by Paul Kane
As Mark fled, Bill shot at the tank twice, having as much effect as a wasp sting trying to penetrate a suit of armour. The tank carried on advancing; it must have looked like some kind of surreal modern twist on George and the Dragon, or even David and Goliath. Only Bill was out of stones for his slingshot.
The tank rumbled up and didn’t stop until the cannon was inches away from Bill’s head. He looked down that black hole, expecting at any minute to be on the receiving end of a live shell.
MARK RAN; HE hated leaving Bill but didn’t know what he could do if the man wouldn’t budge. He’d be dead in seconds if that tank opened fire.
The boy was aware of a bike riding up alongside him. A quick glance to the side told him a boot was kicking out, trying to knock him over. Mark ducked and rolled away, but the bike swerved round, readying itself for another pass. Mark reversed direction, aware that the bike was gaining rapidly on him.
He looked up and saw that another one of the riders had decided to join in the game. That one was coming after him from the front. He was being hemmed in.
On the first pass, he managed to dodge sideways, hoping the two bikes would just slam into each other. It wasn’t going to be that simple. Avoiding one another, they rode now in a pair, leaving a gap between to squash Mark. He ran as fast as he could but knew that he wouldn’t be able to get away from them this time, that he’d be crushed beneath one set of tyres or another.
Then something odd happened.
Mark heard a whizzing sound, felt the brush of something flying past him. He heard a loud bang as the front wheel of the bike to his left exploded. He risked a look over his shoulder, just in time to see the spokes and mudguard of the bike bite into the field, sending the rider over the handlebars.
But Mark couldn’t stop running. The second bike had weaved out of the way, and was still chasing him, unwilling to give up on this cat-and-mouse fun just because his partner’s tyre had burst. In fact, the rider had a grenade in his hand and was getting ready to toss it at Mark.
Another couple of whizzes and this time Mark saw the arrows hit the bike and its rider. They went down heavily, leaving Mark to throw himself out of the way, just as the grenade the man had been holding went off.
Mark felt a searing heat, then there was a ringing in his ears.
Shapes passed overhead, arrows flying through the air. Two more soldiers crumpled beside him. Mark finally got to his feet and attempted to track the source of the arrows, but he could see nothing.
Panicking, they began firing every which way, because that’s where the threat appeared to be coming from. Now that Mark’s hearing was coming back, he caught barked orders, and more than a few scared yelps.
Someone had got these people spooked, even with their guns and their armoured vehicles.
The same someone who had just saved Mark’s life with a few bits of wood.
BILL HEARD THE explosion at the same time as the tank crew, it appeared. To begin with he thought it was the soldiers killing more people from the market, but when he looked properly he saw it was one of their own bikes in flames.
The cannon swivelled away from Bill, chasing the person who had done this. It couldn’t find anyone – and neither could Bill. To his right, a couple of soldiers holding rifles dropped to their knees. No bangs, no gunshots – nothing. But now Bill could see they were clutching at arrows protruding from their chests.
Farther down the field, a jeep had stopped dead – its two front tyres useless now that they had been punctured. The men inside were climbing out, rifles poised, but already three had gone down.
Bill grinned.
He took this opportunity to get out of the tank’s way, rushing back towards the market. One soldier was heading in his direction, but before he could bring his rifle up, Bill had already whacked him in the face with the butt of his own gun.
The top portion of the tank was still swivelling, and Bill observed the hatch opening up on top. A thickset man smoking a cigar emerged. He was trying to get a bead on whoever was firing those arrows. Then he pointed, shouting in a German accent: “There, you idiots, he’s over there!”
It was the man Bill had met a fortnight ago, but hadn’t forgotten. The ‘poacher’ with the rabbits.
The man called Robert who’d worn a hood.
HENRIK COULDN’T BELIEVE how incompetent these foot soldiers were. Granted, there were only a handful of properly trained men to spread around the units (hence the fact he was doing the job of three – tank commander, loader and gunner – while his driver, chosen for his previous experience with tracked diggers, sat behind a 10 mm partition up front). The rest of their ‘army’ was made up of dregs they’d struck the fear of God into on their journey. But surely even they should be able to handle one man using such a primitive form of weaponry?
Yet he was running rings round them; running, ducking and hiding behind bushes. Bushes, for Heaven’s sake! Henrik couldn’t get a shot off fast enough with the cannon, so he dropped back inside and ordered his driver to lead the rest of his squad down towards the figure, or at least where they’d last seen the man firing.
Looking through the viewfinder, Henrik saw the remaining vehicles not only following, but getting ahead of them, taking the hunt to the cretin with the arrows.
And there, yes, Henrik could see the speck running. He wouldn’t get far, not on this terrain, not with bikes, a jeep, and a tank in pursuit. He’d picked the wrong people to play tag with. He was outnumbered and outgunned.
They followed him over the next small hill, and it was then that Henrik saw what the man had in mind. He was trying to get back to cover. He was going back to ground.
If he made it there, they might never find him. And he’d never let a kill get away.
Henrik bit down on his cigar, then ordered the Challenger driver to speed up.
RORY WILKES DIDN’T even know what he was doing here.
He’d gone along with all this since the armed men had arrived in his home town of Coventry – let’s face it, they hadn’t really given any of them an option. But now people were getting hurt; and there was a good chance he might be as well. While he had to admit the feel of the combats, the weight of the M16 in his hands, did feel good (what little boy hadn’t wanted to play Action Man at some point, even after he’d grown up?) this was all getting a bit too serious for his liking.
Rory had been impressed by the ease with which they’d taken Nottingham, De Falaise’s words as they moved into the castle like something from an old movie. But if one man could now send them into confusion like this...
As the jeep bounced up and down in pursuit, Rory and the other men in the back looked ahead at the bloke they were after. He was running fast, hard, towards the trees. We should let him reach them, then we won’t have to deal with him at all, thought Rory. But the man was spinning around, not even stopping – running backwards even while he was notching another arrow.
The projectiles bounced off the front of the jeep, and Rory ducked in case any found their way inside. One of the bikes flanking them went down. Rory looked around to see the unfortunate man get crushed under the tracks of the Challenger tank that their ‘commander’ was operating. God Almighty, enough was enough, wasn’t it?
Obviously not, because they were still in pursuit.
Then the hooded man was gone. The woodland absorbed him, sucking him inside itself like he was an extension of it. Surely they could give up now?
Rory felt their jeep slowing, the bikes and the tank behind doing the same. All the vehicles stood at the perimeter of the woodland, as if expecting the man to emerge again and give himself up. No such luck.
In the end the silence was broken by their unit leader, who appeared from out of the top of the Challenger. “In there, you lot,” ordered the man. “After him on foot!”
If the men with him hadn’t known the consequences of disobeying, they would have turned the jeep around and just driven off. But going in there was preferable to having a tank turn on you.
.. just about. And there was no way any of them wanted to mess with Henrik. Not one of them could take him; Rory doubted whether all of them put together could, in fact.
Reluctantly, they climbed out of the jeep, climbed off their bikes and, holding their weapons in front of them, walked up to the edge of the woods. Rory hung back as far as he could.
“I said in!” screamed Henrik from behind them. “Right now!”
The men all looked at each other, not really knowing what to do for the best. Then one of them made the first move into the undergrowth. The next man followed, then the next. Soon there was only Rory left. Swallowing, he stepped forward into the line of trees.
It wasn’t as densely packed as some woods that he’d seen – though admittedly, his experience was fairly limited in this respect. It was thick enough, however, to hide the person they were tracking. As the men in front of him walked further in, they automatically fanned out – partly to give themselves some room if anything happened, partly because they didn’t want to be standing too close to anyone who might be a target. Rory could feel the beads of sweat trickling down his face.
There was a rustling off to their right and one of his group opened fire, splintering the trees. When the sound died down, there was nothing to see.
“Where’d he go?” Rory heard one guy say.
There was no answer to that, none of them had a clue. Then the one who’d asked the question went silently down, falling over as if fainting. It wasn’t until Rory looked more closely that he saw the arrow sticking out of the man’s side.
More dropped like him, only a couple getting a chance to let off a round or two. Rory spun, looking for a direction the arrows might be coming from. He saw nothing. It might as well have been the trees themselves.
Then the guy to his left let out a piercing scream, dropping his rifle and clutching his leg. There was a huge knife sticking out of his thigh; the man hissed a swear word before dropping to the ground. The group that had gone in were already half their number and the rest began to open fire randomly – in the hopes that they’d get off a lucky hit, maybe wing their enemy.
Not much chance of that. Even as they were firing, the arrows flew – and one by one the noises died down until the last man was silenced.
That just left Rory. He was no hero, he hadn’t signed up for this – hadn’t signed up for anything, actually – so it was time to get out of there, whether the mad German was waiting for him or not.
Turning to run back out, he came face-to-face with the man they’d been hunting. Or rather, the man who’d been hunting them. Only he couldn’t see much of that face because it was obscured by his hood. There was a strap around his shoulder which held a handmade quiver, with a few arrows left in it – but he’d made every single one of his shots count. There was also one in the bow Rory was looking at, pointing at his head.
He dropped the rifle on the floor, holding up his shaking hands in surrender. “Please... please don’t hurt me, I had no choice. He was going to kill me. Kill us all!” Rory was almost in tears.
The man raised his head, looked directly at him. His eyes were narrowed, but whether he was readying to shoot or just didn’t believe a word of Rory’s excuse was unclear. Then he lowered his bow.
“Who?” asked the hooded man.
“What?”
“Who was going to kill you?”
“Th-the Frenchman. H-his name is De Falaise.”
“Get out of here,” he said to Rory. “Take the ones who can still walk with you.” Then he went over and pulled the knife out of its home in the felled soldier’s leg.
Rory gave a quick nod, searching for any survivors. There weren’t many: two, three at most. Rory helped the guy whose thigh was pouring with blood, half dragging him along as he seethed in pain.
Rory risked one last glance over his shoulder at the man, who was now bending over some of the fallen soldiers. A single man, but he’d managed to take out most of their group in no time. He had never seen anything like it... and never wanted to again.
Head down, he half-carried the injured man out of the woods.
HENRIK TAPPED HIS seat, keeping his eyes on the panorama ahead of him.
He had never been very good at waiting. Everything had to come to him yesterday. It was one of the reasons he’d thrown in with De Falaise. It was a quick route to the top: to power, to influence over this new world. The man had made such an impassioned speech about his plans that Henrik would have been a fool not to listen. Yes, he could have tried to build up an army of his own, he supposed, but that would have taken longer. De Falaise already had Tanek, Savero, and a handful of other loyal followers – this would be the easier route to success. Then later, maybe...
Things had been going well. They’d been spreading out from Nottingham, tracking down small communities that had set themselves up and obliterating any thoughts of resistance. The local people would serve them or they would die. Which was why these markets had to be stopped; free trade meant independence, and De Falaise could not allow that. The villagers would work for him and him alone, and he would take whatever they had to offer without recompense.
That was why they’d been dispatched to this area. It was why they’d come down on these people so hard: fear equalled respect.
But it had only taken this one spanner in the works to cast doubt on their mission. One survivalist who thought he was pretty handy with a bow and arrow. Henrik grunted. Amateur.
He sat up when he saw movement in the woods. Two figures emerged, one dragging the other. His team had done it; they’d killed the primitive and were bringing back the body. No, wait, the body was still moving – not only that but he was dressed in their unique uniform, a combination of colours and styles that De Falaise had chosen himself. He was certainly not hooded. A couple more of his ‘men’ staggered out behind them. The useless dickheads had failed, and now they were returning with their tails between their legs.
Henrik almost chomped through the cigar he was smoking. He climbed up through the hatch, cursing them in German.
“Incompetents! Where is he?”
“I’m here,” came a voice from the woods, strong and loud. In spite of himself, Henrik flinched. But if the man had wanted him dead, then wouldn’t he be already – an arrow between the eyes?
“Show yourself, coward. Come out of your hiding place and we will discuss this.”
There was a pause before the reply came. “You come out of yours.”
Henrik thought about this. Seriously considered hopping down from the Challenger, going to meet this man at the edge of the woods and pounding him into the ground. No weapons other than their fists. They would see who won then.
But why give up the advantage? Pride was something for romantics, not mercenaries. “I give you thirty seconds to come out, or I will come in after you... personally.”
“Go back to your Frenchman and tell him this is over,” came the reply. It was not the voice of someone easily intimidated.
This man was more infuriating than all of his ex-wives put together! Henrik didn’t even give him the thirty seconds. He just slipped back inside and fired off a high explosive shell into the woods, hoping to obliterate the insolent fool, and clearing some space for them to enter. “Forward!” he shouted to the driver, who reluctantly obeyed.
The hulking thing trundled into the woods.
I will teach this man a lesson!
Henrik would knock down or blow up every single tree in this place to get to him if he had to. He swung the 120 mm gun around and was just about to load up another shell when...
Suddenly there he was, the fellow with the hood, standing ahead of him, bow over his shoulder. He was holding something in his hand, something small and round, like a ball. Henrik watched as the man drew back his arm and tossed it at the tank. It hit the front and bounced off, rolling underneath the Challenger. He felt the explosion, though it didn’t rupture the shell of the tank. Damn him, he must have taken grenades from my troops! “Forward!
” Henrik yelled to the driver, but the tank was going nowhere. The explosion had disabled the treads.
When he peered through the smoke, all he could see were trees.
The bastard had left him little choice but to come out now, to kill him the old fashioned way. But Henrik didn’t intend on using his fists. Picking up his machine gun, he opened the hatch and stuck his head out, mindful again of the fact that the man could very easily fire off an arrow. He scanned the area. If the hooded man made a move anywhere within sight, he would be dead.
Henrik was aware of something above him in the treetops, something big. A figure. He ducked back down into the hatch, gun poised and ready to fire upwards. An object dropped into the tank, hard and round. He was still about to fire when his mind registered what had just happened. Henrik’s eyes grew wide and he let go of the rifle, scrabbling around for the grenade that had just been tossed inside.
“Fetch!” he heard the man shout as he dropped. The hatch slammed shut. Henrik could hear the driver’s voice shouting something, but he wasn’t listening – he was still looking for the grenade, not caring that he didn’t have the pin, nor that he couldn’t toss it out of the top anymore...
There it was!
Henrik was actually reaching for the thing when he realised it was too late; he’d taken too long, there was no way he would survive. Just before the explosion came, a phosphorus blast that would set off all the ammo and cook the entire inside of the tank, the cigar fell from Henrik’s open mouth, one of the few times he’d ever been without one in his adult life.
And, it was safe to say now, the last.
BILL AND MARK finally made it down the field.
Even from a distance they could see the smoke from inside the woods, curling up into the air. On the outskirts the bikes were left abandoned, one jeep limping off at a snail’s pace with maybe three or so people inside it. Of the tank there was no sign, but they could both see where it had pushed its way into the green.
