provide information so that we can put an end to his operation. Or you can take your chances out there."
Tate limped over to join him. "Hold on, what are you doing? This isn't what I meant. They were sent here to kill you, Robert."
"They're scared."
"They can't be trusted," argued the Reverend. "They've committed terrible acts."
"Many of them because they were forced to. Because De Falaise rules through terror, not trust." Robert undid the bonds that held Granger. "If we're going to do this, that's not how it'll work here." Robert held out his hand. "So, what do you say?"
Granger looked at the outstretched hand, as if not quite sure what to do, as if nobody had ever shown such faith in him before.
Then, finally, he reached out with his own scarred hand and shook Robert's.
CHAPTER TEN
It had been rich pickings that day.
In the front seat of the truck, Savero nursed his rifle and smiled. De Falaise would be more than happy with the hoard his unit were bringing back to the castle. As specified, they'd started up near a place called Worksop a few days ago and wound their way down the map, back towards Nottingham. De Falaise - as per usual - had guessed correctly that the most productive communities had actually sprung up away from the major towns and cities, in countryside l
ike this. It made sense for people to gather together out in rural areas, away from the attention of the gangs and violence that characterised the larger, urban localities. These were the communities using a network of markets and trading to get by. England had indeed been thrown back to the Middle Ages in some respects, to a time before rail networks and airports. People had to be self-sufficient, which suited De Falaise and his army well... because they weren't. Why bother, when they could just go around creaming off food, clothing and any other useful items they might want from less well organised - and less well armed - factions?
Just outside a place called Sutton-in-Ashfield, in fact, they'd come across a clump of people who'd gone back to their roots. They thought the world had forgotten about them, off the beaten track, but what they didn't know was Savero and his troops were actively searching for such places. They'd steamrollered in, the three jeeps, four bikes and two trucks, enough to put paid to any resistance from the inhabitants. In the face of uniformed men with automatic weaponry, they'd handed over their goods without complaint. Savero had organised the collections, ordering the men to take whatever they could find that might be of use, loading it up into the back of the Bedfords for transportation to the next location, and then finally on to their base.
They used the back roads mainly, as it was easier to spot the houses that might be hidden by trees or in the dips of hills. A couple of times they'd come across isolated farm houses, with only a handful of people gathered there. It always amused Savero to see how the 'men' of the villages and households crumpled when confronted with people armed to the gills. Now and again you'd get one who fought back, but usually only with crude weapons like knives. England's pre-Cull gun ban ensured that only criminals and those from large cities had any halfway decent weaponry. Certainly nothing compared with De Falaise's arsenal.
Savero hated using the old cliché, but it really was like taking candy from babies. It was just as De Falaise had promised when he recruited the Italian. The practised speech he'd given when they met in Parma might have come across as so much hot air had anyone else been speaking the words. But the Frenchman's impassioned plea, the way he carried himself, and the way he had already inspired loyalty in the men he'd recruited to his cause, made Savero take his words very seriously indeed.
"You have balls, Savero. Come with me, work for me," De Falaise had said, "and I promise you won't regret it."
Savero hadn't in the slightest, not even when they'd been in the heat of battle. Because his life had turned around at that moment. He was no longer on his own, scrabbling for survival, fighting off the nuts stupid enough to approach him, avoiding the gangs that had sewn up pockets of Europe. He felt a part of something special, however small, and now look where that decision had taken him, look how it had all grown. Savero was an officer in De Falaise's army, had men under him once more. Just like the old days in the Esercito Italiano - the Italian Army - before the lure of money persuaded him to go AWOL. Granted, they weren't the elite he'd fought with then, but there was strength in numbers. And they were petrified of him, of De Falaise. With good reason. Savero watched his driver for a moment, a man in his late twenties, dressed in the uniform of a soldier but with the uncertain look of a new recruit. Even more uncertain the longer Savero stared at him, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
No, there was something else. Something his driver had spotted down this country lane they were following towards Nottingham, fields, trees and hedgerows on either side of them. Savero faced front again and saw what the problem was. Up ahead, just as the lane hit a kink, was a car... Wait, it was a jeep. Not only that, it was one of their jeeps, a Wolf similar to those accompanying his unit today. It was blocking off the narrow road, bonnet up, a couple of uniformed men examining the inside as if there was something wrong with the engine.
Savero ordered the truck to slow down - they were going nowhere till this was sorted out. He wound down the passenger window and stuck his head out.
"Hey, you - what's the big hold up?" he called out to the soldiers by the broken down vehicle. One of the men standing by the bonnet came forward, shielding his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun. He shrugged, pointing back to the jeep. Savero sighed deeply. He could see there was something the matter with it, he wanted to know what. Opening the door, he clambered out. He was going to leave his rifle on the front seat, but at the last second took it with him. It was habit. A good soldier always kept his weapon with him at all times.
Savero walked towards the young trooper, even more fresh-faced than his driver. "What's wrong with it?"
The man shrugged again, this time adding, "No idea. Don't know much about engines. It just started making this funny noise and..."
Savero wasn't really listening to him anymore. He was listening to his instincts instead. Something wasn't right here. Something didn't add up. "What are you doing out here anyway? This was our designated route back."
"Routine patrol, sir," said the soldier, but there had been a brief hesitation before answering.
"Who's in charge? It can't be you."
Another one of the soldiers, the guy with his head in the engine looked up at the pair of them. Suddenly Savero saw it, the panic in his eyes.
"Er..." began the first lad. "In charge... er..."
"I asked you a question!"
"That would be... him." The soldier nodded behind Savero, and even as he turned, raising his eyes at the same time, he saw the shadow dropping down from the overhanging trees to land on the roof of the truck.
He swore, preparing to fire at the hooded man. The soldier jostled him, spoiling his aim. The man in the hood ducked sideways as the bullets completely missed their target. Savero spotted more men emerging from behind the hedgerow, armed just as they were... because they were them: soldiers from De Falaise's ranks. What was happening here, some kind of revolt?
Before his own men could react, these rebels had pulled them from their jeeps, prodded them off their bikes with the ends of their rifles.
Savero spun back around, training his gun on the youth who had knocked his arm. But before he could fire, the man on top of the truck leaped down on him.
Savero was pushed forwards, the rifle knocked from his clutches. It was quickly picked up by the traitor who had led them into this trap.
"Figlio di puttana!" cried Savero, wriggling out from under his attacker. He was up in seconds, but then so was the bearded man in the hood. "Who are you?"
The man didn't answer him, which only infuriated Savero further. He went to punch the man in the stomach, but his opponent shifted his weight slightly so the blow landed east of where it should have.
The man brought down his own fist and the Italian moved towards the blow, angling himself so that his forehead took the full force of the punch. But he didn't stop there. Savero continued to bring up his head so that he caught the man's chin from beneath, knocking the hooded man sharply backwards. His enemy stumbled a few feet, shaking his head.
Savero grinned. "You won't win." By now he saw that people had gathered round, his own men and those who had come out of the hedges. He also spotted a couple of people out of uniform, one who looked like a farmer holding a shotgun, another - unarmed - limping with a stick. They were all fixated on the fight.
This is more than just a brawl, realised Savero. Whoever wins this will have their respect... But you can take him. He's just some guy who thinks he can play in the big leagues.
He launched himself at the hooded man again, attempting a roundhouse punch to the ear. The bearded man bent, not allowing the blow to settle, then responded with an uppercut, which snapped Savero's head back. It was his turn to shake himself, his vision slightly blurred. Savero saw that the hooded man was rolling up his sleeves, ready to go again.
He didn't give him the chance.
Savero ran at him, grabbing him by the middle, shoving him backwards into the truck. The air exploded out of his opponent's body. Savero stepped back again, watching with satisfaction as the hooded man crumpl
ed. Then he took a run up, to kick the winded man. Instead, he found his foot being grabbed, then twisted and pushed back so that he lost his balance completely. Savero fell onto his shoulder blades; hard.
"Merda!"
Rolling onto his side, Savero noted that the hooded man was climbing to his feet. Getting a knee under himself, he rose as well, but not quickly enough. The man was on him, not letting up for a second. Savero was being pummelled with blows from the left and right. He held up his arms to defend himself, swinging blindly. In the end he tried to push the man away, but after a few seconds the punishment continued. Savero reached down to his belt, loosing the knife he kept there. He brought it up in an arc, slashing the hooded man across the chest, though not deep enough to penetrate his clothes.
Now, squatting down, he slashed at his enemy again. But then he saw the hooded man produce his own knife: a hunter's blade with serrated edge. Savero acknowledged this with a tip of the head. They circled each other, two sets of eyes fixed. Savero watched for any sudden movements, and he knew the hooded man was doing the same. At last, it was the Italian who moved first, running at his enemy and bringing down his blade. The hooded man blocked him by raising his forearm, linking the pair together so that neither could strike. They pulled each other around, as if in some kind of crazy dance, until finally the hooded man brought up his knee and levered Savero back. The Italian was not fast enough to avoid the slash that cut open the top of his right arm, and he let out a wounded shout.
Through clenched teeth, Savero cursed the man again. Why won't you just lie down? Why won't you die? In all his time he had never encountered an opponent so reluctant to give an inch, so hard to read. It was as though he wasn't bothered about dying; and if he wasn't frightened of death why should he be scared of Savero?
When the Italian came at him this time, he made a false play, pretending to go in one direction, then dodging back behind the hooded man, snaking an arm around his neck so that it was in the crook of Savero's elbow. The knife point dug into Hood's chest. One false move and he'd drive it downwards into his heart.
