by Paul Kane
“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.
“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.
“Please! This serves no purpose. Can’t you see that?” Tate shouted.
The figures were just fuzzy outlines to Clive now. Then there was a sharp bang, followed by a scream from Gwen. Tate fell back, leaving Javier standing above him.
He’s killed him, thought Clive, that bastard’s killed the Reverend. But then he was aware of a cold sensation spreading over him. His sight was no longer fuzzy, it was dim. Fading. There was a pain in his temple, only the briefest of twinges. But there was no time to register anything else.
Clive didn’t feel himself toppling over – though in the final few milliseconds of his life, Tate’s words echoed all around him. “Everything happens for a reason.”
He was at a loss to understand this one, he had to admit. He’d never see Sally or Luke, never see Gwen again: never hold her in his arms, feel her lips brushing against his.
Clive wouldn’t feel the loss now, but she would. He knew she’d mourn him, and he was truly sorry.
But none of that mattered anymore. It was all going black, completely black.
And never before had he realised the true significance of what he’d thought earlier.
Life was indeed good.
“YOU EVIL... EVIL thing,” the Reverend Tate hissed from the floor, several rifles trained on him. “He was a good man and now...”
Javier walked over and looked down at what he’d done. Clive Maitland’s brains were spilling out onto the sign he’d helped to make, the name he’d given to this place. “There are no good men anymore. And there is no hope.” A tight smile played on his lips at the double meaning of his words. Turning back, he said: “It is fortunate for you that you are a man of the cloth; it is bad luck to shoot a holy man.”
“May you burn in Hell for what you’ve done.”
Javier snorted. “Look around you,” he said, pointing to the fires with his still smoking pistol. “We’re already there, together. Now, if you will excuse me.” He nodded to the men to pick the catatonic woman up off the ground, her eyes still fixed on the dead man. “Put her in one of the jeeps.”
Two of the soldiers grabbed Gwen by the arms, dragging her up and along the street.
“Christ who art in Heaven,” said Tate, “how can you allow this?” It wasn’t the first time he’d asked since the virus had struck, but the first time his faith had been shaken in such a way.
Though Tate thought he detected Javier flinching when he’d mentioned the Saviour’s name, the man ignored his words and made to follow his men.
Tate clenched his fists and repeated his question, looking away from Clive’s body as he did so, towards June and the children Gwen and Clive had been looking after – both now in tears. Then he thought about what Javier had said. That there were no good men left, that there was no hope...
And prayed to God that he was wrong.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE LAKE STRETCHED out ahead, a mirrored surface. He was walking around the edge of it, strolling along without a care in the world. Rich green foliage surrounded him, and across the other side of the lake, trees whispered in the faint breeze. Robert took in the view, breathed in the sweet air.
He looked down at his hand and found something in it. He was clutching a brightly-coloured ball. Robert frowned as he examined it more closely. There was barking to the side of him. Now Robert saw Max, waiting for him to throw the object. Robert pretended to toss the toy for him, laughing when the dog began to scamper after nothing – then he threw it for real.
“Fetch!”
The ball swerved off to the side and landed in the lake, but it didn’t matter: Max happily jumped in after it and started to swim. Clamping the ball between his teeth, the dog paddled back to the bank and clambered out. Max shook himself, spraying lake water everywhere. Laughter filled the air. But it wasn’t Robert’s.
A young blond boy held up his hands to shield himself from the deluge. He was laughing so hard he was almost doubled over. Robert froze.
“
Stevie?”
The spray continued, as did the laughter. All Robert wanted to do was join in. He was moving forwards, virtually running towards the boy, who was pulling the ball out of Max’s mouth, preparing to toss it into the lake once more. The boy brought back an arm, then let go of the object. It spun in the air, catching the sunlight for a moment, and Max was after the thing before it had time to hit the surface. The blond boy laughed hard again when Max finally splashed into the lake.
Robert was drawing near, only metres away. “Stevie... Stevie, is that really you?”
“Read to me some more, Dad... please...”
But he could see subtle differences now. As the child turned, the cheekbones were slightly less curved, the brow more stooped, shielding green eyes. This boy was a bit older than his Stevie, as well.
Robert’s mouth formed the name, but he couldn’t say it out loud. Mark...
No, it couldn’t be. Because if he acknowledged that this was the boy he’d met at the market, then so many things were wrong with this picture. And yes, as soon as he’d thought it, Robert saw Mark pointing out across the lake. Except it wasn’t filled with water anymore.
Max was bobbing up and down, ball now in his mouth – but he was swimming in a lake of fire. The flames lapped at the dog, but he didn’t seem to be taking any notice.
“Max!” screamed Robert, rushing to the bank. The heat from the rising blaze drove him back. The dog, however, was still swimming towards them through it all – its fur all but burnt away, patches of blistered skin clearly visible.
Robert expected to see the men with the flamethrowers at the edge of the lake – surely they must be the ones doing this? But no. Instead, he saw the vague outline of figures, could hardly make them out, except that they were holding weapons of some kind.
One of them began walking across the surface of the lake, the flames hardly touching him. The man was wearing sunglasses, grinning madly as he approached. He pulled out a pistol, his fingers covered in rings, and aimed it at Max... Except it wasn’t the dog anymore, it was something else. Something with antlers...
That didn’t seem to matter because the man fired three times without any hesitation, blowing it away.
Now gunfire turned the scene into a war zone. Flashes from across the lake. Robert ducked, turning to see if Mark was okay. The boy was crouching, hands covering his head, tears streaming down his face.
Robert gritted his teeth. “No. No, I can’t. I’ve got to go...” he said.
“Wait... please... please help...”
Robert turned and began walking away, his back to the scene, to Mark. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got to go...” he kept on repeating, then finally: “I’m sorry.”
“Help us!” The boy’s cry followed him, but Robert had to ignore it. Yet could he? Could he just walk away? Robert began to turn.
There was one last loud bang and –
ROBERT JERKED AWAKE, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He sat up under the shelter of his home, a much improved and portable version of his original lean-to, adjusting back to reality. Robert inhaled more slowly, reaching for the water he kept by the side of his bed of grass and leaves. He drank greedily.
It had been the same dream – or a variation of it – ever since he’d visited the market, seen Mark. Robert never used to be able to remember his dreams, but out here they were so much more vivid, more intense. The boy had looked just enough like Stevie to affect him, like seeing a ghost made flesh. And now this. If he’d thought he might be going insane before, then this was putting the finishing touches to it.
He would have been lying if he’d said he hadn’t thought about going back again. It wasn’t that far, and it was almost a fortnight since the last market – he’d marked off the days on a fallen branch, the only time he’d ever bothered to keep a track of the time. He’d stayed away the first week, but it was almost Wednesday again, almost time. He could trade some of the meat he had, some of the better meat – there were things he’d seen there that he could use.
Again, he wrestled with his conscience. How could he allow himself such luxuries when his family... If his stay in the woods and the forest was his penance, his time to wait before joining them, why should he make life easier for himself?
He shouldn’t. He couldn’t.
Yet there was Mark. All Robert could think about was the boy asking for, pleading for his help. It was only a dream, but it felt so real.
Robert put down the water and lay back again. He wouldn’t sleep now, he knew that – but dawn wasn’t that far away.
He just hoped he could hang on till then.
THE MARKET WAS busy that week, but there was something missing.
Bill Locke knew most of the regulars by sight and one stall was conspicuous in its absence: one that offered fruit and veg, mainly. Sometimes it would be manned by the woman with auburn hair, sometimes the fellow with glasses, sometimes a vicar. Bill didn’t know their names because they preferred to keep themselves to themselves, which was fair enough. He wasn’t in charge here, after all. Nobody was. This was a free and open market – he just liked to see that things went smoothly, that’s all. Keep the peace. It was a little foible of his. Bill guessed that people saw him as the boss because he’d been one of the first to set these markets up, but it seemed pretty logical to him, just an extension of what he’d been doing for years.
It was rare that he’d have to break up any trouble, though. Only minor disagreements about what things were worth. Usually it could be resolved, especially when Bill stepped in, the very sight of his shotgun enough to make people agree on a reasonable settlement.
Apart from the missing stall, everything was relatively normal – the same faces, the same names. Like Mark, the kid who scavenged in the cities and towns for items to trade. He was good at it, too. There was a part of Bill that felt sorry for the lad, left all alone in the world. But Mark was getting by, the only way they knew how. He was the next generation, the ones that would grow up in this world, whatever shape it would eventually take. He was learning early, that was all.
Mark caught him staring, smiled, and offered him a sweet from a bag he was chomping his way through.
“Those things’ll rot yer teeth,” said Bill, but took one all the same. “Better off eating some o’ that beef or pork over there.”
Mark pulled a face. “Next you’ll be telling me to eat my greens.”
Bill laughed softly. “Cheeky bugger.”
The boy stiffened, and at first Bill thought it had been what he said. Then he saw that Mark was reacting to something he couldn’t yet perceive.
“What is it?” asked Bill, but then he heard the engines himself. The people with the fruit and veg stall, maybe, showing up late? was his first thought. But they tended to arrive in an estate car. This was the sound of more than one engine.
Before anyone knew it, the motorbikes were in the field – at least a dozen of them, churning up the grass. The open-top jeeps followed next, handling the soft terrain with ease, men hanging from the seats, carrying weapons Bill hadn’t seen outside of pre-virus news reports about the troubles abroad.
“This is an illegal gathering,” came an electronic voice, some kind of megaphone system attached to one of the jeeps. “By order of your new lord and master, High Sheriff De Falaise, all goods here will now be confiscated. Resist, and there will be serious consequences.”
“Bloody Sheriff? What’s he talkin’ about?” Bill looked down. Mark would have taken off at that point, if there had been anywhere to hide. But this wasn’t the city, this was open countryside. And there were precious few places to find cover out here. Bill hoisted up his shotgun, not really knowing what good that would do when – not if – this turned ugly.
Without any provocation at all, the men on bikes raced round and round the stalls, shooting into the air. Others were climbing from the jeeps, knocking people to the ground and pointing rifles at them so they wouldn’t move. Some of them snatched food. Bill saw one young man gra
b a hunk of cheese and bite down into it, waving an automatic pistol at the owner, daring him to do something. A pair of people did run, in fact, off across the field to get away. Apparently that counted as resistance, because one of the soldiers threw a grenade at them. It exploded just a few feet away from the couple, blowing them metres into the air. When they landed, they weren’t moving.
“Yer bunch o –” began Bill, moving towards the men. Mark got behind him, perhaps reasoning that if he couldn’t hide in a building he’d hide there. Bill raised the gun to his shoulder, then let off a round that hit one of the bikers squarely in the chest. The rider slumped over the handlebars, and the machine he was on smacked straight into the side of a Sierra belonging to one of the marketeers. The body was flung over the bonnet to land in a slump on the other side.
Bill let off another blast. This time it only glanced across the front of one of the jeeps. Several rifles turned in his direction, but something made them hold their fire. Bill cracked open the gun and loaded up two more cartridges. “That’s it, yer bastards, ye do well to be frightened.”
He was aware of Mark tugging on his jumper, trying to get him to turn around. When he did, Bill understood why the men had held off. The noise of the engines had masked the approach of something else: a great beast of a thing, rumbling over the hill. Bill gawped at the tank, blinking as if that might make it go away. He’d never seen one up close like this. But it was real, it was solid, and the cannon on the front was swinging in his direction.
“Judas Priest!” said Bill. Mark tugged at him to run, to get out of its path. But Bill stood there, raising his shotgun again. “All right, then, bloody well come on!”
