by Paul Kane
CHAPTER FOUR
AT FIRST HE thought they had come for him, finally.
Robert was aware of voices before he saw the group of men. They were skirting the edge of the woodland, about seven or eight of them in total. He’d been checking some of his snares when the sound of their talking carried to him. Robert had frozen. He hadn’t heard another human voice in as long as he could remember – not since the men in the yellow suits...
“You must be O-Neg... Completely immune, you lucky bastard...”
“He’s too valuable...”
“Get him!”
Surely they couldn’t have tracked him down after all this time? There would be a certain irony to it if they had. If the hunter was again being hunted.
Leaving the looping trap, and stuffing the last wild rabbit into his skin-pouch, he’d moved swiftly and silently along the edge of the wood, before climbing up a tree to gain a better view. The first time he’d tried this it had been like being a kid again, doing something forbidden, and he heard his late mother’s words in his head: “Come down from there at once, Robert, before you really hurt yourself!”
There was a part of him that wanted to get hurt this time, wanted to get hurt severely, in fact. Fall down and crack his skull open; wouldn’t that be nice? But there was just as big a part of him that really didn’t want to break his back and not be able to move, laying there dying slowly. Not a good end.
Better than Joanne’s. Better than Stevie’s.
It was like the bow and arrow: the more times he’d done it, the better he’d become. Now, Robert was so used to it, he could scale even the largest of oaks. Up through the branches he went; strong hands, roughened by the elements, hauled him higher and higher. The tips of his boots found notches and ridges, like a mountain climber scaling a rock face.
When he was high enough, he looked down at the sceneand saw the men. No yellow plastic suits, no gas masks or flamethrowers. Just blokes dressed in ordinary clothes, if a little the worse for wear: trousers, shirts, some in jumpers. They were carrying bags, had backpacks slung over shoulders. They knew each other well, were chatting and... yes, even laughing once or twice. Robert’s eyes scanned the men but he could see no sign of rifles, automatic or otherwise. Which begged the question, who were they and where were they going?
He decided to find out. Call it a policeman’s curiosity, which he didn’t even know he still had, or an attempt to find out as much as he could about a potential enemy. Whichever way you looked at it, he was on the move.
Robert leaped from one tree to the next, trailing the men at height until they headed out across a field. If he wanted to know where they were going now, Robert had to break cover and follow on foot. But this didn’t mean exposing his position. The men would still have no idea he was behind them.
As he crested a small hill, Robert saw where they were making for. In a big field just off the road, folk were gathering in fairly large numbers – large for post-virus times, at any rate. Dozens of them: men, women and children. Some brought sacks, some trunks, some holdalls. From his hiding position behind a hedgerow, Robert saw a couple of cars, a couple of vans, but these were few and far between. He guessed petrol was a rare commodity these days, with nobody to keep refilling pumps, without anyone to bring it over from abroad.
Some had reverted to using horses for transportation. Robert watched as a woman dismounted from her steed, swinging a bag down as she went. Set up here and there were makeshift tables, trays with legs, or blankets laid on the ground. People were getting things out of their bags to place on them, arranging them carefully.
My God! It’s a bloody car boot sale. Robert thought to himself. To his surprise, he found the corners of his mouth curling up. An honest to goodness car boot sale!
Only there weren’t enough ‘car boots’ to justify the name. It was more like a market, just not as well laid out as those in Mansfield. The purpose was the same, however. Except that here the traders were swapping items rather than paying money for them. In this ‘society’ what use were coins and bits of paper with the Queen’s head on them? This part of England, at least, appeared to have regressed back to the barter system. Having seen nothing of his fellow man in an age, Robert was suddenly engrossed in the unfolding dramas, the flurry of activity as people from miles around gathered to do business. He’d completely forgotten what it was like to be in the proximity of other human beings, to have that contact with them. Was there a part of him now that missed it? No, it was better that he shut himself away, pretended the rest of the world didn’t exist. Live out the remainder of his life ignorant of how the human race was getting along. It had no need for him and vice-versa.
But the same twist of fate that had saved him, killing the two most important people to him in the process, had other ideas.
Robert had been so distracted by the ad hoc market, he didn’t notice the man behind him until it was too late.
“What ye doin’ skulking about there?” said a voice with a thick, Derbyshire accent. “Aye, you there – you with the hood on. Get up and turn yessen around. And don’t get any funny ideas about that bow yer carryin’.”
Robert rose slowly, trying to stop himself from shaking. Was it fear or just excitement at being addressed after so long, at having someone other than a wild animal acknowledge his existence? He heard the distinctive click-clack of a gun being primed for action. And, sure enough, when he turned around, he was greeted with the sight of a man – early forties, though he might have been younger, it was hard to tell after what he must have gone through in the past couple of years – and he was holding up a double-barrelled shotgun. It was a farmer’s weapon, probably wielded by an ex-farmer. There’d certainly been enough of them round these parts. The ruddy complexion had faded somewhat, but Robert could tell that he must still spend a lot of his time outside. The pigeon-chested man wore a checked shirt beneath a tank top with holes in it, his trousers were loose as if he’d lost weight, and his boots had definitely seen better days.
“I’ll say it again. What ye doin’ spying back here?”
Robert said nothing, not even when the man lifted the shotgun higher, not quite aiming at him, but not pointing it away, either. Robert held up his hands to show he meant him no harm.
“What’s a matter, can’t ye speak or summat? Bit slow, eh?”
Robert shook his head. There was nothing wrong with his faculties. It had just been so long since he’d spoken, he wasn’t even sure if he could anymore. Carefully, he began to reach across into his open coat.
“Keep yer hands where I can see ’em,” instructed the man, moving forward.
“I...” began Robert. The sensation of talking felt odd; alien even. The look of shock on his face must have registered, because the man frowned.
“Just what’s yer game? We don’t want no trouble at the market.”
“No game. No trouble,” Robert assured him. With each word, his voice grew stronger. “I’ve just come along to trade.”
“That so?”
“It is. If you’ll let me...?” Robert reached into his coat again, very slowly, the shotgun trained on him the whole time. “Easy... easy... See, in my pouch.”
The man drew nearer to get a better look. “Rabbits?”
“Rabbits,” repeated Robert.
Then the ‘farmer’ began to laugh: long, hard chuckles that caused his frame to shake. “Oh, that’s a good un,” he said eventually. “Rabbits... Judas Priest! What yer thinking of swappin’ for them scrawny devils?”
Robert shrugged, pulling down his hood. “Whatever I can.”
Lowering his shotgun, the other man wiped the tears from his eyes. “Aye, I’d be interested to see it an’ all. Well, come on. Let’s take yer down there, then, before all the best bargains are gone.”
For a second, Robert hesitated, the very thought of meeting, of mixing with that number of people was terrifying. What if the men after him should happen by? “Is... is it safe?” asked Robert.
The
man frowned. “Safe? What yer talkin’ about?”
He didn’t have a choice, he had to ask. “The... the men in yellow suits. The ones who set fire to the bodies.”
He looked at Robert like he was insane. “Where yer bin, on Mars or somethin’?”
“Something,” admitted Robert.
“They haven’t bin round for ages, that lot. Not since the early days.”
“What happened to them?”
“Dead,” said the man, his face stern. “Like everyone else.”
“So there was no cure?”
“Cure?” He laughed again, but there was a bitterness to it this time. “There were never any cure. Look, are ye comin’ to the market or not? I haven’t got all day.”
Robert gave a small nod, and they began to walk across the field. The closer they came, the more he wanted to run – even though he knew the fear was irrational.
What if he’s wrong – what if they’re still out there somewhere, looking for you?
You heard what he said, they’re all dead. Only the O-Negs are left. It’s the grand total of the human race.
But...
“So, yer a poacher?” the man said, interrupting Robert’s argument with himself. He nodded at the bow to emphasise what he meant.
“Can you poach something that doesn’t belong to anyone anymore?”
“I meant before, like?”
“Not exactly,” Robert said. And you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.
They were nearly at the market and Robert could feel all eyes turning upon him. He wasn’t a regular here, and everyone knew it. It was the same feeling as when he used to enter an unfamiliar neighbourhood to make an arrest.
“Well, ’ere we are then,” said the man. “My name’s Bill, by the way. Bill Locke.” He stuck out his hand and Robert examined it for a moment before looking back up at his face. Such a simple act of humanity, of friendship, and it threw him completely. Then he reached out and shook it. The man’s grip was rough and firm, once again emphasising that he’d worked with his hands all his life; Robert couldn’t compete with that – too many years of domestic bliss before embracing the wild.
He noticed the man was waiting for something, then realised he hadn’t told him his own name. “I’m...” I was... I used to be a man called Stokes. But what am I now? Who am I now? “They call me Robert.”
“How do then, Rob.”
Bill finished pumping his hand, then let him go. Robert noticed that the people in the market seemed to accept him more now that they’d seen the handshake. Whatever Bill did here, whether it was organise the events, provide security, or simply trade, he was well respected.
Robert looked around at what was on offer. On one stall there was hand-made pottery, plates and cups; on another, knitwear. A young woman of about twenty was selling these, but Robert imagined some old lady with O-Neg blood, sat somewhere knitting with whatever wool they could get her. And there were piles of other clothing, manufactured before the Cull: no dresses and skirts for women now, though, only more practical fare like trousers and jackets. One man had axes, knives, hammers – tools of various sizes and shapes – set out in front of him, obviously scavenged from hardware shops. A few batteries caught Robert’s eye, mainly because he hadn’t seen anything even remotely technological in so long. He found medical supplies on another blanket, antiseptics, pills – some identifiable, some not – plasters and bandages. There were suitcases, haversacks and holdalls, which at first he thought were just what the items had been carried here in, but then he saw people bartering for these, too.
There were tins of food, just like the ones Joanne had stockpiled and on which he’d lived after his family had died, but there was more fresh food to be found than anything else. Fruit and vegetables, which looked more appetising than anything he’d ever seen in a supermarket. Someone had taken their time growing these: ripe tomatoes, apples, runner beans, potatoes, most of them sold by a willowy woman with auburn hair. Very few pieces of fruit from more exotic climes, Robert noted, such as bananas or oranges. Hardly surprising now that there were fewer people to bring them in from overseas (and just what was happening over there anyway – were they in the same state as this country?). Everything here smacked of a survival instinct he could relate to, of human beings making do in the face of adversity. The ones that were left behind were obviously slowly forming communities of their own. He could tell that by the handfuls that had been sent to represent them at the market.
The meat – pork, beef and chicken – looked mouth-wateringly good, and now Robert understood why Bill had laughed when he showed him the rabbits. They weren’t even skinned or properly prepared. Maybe next time he could bring some tastier treats from the ice houses.
Next time? What the hell was he thinking about...? Robert couldn’t come back here again. Couldn’t allow himself to get drawn into the world again, to make friends, to talk with other people. Even if it were true and the men in those gas masks were no longer a problem, he still had his waiting to do, was still sworn to live out the rest of his life – however long or short that was – alone.
“Your first time here, huh?” said someone to the left of him. Lost in his thoughts, Robert gave a start. Then he looked over and his mouth dropped open.
Stevie?
He blinked once, twice, then saw the reality of who was in front of him.
The boy was twelve or thirteen, with a scruffy mop of hair that had once been blond – possibly could be again given a proper wash – and deep green eyes. He was wearing a baggy tracksuit, bound by a belt round the middle with numerous pockets attached. He looked like he was playing superhero, but Robert knew full well that every single pocket would be filled with something important. The lad had a rucksack slung over his shoulder, which appeared to be full.
Robert opened his mouth, then closed it again, having completely forgotten what the kid had said.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” he continued, not put off by Robert’s silence. The boy looked him up and down. “Would’ve remembered you, that’s for sure. You have much to trade?”
Robert shook his head.
“That’s a pity. It’s a good market today, lots on offer. Isn’t always that way, you know. Have to make the most of it while you can. I’m Mark, by the way.”
Again, Robert just gaped at him. Was there a resemblance, or was it just in his head? True, Mark had a similar hair-tone, but his eyes were a different colour and he was much thinner, the cheekbones less padded with puppy fat.
“Who you here with, Mark?”
“What do you mean?”
“Your parents –” began Robert, then kicked himself when Mark looked down. Of course they were dead. Everyone was dead. “I’m sorry... Look, haven’t you got anyone who takes care of you?”
Mark scowled at that one. “I take care of myself,” he replied indignantly. “I’m not a kid.”
Robert shook his head. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“I find stuff myself, bring it here myself, trade it myself. Just like the others.”
“There are more like you?” said Robert, barely able to conceal the shock from his voice.
“’Course. We’re not professional collectors, mind, just snatch what we need to get by from the towns and cities.” He appeared very proud of his profession. “We can get into places other people can’t. And we’re small enough to hide if there’s trouble. I’ve got plenty of hiding places, me. So we go in, we come back out again. Easy.”
“My God,” Robert whispered to himself. He’d once seen a documentary about orphans who lived on the streets – or more specifically in the sewers of Bucharest, Romania. As the people had filmed them for the news report, bottles floated past in the dirty water and cockroaches climbed over the pipes where they slept. They were called ‘The Forgotten Children.’ When Robert looked at Mark he saw the same thing. In the wake of the virus, the Cull, these were England’s forgotten children, left to fend for themselves, because if they didn’t t
hey would die. What kind of future did they have to look forward to?
“It’s no big deal,” said Mark, smiling. He reached into his bag and pulled out a chocolate bar with a purple wrapper, then proffered it to Robert. “You want one? I got dozens.”
Robert held up a hand to say no, then reconsidered. How long had it been since he’d tasted chocolate? Far longer than he’d been in the woods. It used to be his weakness at Christmas and Easter. Part of him was tempted now, but another part was linking this small pleasure to those times in his life when he’d been happy; seeing Stevie opening his presents, his eggs, Joanne playfully threatening that she’d take the box of Dark Delicious away from Robert as they sat watching the holiday movies. What right did he have to that now? “No,” he said to Mark, “thanks, but no.”
Mark shrugged and opened the bar, biting off a chunk with the same glee that Stevie always did.
Stevie.
Robert was suddenly aware that he could no longer stay here. That if he did he might just break down and start bawling his eyes out in front of all these people, in front of Mark. The pain was still too real for him, still too close.
“I’ve got to go,” he said, voice shaky.
“Wait...” Mark started, but Robert was already walking away from the boy, from the market.
“I’m sorry,” Robert called back over his shoulder, pulling up his hood as he went. He strode past Bill, who was haggling with another man over the ‘price’ of an onion.
“Off s’soon?” said Bill. “Any joy with them rabbits?” When Robert didn’t answer him, he laughed and said: “Thought not. Better luck next time, eh? We’re ’ere most Wednesdays, all day...”
But the voice was fading as Robert broke into a run. He sprinted across the field, not daring to look back. He just needed to return to the safety of the woods, the cover the trees and foliage gave him.
Just like Mark, he had his own hiding places.
CHAPTER FIVE
AS DE FALAISE sat back in the seat, he’d pull down his sunglasses occasionally and glance in the wing mirror of the Bedford armoured truck. From this angle it was difficult to see the extent of the line, but he knew it stretched right back along the motorway, zigzagging its way around the stationary cars with skeletons at the wheels. From the air it would have looked like a convoy: one of the wagon trains from the Old West, or even an army during the crusades (as a student of history, these kinds of comparisons amused him). But instead of being on horseback or in wagons, his men were encased in Challenger 2 battle tanks, Warrior Mechanised Combat Vehicles, Hummer muscle jeeps, Land Rover Wolves, open top WIMIKs, and other Bedfords: some capable of carrying up to twenty troops. Keeping them all in line were motorbikes patrolling the length of the convoy, ridden by his trusted elite, brought across the Channel with him.
