by Paul Kane
Granger didn’t see how the next soldier set off the trap, but he spotted all too late the spear that was fired from what looked like a huge bow. It hurtled across the green into the man’s shoulder, with enough impact to carry him back a few steps before he eventually fell.
More cries came as the rest of his ‘comrades’ experienced the same. Spears, snares and tripwires caught them out. Set in a concentrated area to catch animals, they were now decimating their number. Another fell when a homemade bolas wrapped itself around his neck.
Granger retreated, slowly, glancing down at the ground as he did so. Nervously, he checked around him in case he set anything off. Too late he heard the cracking sound below, then the next thing he knew he was being yanked upwards, the net closing in around him and pulling him into the air. His gun fell out of his hands, the mike from his head. He felt his stomach roll as he was hoisted up, only stopping when it reached a certain height.
There he was left, dangling. He took deep breaths, calming himself down. You’re still alive, still alive. Just caught in a net, that’s all. You can get out of this.
Even as he thought it, someone passed by beneath him wearing a hood. He paused to look up at Granger, and the youth thought that was it – his time was finally up. Then the hooded man went on his way, disappearing into the undergrowth as if he’d never really existed at all.
JAVIER HAD HEARD all the screams through his headset and scowled.
It was one thing he hadn’t anticipated, although he probably should have. Having led men into battle in the jungles of South America, he should have thought more about the possibility of traps. But who would have expected the quiet English countryside to be like those war zones? These were different times, though, weren’t they? This was post-Cull Britain and anything was possible. The man they were dealing with was a hunter, of course he’d know how to lay traps! Now a good part of his squad had been incapacitated, probably killed.
Bastardo!
Javier shook his head. He couldn’t let some fucking Englishman with a sense of the theatrical get the better of him. He still had over a dozen well-armed men and –
There was a noise. It sounded like something whistling, travelling fast. “Take cover!” screamed Javier, but the single arrow didn’t strike any of the men as he’d expected. Instead it hit the ground, some distance from where they were standing.
What is he doing? thought Javier. Either he’s a very bad aim or...
“Get up! Get up and get out!” Javier barked, but he was too late.
The explosion was loud, the live grenade attached to the arrow suddenly detonating. The nearest men were thrown into the air, jerking as if performing a circus act on wires. Smoke was everywhere.
Through the smog, he saw a figure. It darted between the trees, entering the arena of battle, taking on those who were still standing, making the most of their confusion. Javier could have warned them, but wanted to observe his enemy in combat, get the measure of him. The hooded figure was trained well in the defensive arts, that much was obvious by the way he handled himself. Deflecting punches with his forearms, kicking, throwing men onto the ground and winding them. One pulled a Browning pistol out of his holster and the hooded man spun around, grabbing the soldier’s arm and bringing it down over one raised knee until the gun was relinquished. He fought as if he didn’t care what happened to him, and yet at the same time Javier recognised some sort of survival instinct there. It was a curious and very dangerous combination.
By the time the smoke had cleared, Javier had brought his grenade launcher to bear again, letting off another incendiary in the hooded man’s general direction. And, just as he hadn’t anticipated what had happened with the traps, he didn’t see what came next, either.
The hooded man cowered from the spreading fire.
Could it be that... Yes! He was actually afraid of the flames. Javier grinned. The hooded man held up his hand to protect his face, stumbling backwards, his mouth open in fear.
This wasn’t any ordinary aversion, Javier could see that. It was as if the fire held some kind of special significance for him – some private terror that only he knew about.
It didn’t matter. He’d burn the bastard to a crisp and take his remains back to De Falaise. Javier could imagine what the Frenchman might say: “You have done well, Major. Pick a county and you will rule it as my deputy.” It was why all of them were with the man, wasn’t it? Power? A chance to rule? Or maybe he should take the hooded man back to De Falaise alive so that he and Tanek could have some of their special brand of fun?
Javier had only let his mind wander for a moment or two, but it was enough for everything to change. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there were other people there. One of the rising soldiers was struck across the face by what Javier thought at first to be a piece of wood, a branch of some kind: another trap the hooded man had set? No... now he could see it was a walking stick, brandished by a squat, bald man, who was even now attacking again. He looked very familiar.
And who was that on the other side? Smaller than the rest, throwing stones at a couple of the other soldiers. A rock caught one man a glancing blow across the temple and he collapsed to his knees.
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 lowered 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. It had been the incendiary that had done this, but no one 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. Ask yourself what the people you lost would have wanted you to do.”
Robert didn’t answer Tate, just sat 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 had guessed correctly – as he usually did – that the most productive communities had actually sprung up away from the major towns and cities, in countryside like 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 houses 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 him 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 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, a jeep. One of their jeeps, a Wolf like 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, opened the door and 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?”
