by Paul Kane
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, he saw the shadow dropping down from the overhanging trees to land on the roof of the truck.
He swore, raising his rifle, and 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, the 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 his own fist down 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 people 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 the hooded man 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 crumpled. 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!”
Savero rolled onto his side as the hooded man climbed 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 it with a tip of the head. They circled each other, two sets of eyes fixed. Savero watched for any sudden movements, as the hooded did 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.
“Ah, that’s it... ” he grunted in the man’s ear. “You’re mine n –”
Savero was aware of a numbness. Something warm and wet was leaking into the crotch of his trousers, and for a bizarre second he thought he might have somehow wet himself. But a wave of pain was spreading outwards; enough for him to let go of his captive. Savero looked down and saw the knife sticking out of him, right in the ‘V’ of his legs. The sight, the knowledge of what had happened, multiplied the pain a million fold.
Savero dropped his own knife and his hands went to the other one. He thought about it, but daren’t touch the thing, let alone pull it out. He saw the faces in the crowd, the ‘thank God that’s not me’ expressions, and he stared at the hooded man, uncomprehending. It was one thing to kill him, to die in battle – it was quite another to do this to someone.
Savero staggered a couple of feet, but the pain when he moved was tremendous. He knew the blood draining out of him rapidly – the femoral artery sliced. Wincing, he dropped to his knees, then fell over sideways. Tears were streaming from his eyes.
The shape of the man standing over him was indistinct, the pain that had been so sharp a minute or two ago was now dull and throbbing. So this is what it’s like, Savero thought to himself. In a funny sort of way he welcomed death, for what kind of a shameful life would he be able to lead after what had happened.
Something De Falaise had said that first time they met came back to Savero. “You have balls...”
He would have laughed at the irony, had he been able.
ROBERT TOOK NO great delight in what he’d done.
It had been kill or be killed, and once again his survival instinct hadn’t allowed him to give up. Breathing hard, he gazed down at the dead man, curled up on the road in a foetal position, then at the people who’d been watching the fight. Their mouths hung open. They’d never seen anything like it, not even during the Cull. He knew he had to say something – anything – to break the silence.
“Check the back of the trucks, see what we’ve got... and where we need to return it.”
They all continued to gawp at him. He’d said only recently that he didn’t want to be like De Falaise, couldn’t rule through fear, and yet here they were all so scared of him they could barely move. Thank goodness Mark hadn’t been here to see this; Robert was grateful he’d got him to see sense about staying out of harm’s way, if only this time. The kid had probably seen worse, out there on the streets, but still...<
br />
His opinion of you matters, doesn’t it? Go on, admit it.
“Didn’t you hear me? Check the truck, I said. We have work to do.” This time they snapped out of their reverie, welcoming the chance to leave the scene. Robert nodded at Granger, who’d been the bait in the trap. “You did well,” he told him.
The young man blinked and nodded back. “Thanks.”
“You’re in charge of talking to the men from this unit – finding out whether we can trust them or not, weeding out the bad bets.”
Robert had to admit, he still hadn’t been a hundred per cent sure about his men until they’d come out from behind their hiding places, until Granger had pushed the commander’s arm when the man was firing at him. Now he knew he’d been right to do what he did, freeing them, giving them the option of walking away or teaming up with him. He’d seen wayward kids like Granger before on the beat, who needed to be shown trust before they could trust. Given the right circumstances – and motivation – they could be turned around.
But that hadn’t been what changed Robert’s mind. Nor that little pep talk Tate had given him, right after he broke down in the face of those flames.
(All he’d been able to see was his house burning, his wife and son being cremated inside, his injured dog crawling out of the door on fire... Jesus, it was enough to make anyone seize up, wasn’t it?)
Though Robert had to declare that something Tate mentioned sparked the turnaround. He asked him what Robert’s family would have thought, what they would have wanted him to do...
“Read to me some more, Dad... please...”
It was then that it all fell into place for him. It was all connected, he saw that now. Even down to how he’d chosen to dress, where he’d picked to hide away from the world.
“Read it to me again, read the part about where he robs from the rich to give to the poor.”
Somebody, somewhere, was playing a game with him – providence was having its own little joke. Robert Stokes’s life was now a storybook. Only an idiot couldn’t spot the parallels, and only an idiot couldn’t figure out what he had to do next.
“Read the bit where he defeats the evil Sheriff...”
What would his family have wanted him to do? Joanne would have wanted to keep him safe, of that he was certain, but she was also so very proud of what he did.
“You help people. It’s what you do, it’s who you are, even without the uniform.”
As for Stevie, he’d been trying to tell Robert all along.
“Read to me, Dad, go on.”
That’s when he’d got up and walked across to the captured men. That’s when the decision had been made, not even really by him, but by two people he’d loved so dearly and lost so suddenly. If he was to wait it out, bide his time until he could be with them again, then he might as well do some good while he was at it. But if Robert was going to bring down this new ‘Sheriff of Nottingham,’ he’d need men. And he was banking on the fact that Granger and his lot could be persuaded to switch sides.
Some had been unsure, of course, and some Granger had marked out as being dangerous; the ones who hadn’t needed any threats to throw in with De Falaise. Robert would still let them go, in spite of Bill and Tate’s protestations. He was, after all, a man of his word.
The others had told him all they could of De Falaise. What the set-up was like at the castle, what his plans were – which Robert had pretty much guessed anyway – and roughly how many troops he had. The answer to that one was too many, not all of which could be relied on to do what Granger had done, especially in the core group that De Falaise had brought with him or had bribed with promises of power and fortune.
Which brought them to Javier.
“Let me talk to him,” Tate had practically begged Robert. “I can get you all the information you need.”
He’d hesitated, taking note of Bill’s shaking head, before finally relenting and giving the Reverend his time with the man. Tate promised not to hurt him... much, though it was very hard to tell whether the holy man was serious or not. They’d left Tate all alone with the bound Javier, splashing water in his face to wake him up.
Three hours later, Tate had fetched Robert. As good as his word, there hadn’t a mark on the prisoner that hadn’t been there before. “He’s ready to talk now,” Tate said. Which the fat man begrudgingly did, detailing De Falaise’s operations that he knew of, routes back to the castle, routes the patrols took in the area, villages they were planning on targeting in the near future.
“How did you do that?” Robert asked him later on.
Tate merely smiled. “I can be very persuasive, as you know. I also have God on my side. There were just the three of us there in that forest today.”
“Faith again.”
“Faith,” Tate confirmed. “It can move mountains. Ultimately Javier is more frightened of divine retribution than anything De Falaise might do to him.”
Robert shook his head. “Do you ever think that’s what all this might be about?”
“Sorry?”
“The virus. Divine retribution, for man’s sins? After all, God didn’t do much to stop it, did He?”
“Perhaps. All I know is that He is at work here, in you and in me. We have to trust that He knows what he’s doing.”
Pursing his lips, Robert held his tongue and walked away, unwilling to get into another debate with the holy man. He had too much to do. For starters, he had a trap to set. They’d tackle one of De Falaise’s supply lines, striking where it would hurt the most.
“There’s something else you should know,” Tate called after him. “My friend, Gwen, who was taken from Hope. She’s still alive and in the castle, a plaything of De Falaise.”
Robert paused, head turning to the side. “Then you pray for her, Reverend. And while you’re at it, pray that we succeed in our endeavours.” He’d continued walking. Robert hadn’t wished to sound callous, he just didn’t see what he could do about the woman right now. One step at a time was how they’d have to take it, and that meant not rushing to attack the castle if it was as heavily fortified as Granger and his men had described.
Once this first step, first attack, had been figured out, he’d ordered that Javier and the ones who wanted out – or Robert didn’t want in – to be driven back to the outskirts of Nottingham in their own vehicles, then sent on their way. It amounted to about four or five men in all.
“I reckon you’re makin’ a mistake there,” Bill had informed him when he learnt of the releases. “Why should we let ’em go?”
“What do you suggest?” said Robert. “Hold them prisoner here, feed them and keep a watch on them in case one escapes and kills us all? Or maybe just murder them in cold blood?”
“They’re bound to be spotted by patrols, and they know too much about where we are.”
“They know we’re in the woods, in the forest. De Falaise knew that already. Don’t you see that this sends him a clear message?”
“Aye, come and get us.”
“Let him come,” answered Robert firmly. “We’ll be ready.”
One of his men interrupted Robert’s thoughts, bringing him back to the present. He’d found a list of villages that the unit had passed through on its expedition. Robert had heard of a lot of them and Bill knew the rest. In any event they had a map they could follow, replacing what had been stolen from people in those communities. It would be a long job, but splitting up would make it easier. And at least the people out there wouldn’t starve. Then they’d do the same again with any other supply lines to the castle.
“Right, then,” Robert said. “Let’s get all this stuff back to where it belongs.”
In his head he heard that voice again: “Read it to me again, read the part about where he robs from the rich to give to the poor...”
IT HADN’T COME as a total shock, of course.
News about the bound men walking through the streets of Nottingham had been radioed in from look-outs near the train station more than fifteen minut
es ago. Orders had come back to leave them be, and so they’d walked past the red brick of the Gresham Hotel, over the bridge, past derelict shops, making their way up towards the centre of the city.
So no, it hadn’t come as a complete surprise to De Falaise, who was now standing on the roof of the castle, but it was still an unexpected turn of events. To his left, the Dutchman, Reinhart, was on one knee, leaning over the side. De Falaise had swapped his sunglasses for powerful binoculars and was watching the tiny group of men shuffling along the road towards the Britannia Hotel, wrists tied in front of them: trussed up like Christmas turkeys. All that was left of the assault team he’d sent to dispose of the hooded man.
Right at the very front was his Major, Javier, looking like the sorriest turkey of the bunch. Around his neck was a crudely painted sign. The message read: ‘You Missed.’ How could the simpleton have let this happen? De Falaise stamped his foot., his ringed fingers tightening around the binoculars. Reinhart watched through the scope of his sniper’s rifle.
“He failed me,” griped De Falaise. “And I don’t like to lose.”
“What would you have me do?” asked Reinhart.
De Falaise thought about this for a moment. “Wing Javier somewhere... uncomfortable, but not fatal. Kill the rest.” Before the man could fire, De Falaise laid a hand on his shoulder. “No, wait, shoot the others first. I want Javier to see them die.”
The Dutchman closed his left eye, centring a soldier’s head in the crosshairs. He pulled the trigger as De Falaise observed. The soldier carried on walking for a second, then stumbled and fell, the contents of his skull leaking out onto the road.
The other men only really began to register what was happening when two more of their team went down. They ran, then, not so much turkeys now as soon-to-be-headless chickens. Javier looked around him, screaming as more men were picked off.
“What is he doing?” asked De Falaise, watching as Javier dropped to his knees “Is he praying? I don’t believe it, he actually is! How pathetic.”
“What should I do?” Reinhart enquired.
