by Paul Kane
The Hooded Man, however, still had one arrow left in his quiver. Rudakas swallowed dryly as he watched the man reach for the projectile. The arrowhead was aimed right between Rudakas’s eyes. But he refused to close them; he’d always told himself he would meet death with his eyes wide open and, if need be, his arms too.
The Hooded Man’s fingers twitched on the bowstring.
Rudakas waited for the end – and if time had slowed before, then it practically ground to a halt now.
But when it lurched forward again, the colonel was surprised to see the Hooded Man’s aim shifting, the bow and arrow pointing several metres to Rudakas’s right. He looked over, saw that one of his men had a grenade and was about to toss it into the middle of the fight; not the most sensible thing to do, as that would cause the Colonel just as many problems as the arrow, but in the end it proved a satisfactory diversion.
The arrow caught the soldier just below the collarbone, with such force that it went right through to the other side, pinning him against the wooden doors of the garage. The grenade slipped from his fingers and rolled underneath the gap at the bottom of the garage doors. Both Rudakas and the Hooded Man looked on as the man struggled to free himself, understandably not wanting to be anywhere near the grenade when it went off.
The soldier frantically tugged away at the arrow, an expression of pure horror on his face, then finally he pulled it out of the wood, bringing his shoulder with it. He had little time to celebrate, though, because at that point an inferno was unleashed behind him. The explosion blew the doors off their hinges, lifting the man, and some of the ground, into the sky. He cooked instantly in the blaze.
Rudakas wondered what exactly had been stored in that garage. Explosives? Hardly likely. And it was too strong for just a vehicle’s petrol tank. Then what? Reserves of fuel?
There was no more time to think about it, as the wave of heat came their way. The Hooded Man stood planted to the spot, mouth open, as if he’d seen the Devil himself in those flames. Rudakas, saved from certain death by the arrow, wasn’t about to waste the gift of life. He dived back into the house, into the hallway, just as the shockwave hit. The house, as he was to discover not long afterwards, wasn’t that much safer, connected as it was to the garage, but it would provide temporary shelter. While his enemy out there was still gawping at the mini-Armageddon.
Rudakas covered his head and laughed.
ROBERT COULDN’T MOVE.
He was back again outside his house so long ago, as the men in the yellow suits burnt everything he ever cared about. He screwed up his eyes, waiting for the blast to hit him...
NO!
Maybe before, when he was on his own, hiding away from the rest of the human race. Hiding away from his destiny. But not now. There were people relying on him, just as they had when he was in the police. Whereas before he’d hated his survival instincts for keeping him alive when all he wanted to do was curl up and join Joanne and Stevie, now Robert willed them to kick in – to save him from the explosion that was about to tear through him.
He opened his eyes, turning to run at the same time. It was too late. The blast scooped him up, then slammed him down on the hood of the armoured truck. He rolled over onto the ground at the other side, hitting it hard. If the petrol tank hadn’t been shielded, that would have gone up as well, but as it was it at least provided some cover from the explosion.
Robert ached everywhere, drifting in and out of consciousness, his mind replaying the events that had led him here...
The noise of gunfire had attracted them initially, forcing them to break off from the delivery of more stolen goods back to the people.
“SOUNDS LIKE TROUBLE,” Jack Finlayson had said.
“And where there’s trouble these days, you can probably count on the Frenchman’s involvement,” Robert had answered.
They’d ditched the truck and spread out, approaching the farmhouse via the fields: Jack taking a few men round the back, Robert leading the rest in an assault on the soldiers scattered about the yard. There was no way they’d even have known the house was here if they hadn’t been attracted by the noise. It was completely cut off, a place where he himself would gladly have lived out his remaining years up until recently.
Robert had been proud of the way his men had fought, doing just as he’d taught them in the short time they’d been with him – using their environment to conceal themselves, never showing their hand too quickly. Some he’d even begun to train with the bow and bolas. For his part, he’d picked off choice targets, hoping to draw a more worthy prize out of its own hiding place.
Then he’d seen him: the man wearing the peaked cap emerging from the farmhouse. Robert delighted in letting him know just who was behind it all.
The first arrow was a message, the next few intended only to slow the man down. Though Robert hadn’t had time to study them closely, he saw that the man’s firearms were quite unusual: old-fashioned, but still in perfect working order. Enough to wing him and throw his aim, anyway.
Then, when his enemy had run out of bullets and Robert had just one arrow left, he knew it was his lucky day. Except for the fact that out of the corner of his eye he saw the soldier with the grenade. It had been pure instinct to fire at him instead, a case of dealing with the most severe crisis first. That was when his luck had run out.
He tried to raise himself, failed, and slumped back down. Robert could see more of the soldiers – he couldn’t tell whether they were De Falaise’s or his – lying face down not far away from him. With a shaky hand he reached out and grabbed the dirt, attempting to pull himself along and back round the front of the armoured truck.
He made slow progress, desperate to get a better view of the scene – to find out who was still standing, who had fallen. Who had won the battle.
“Going somewhere?” The voice had a nasal quality, instantly dislikeable, and Robert wasn’t at all surprised to see De Falaise’s minion standing over him. “You do not look like a legend now, my hooded friend. You look like the worm you are,” the man continued. He had his hands behind his back and Robert assumed he was holding the pistols, reloaded and ready to fill him full of holes.
However, when the man brought his hands back round, Robert saw he was hiding a broadsword instead. Different era, different weapon, but no less deadly. Where was he getting this stuff from?
“After all I had been told, I was expecting some kind of indestructible super-being. You are nothing of the kind. It will be my pleasure to put you out of your misery. There’s a saying in my country, a curse: Let the earth swallow you!”
The man hefted the sword, preparing to bring it down, to embed it in Robert’s cranium.
I can’t fight it anymore. Finally I’m going to join them.
The man juddered, then stopped, like a robot that had rusted stiff.
Come on, if you’re going to do it just get on with it!
Slowly the man looked down at his chest, where a crimson stain was blooming on the material of his uniform. Then the fabric split as something very sharp, and very long, was pushed through his torso.
That sword fell out of his hands and dropped with a clatter to the ground. Robert flinched as it landed just inches away. The impaled Colonel dropped his weapon, managing only a thick wheeze as his eyes rolled back and he collapsed sideways – the foreign object pulled wetly from him as he dropped.
A woman with dark hair, her cheek bruised but with a determined look on her face, stood looking down at the corpse, a dripping sword in her own hand. She looked at Robert and gave him a brief nod as if to say, ‘That’s another job done.’
“Are... are you all right?” he managed, then groaned loudly.
“I think I should probably be asking you that question. You look terrible.”
With shaky fingers, Robert reached for the sword the man had dropped, wrapping his fingers around the handle, struggling to get it beneath him.
“Here,” said the woman coming over to him. “Let me help.”
“It is...” She looked back at the remains of the garage, the fire spreading to the farmhouse, spreading through it, smoke billowing out of shattered windows. The alarm had given up the ghost long ago. “It was,” she said sadly.
“I’m sorry.” His breathing was uneven, his chest hurt when he spoke. “I know what it’s like to lose your home.”
She looked at him, and gave the faintest of smiles. “I made a promise a long time ago that I’d stay here, alone, run the place while it was still standing. Something tells me it won’t be for much longer.”
Behind them Robert’s men were coming closer, including Jack Finlayson.
“You came here to help me, didn’t you?” she asked, looking at the men clearing up.
Robert could barely nod, all his strength leaving him.
“That’s what you do, isn’t it, help people? Hey, easy, take it easy,” said the woman, bearing more of his weight. “So I guess you know all about this Sheriff? And that would make you –”
“It’s all pretty much over,” Jack interrupted. “De Falaise’s remaining men have been rounded up... Robert?”
“Give me a hand, would you.”
“Who’re you, little lady?” asked Jack.
She nodded towards the dead man. “I’m the ‘little lady’ who did that. Now stop asking stupid questions and help me – he’s been pretty badly injured.”
Jack did as he was told, then said, “We’d better get him back to Sherwood.”
“Sherwood, right, of course...” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, hold on, could you take him a second?”
“Sure,” said Jack, puzzled, watching as she rushed back into the house. She emerged a couple of seconds later, tucking one of the Peacekeeper pistols into her jeans, and holding the other.
“There might still be some wheat and corn left in the barns if you want to tell your men, and we can load up the animals those scumbags slaughtered. No sense in wasting the meat, we might as well salvage what we can.”
“Wait a second,” said Jack. “You’re coming with us?”
“Yeah, well... you have someone who can look after him?”
“Can you?”
“I’ve done my fair share of tending to the sick,” she answered.
As they began to carry Robert away, he turned to the woman and asked weakly, “What’s...what’s your name?”
The woman gave him a worried smile. “Mary. My name is Mary.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
AGAIN, THE DREAM...
Robert somehow knew that he was unconscious rather than sleeping, but that didn’t appear to matter. It came anyway, different as always.
This time he could see more faces of the people who stood by him at the lake. The large figure of Jack Finlayson with his staff, for example, more defined than he had been before. Now there was Mary, standing holding those Peacekeepers of hers – with Mark hiding behind her, peeping out.
He looked down into the surface of the lake – while it still was a lake – and saw his reflection, the Stag-Man from the last dream, staring back up at him.
What am I? asked Robert. Who am I? Why do you keep showing me this?
The reflection didn’t answer, but Robert knew what it would have said. He was tied to this place, connected. Then the reflection vanished, consumed by the fire that accompanied the Frenchman’s walk across the lake.
Even before Robert could reach for his bow and arrow, De Falaise was firing into the crowd, randomly hitting Robert’s men. There was confusion as his people panicked, each one trying to find cover. He saw them diving to the ground, throwing themselves behind bushes and reeds.
When he looked up again, De Falaise had a hostage.
It was Mark.
The Frenchman laughed as he held the gun to Mark’s temple.
No! screamed Robert. He attempted to move forwards, ignoring his fear of the fire, his only concern being to rescue Mark. But Robert found he couldn’t shift. Looking down, he saw that he’d caught several bullets when the Sheriff’s weapon had discharged. He fell to his knees, tears flooding his eyes. Robert reached out to Mark, his form flitting between Stevie and the boy he now knew.
Robert fell backwards, gazing up at the clear blue sky. He felt pain, but it was an odd sensation: disjointed, like the wounds didn’t really belong to him.
A face hovered into view above him, concerned, frightened. Mary. She was asking if he was all right, then telling him to keep still, that she was putting pressure on the bullet-holes, stemming the blood flow. Promising him that he’d be okay.
But even as she uttered these words of comfort, her own appearance was changing. Suddenly the words were being spoken by Joanne. He began to shake, twitching as he lay bleeding to death on the bank of that flaming lake, the heat reaching for him. Joanne was trying to hold him down, pleading with him to keep still. Her face pulled out of his line of sight for only a second, but it was enough for the features to change again.
This time, when she dipped her head again, it was a skull – not white and bleached like you might see in a science lab, but faded and yellowing, with shreds of skin still hanging from it.
Robert struggled to get up again, but the skeleton – a real, honest-to-God skeleton now – was holding him down with more strength than he could muster in his weakened condition.
The skull drew closer to his face, coming in for a kiss. He brought up his hands and tried to fight it off, but as it filled his field of vision, the blackness of the eyes obliterated everything else.
Until there was nothing left...
ROBERT’S EYES SNAPPED open.
It was dark, but only because his vision was still adjusting to the half-light; torchlight under cover. His head was pounding and his body ached. But it was his arm that throbbed the most. He was suddenly aware that he’d been stripped down to his boxers, and covered to the waist with a blanket. The familiar ‘ceiling’ of the makeshift tent that served as his home slowly greeted his eyes, and he relaxed slightly. Tentatively reaching across he felt the bandage around his arm, where the bullet had grazed him. Only a flesh wound, but sometimes those can hurt the most.
There was something wrong with his face; it felt strangely naked and exposed. Robert touched his chin, his cheeks. His beard was gone. For some reason this was even worse than being in his underwear. He couldn’t believe that had happened while he’d been unconscious, and wondered just who would have had the balls to do it anyway.
He heard a rustle and sat up, seeing the figure at the other end of the tent. He squinted and Mary’s face came into focus. She was holding a clipboard and writing on it. Robert pulled up the blanket, trying to hide his semi-nakedness.
“Hello again,” said Mary looking up. She gave a little laugh when she saw his actions. “Don’t bother on my account. Who do you think it was undressed you? Had to if I was going to wash your clothes. They really stank.”
Robert rubbed his chin again, furrowing his brow.
“Oh, yeah, that too. I figured you’d never let me do it while you were conscious. Don’t worry, I’m very good at it. Used to have to shave my dad all the time when I was growing up – never used a knife before, though. And that hair could use a bit of a trim at some point as well.”
“What... what happened?”
Mary placed the clipboard under her arm and crawled over beside him. He pulled back slightly. She noted his discomfort and increased the distance between them a little. “It’s all right, you know. You haven’t got anything I haven’t seen before... Under that beard, I mean.” Mary smiled. “You shouldn’t cover it up; your face. You’re quite handsome, in a sort of mean and moody way.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Robert said, feeling the blood rush to his bare cheeks.
“The short answer is, you passed out in the truck. Had a bit of a turn actually – put the wind up that mate of
yours, the big guy.”
“Jack,” clarified Robert.
“Right, Jack. In fact you scared me a bit too. You even stopped breathing at one point.”
Robert’s frown intensified. “I dreamed I was dying.”
“It was no dream. We had to give you the kiss of life.”
Robert looked at her.
Mary closed her eyes slowly, then opened them again. “All right, I had to give you the kiss of life. Don’t worry, I knew what I was doing. I have some medical knowledge; I looked after my brother when he got sick... And the animals, of course... not that I’m comparing you to... oh, you know what I mean.”
He continued to stare, saying nothing.
“You’re very welcome, by the way,” said Mary, her tone hardening.
“Er, thanks,” said Robert.
“That’s better. Now, how do you feel?”
“Strange. A bit out of it; sluggish.”
“That’ll be the sedatives. The injections I’ve been giving you.”
“What?” He clutched his arm.
“There was all kinds of good stuff in the medical packs from the trucks. Helped you sleep, helped with the pain... The priest guy –”
“Tate.”
“Yeah, Tate – I’m getting there with the names – he showed me where everything was. To be honest, it’s a wonder you didn’t fry when my garage blew.”
“What was in there anyway?”
“Fuel for the tractors. We always made sure we had a good stock in and I’ve only been using it when necessary. Fields don’t plough themselves, you know.”
She leaned over to examine his arm and he shuffled backwards, recalling the skull-thing from his nightmare.
“Hey, what’s wrong? I’ve been looking after you for two days now and –”
“Days?” Robert couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
