by Paul Kane
Matt put Stacey into gear and began to move forward. Carrying his payload into the castle, up towards the portcullis gate.
"SHOT!” BILL SAID in his rough, Derbyshire accent.
What he’d just done to the gatehouse was regrettable, especially to students of history, but he’d needed to create an opening for Matt and his truck to get inside. The Widow’s people would have no qualms about doing the same, just as the Tsar’s folk hadn’t with their own castle back home. The Widow had picked this spot because it was easy to defend, and the gate there was part of that defence. Which was why it needed to be obliterated. Thoughts of rebuilding would come afterwards, if they won – right now, all Bill could think about was taking this place back from the thieves and murderers who’d made it their home, returning the castle to its true heirs: the locals who’d had to put up with the Widow’s shenanigans for too long. Scottish people like those traders who’d chosen to fight with the Rangers today.
From his position, Bill could see his men making their way up towards the portcullis gates, in jeeps, on bikes and on foot. He could also see the number of guards on the other side, in the castle grounds. Roused by the explosions and machine-gun fire, they were flitting about: especially near the building Bill knew to be the New Barracks; arming and generally gearing themselves up to repel boarders.
There was no way of telling from up here where Robert, Mary or the other Rangers might be – if they were even still alive. That would be the job of those on the ground to ascertain. There were some good Rangers down there, all of whom had been trained to the best of their abilities. But, in Bill’s opinion, you couldn’t beat some top of the range firepower on your side. He knew what Robert would say, and if he’d been around he would have prevented Bill from using the Black Shark at all – which he’d lovingly restored after the battle Robert fought with the Tsar’s men, including re-arming her with spares from other wrecked Black Sharks that had been taken down that day, and making a number of modifications himself. But Robert wasn’t here. He’d gone and got himself and his team captured, so it was up to Bill to try and sort this muddle out. He hadn’t been able to obtain any more men or weapons from Nottingham because Jack had bloody well requisitioned all they could spare – and Bill fully intended to have words with the big, dumb lummox about that later. So what else was he supposed to do? They needed a way of taking out some of those armoured vehicles down there, and this was the only option he could think of.
The fact that he’d been dying to try this baby out in combat since he’d fixed her up was neither here nor there.
“That’s my girl,” he said, nudging the one-seater craft to one side. She handled like a dream, even better than his old Sioux or Gazelle, and she definitely packed more of a bite. In all honesty, Bill reckoned he could probably take on the whole of the Widow’s mob single-handed, decimating the castle and everyone there, if it weren’t for the fact his friends were somewhere inside.
He opened up the cannon on a group of the Widow’s men, his targeting system so precise he could put the wind up them without having to kill. The vehicles were another matter, and fair game as far as he was concerned, so he loosed another couple of missiles into what was rapidly becoming a vehicles’ graveyard, twisted metal jutting up from the ground like bones.
Something was moving to his left, and Bill manoeuvred round to see a Gepard anti-aircraft tank emerging from the smoke, massive twin guns being raised in his direction. The Germans who’d supplied all this kit had obviously thrown in a few driving lessons for the Widow’s men. The brute trundling over the green, up and onto the Esplanade itself, was the first thing he’d seen which could give him a run for his money. Both 90 calibre guns spat at once, armour-piercing rounds which could tear through the Black Shark’s torso like paper. Bill pulled back on the control stick sharply; perhaps a little too sharply, as the Black Shark protested.
“Bear with me, girl,” he said to the chopper, angling her round. The fire from the Gepard was still reaching into the sky. Fortunately the men aiming the guns were lacking in practice, and Bill had done nothing but, even if he had saved most of the live ammo he’d salvaged for just such a occasion. He fired an anti-tank missile and grinned as the laser-guided projectile found its target, giving Bill plenty of time to get clear of the blast zone. The Gepard opened up like one of those old bangers in a black and white slapstick movie.
Coming about, Bill flew over the top of the castle once more, noticing a Ranger jeep about to ram the portcullis gate, the driver inside throwing himself clear at the last moment. The vehicle slammed into the gridded obstacle, knocking through it before grinding to a standstill. The other vehicles behind drew up, Rangers climbing out of jeeps or from bikes, while Matt’s truck – too wide to get any further – was opened at the back.
A mass of men – traders and Rangers, men and women – leapt from the trailer, rushing forward through the portcullis. They’d meet the guards heading in their direction any moment, so Bill decided to even the odds a little. He sprayed a covering fire in front of the Widow’s forces, enough to make them pause. Some even fired up at the helicopter, but hit nothing. Then his troops were there, on the ground and tackling the soldiers. His lot may be outnumbered, but Bill was proud to see the guards falling first and fast, spinning round to reveal arrows in shoulders or thighs. And yes, there was Matt himself, having climbed out of the cab of his truck. He was putting his baseball bat to good use, whacking enemies as they came round one of the corners near the portcullis gate.
More had taken up positions along the wall, to shoot at his people from above. Bill wasn’t having that, and so spun the chopper around, splattering them with gunfire and causing the guards to fall back from the walls. But it was as he did so that he felt something strike the side of the Black Shark to his right. Bill craned his head to see the old cannons from the Argyle battery had been pulled around and raised up to fire at the chopper. The mixture of old and new weaponry obviously extended beyond those claymores they fought with.
Two more fired at him, one hitting the tail end of the Black Shark. “Why, you little –” began Bill, but before he could say any more, he was being fired on from the left as well, ducking heavy cannonballs. Bill attempted to dodge them, but he’d flown in too close, assuming, wrongly, that the old relics didn’t work anymore. His control panel was lighting up like a Christmas tree, emergency alarms wailing in his cockpit. “Damn and blast it,” he said, narrowly avoiding another blast from a cannon which would have downed the Black Shark there and then if it had hit.
Bill searched for a place to put her down, and quickly – only now spotting smoke from one of the reservoir buildings and wondering what it was. But he didn’t have time to dwell on that. The square next to the palace appeared to be the only open-plan area nearby to attempt an emergency landing. He dipped the nose, hopping over the War Memorial and almost catching the back end of his helicopter on the roof. His landing was rough, to say the least; only some of his gear responded when he flipped the switch.
“Easy,” he said, tapping the roof of the helicopter from the inside after he’d set her down, calming the thing like it was some kind of pet. He didn’t have much time to check on the damage, because he was already being fired on by the Widow’s men. Bill risked using his cannon: the aim was totally shot, but he hoped he could scare the gunmen enough so he could effect an escape. He pressed the trigger, but only one round went off, hitting the building in front of him and kicking dust up from the stonework.
It would have to do; he grabbed his shotgun, opened the cockpit and dived out. Rolling, he balanced on one knee and let off both barrels into the group of approaching soldiers. It scattered them, but a couple still came at him on the left. They fired and some of the gunshot sparked off the pilot’s helmet he was wearing. “Judas Priest!” he shouted. With no time to reload, Bill turned his gun around and hit one on the side of the head, sending him toppling. The other he grabbed by the collar and pulled in close, settling matters with one p
unch. He snatched up their machine-guns in both hands and sprayed the other guards with bullets, left and right.
Then he ran across the yard, looking for a way inside, using the wall of a building for cover. “Might as well start searchin’ while I’m ’ere,” he said to no-one in particular.
And, with that, he ducked inside the building that would take him to the castle vaults.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
"YOU, UM, NEED to know something before we go in,” said Meghan.
They’d almost reached the area of the stadium where she delivered food. Dale hoped so, because he was sick of the chase. It was nowhere near the place he’d gone with her the first time, but then he guessed the Dragon hadn’t wanted the ambush to take place anywhere close to his family. Probably hadn’t wanted any of them seeing what he liked to look at on those screens, either. I’ll bet he kept that very quiet, he thought, unless they’re all as twisted as him, of course.
“What is it?” asked Dale as they made their way down along yet another corridor, nearly at the end of their journey.
“I-It’s his family.”
“What about them?”
“They’re, well, it’s hard to explain, but –”
Jack shushed them both as they came to the corner. “Guards,” he said, pointing.
That meant the Dragon had to be inside that room. Even with everything going on, with his empire crashing down around his ears, that creep could still command some kind of respect – still command his men. There were a couple of the Welshman’s guards outside, and Jack motioned for Dale to take out the one to the right of the door. “But quietly. We don’t want to tip off whoever’s inside,” he told Dale. “You up to it?” he whispered, scrutinizing the young man.
Dale stood a little straighter, hiding the discomfort he was in. “When have I ever refused an invitation to party?”
Jack grinned. “So let’s dance, kid.”
The trick was to incapacitate the guards before they could get off a shot or a warning cry. Jack rounded the corner first, jabbing a guard with his staff. Dale followed close behind, putting the butt of his machine-gun first in the second guard’s belly, doubling him over, then to his temple, putting him on the ground. When the man started to get up, Dale delivered a blow to the back of the neck for good measure. He looked across at how Jack was getting on: the bigger man was disarming his opponent. The machine-gun clattered to the ground, a little too noisily, and from Jack’s expression Dale could see the element of surprise had already been lost.
The guard then foolishly attempted to grab the former wrestler around the neck. Jack bent and threw the guard over his head, then gave the man an almighty kick, knocking him into the door and knocking the door down.
Jack was inside first, but his reward for being so eager was a smack in the face from a waiting guard. Dale stepped in and felt the barrel of a pistol against his temple. “Drop it,” he was told, so he let the machine-gun fall to the ground. These were two of the Dragon’s most trusted guards; they had to be.
As Jack was rising, a machine pistol trained on him, he was relieved of his staff. And now he saw what Dale was looking at, too.
The room was laid out almost like a bedsit; a living room area with chairs and a bed. There were people sitting in the chairs, and one lying in the bed, Dale could see, but there was something wrong with them. They were much thinner than they should have been, in spite of all the food Meghan must have delivered. In fact, they were malnourished, with stick-like arms that hung limply at their sides – although one was attempting to knit. The Dragon’s grandmother, Dale supposed. The figure in bed was sitting up, leaning back against the pillows. Dale guessed he’s been injured at some time.
His mind wouldn’t let him see it at first, couldn’t let him see what was in front of him. Because the truth was too hideous to contemplate. That someone could do this, even after everything else he’d witnessed at the Dragon’s hands, was too much. It threatened to bend Dale’s mind, just as something must surely have bent the Dragon’s long ago.
“Dale... they’re...” Jack obviously had as much trouble processing the information as him. “They’re all –”
“Dead,” finished Dale. All three of them. They’d been dressed up to look as though they were still alive, positioned carefully. The gran was knitting, the mother had a magazine on her lap open at some celebrity gossip that had long since failed to have any meaning. The father was just staring out in an accusatory way at everything in front of him, including Jack and Dale. Or he would have been staring if he’d still had eyes. All of the corpses were in a distinct state of decay, the flesh rotted from their bones, eyes long since gone to jelly, leaving empty black sockets behind. Dale wondered how they all still had hair, but then noticed the artificiality of it, especially the tight curls of the mother and gran. Wigs taken from a hairdressers or fancy dress shop.
There wasn’t the usual stench associated with death – and Dale knew this all too well, from his time walking the streets post-Cull. The air smelt quite sweet, thanka no doubt to large amounts of air-freshener being pumped into the atmosphere.
Dale turned as much and as slowly as he could and saw Meghan being ushered in by one of the recovering guards from the doorway. “You brought them food?” he asked.
She nodded. “I had to, and change their clothes. I did everything for them.” Tears were in her eyes again and Dale shuddered at what she must have gone through as their personal slave.
“And don’t think we didn’t appreciate it, dear,” came a voice from the back of the room. It was female, and appeared to be coming from the mother.
“That’s right,” said another feminine voice, this time sounding much frailer: the grandmother. “We don’t know what we would have done without you.”
Dale frowned, searching for the source. He didn’t have to look far. There, at the back of the room, now stepping out from behind a partition, was the Dragon. He was half dragging, half holding up Sian, the girl’s head drooping as it had been on the screen in the other room. Probably drugged, Dale suspected, or just worn down by her interrogation.
Dale took a step forwards when he saw her, forgetting about the gun until it was cocked. “Let her go!” he shouted.
“He really should, shouldn’t he,” said the mother, and now Dale could see the Dragon’s lips moving. Christ, how long had he been having conversations with his dead relatives? “But she’s such a sweet young thing. The only girlfriend he’s ever brought back to meet us.”
“I wonder why.” This voice was gruffer, a thick Welsh accent. The Dragon’s father.
“Now, don’t you two start again,” said the mother.
All the voices sounded real. Drawn from real life, Dale imagined; honed over years.
“I really like this one,” the Dragon said in his own voice, and for a second Dale didn’t even recognise it. This was the first time he’d spoken since they’d discovered his little secret.
Dale tried to look to the side, at the guard, but the barrel of the gun was pressed harder into his temple. “Look, can’t you see what’s happening here? The kind of man you’re protecting?”
“Your boss is a Grade A fruitcake,” Jack added.
“I am not a –” the Dragon began, then smiled. “You’re only jealous, all of you.”
“Of what?” Dale spluttered.
“My family survived. I’m guessing most of yours didn’t.”
“They’re not looking too healthy for people who are supposed to be alive,” Dale argued.
“What’s he talking about, sweetheart?” asked the mother.
“I feel as fit as a fiddle,” the Dragon now said in the grandmother’s voice. “Never felt better.”
“Don’t know what he needs a girlfriend for anyway,” the father piped up. “It’s not like he’d be able to do anything with her.”
“Ryn!” snapped the mother.
“Well, look at him. Even if he wasn’t such a pansy, he’s the size of a bloody house.”
<
br /> “This is crackers,” said Dale, stating the obvious. “Let her go right now, you sick fuck, or –”
“Hey, boy, don’t you talk to our Owain like that! Little prick.”
The Dragon looked sideways, at the dead body that had once been his father. “Dad?”
“You’re still my son. Might not be anything like Gareth, but you’re still my flesh and...” The Dragon hesitated, some small part of his brain realising the significance of what he was saying.
If they had exactly the same blood, then his father would still be alive. Or had the man died after the virus? Dale wondered. Whatever the case, the Dragon had stopped; had realised. It was probably also the most touching moment he’d ever shared with his father, and it wasn’t even real. Dale might have felt sorry for him, if he hadn’t caused so much death and destruction. If he didn’t still have Sian in a vice-like grip.
“It’s time to end this,” Jack said. “Right now!”
Dale moved quickly, ignoring his pain, ducking and elbowing the guard holding the gun to him in one movement. The pistol went off, deafening him, but he couldn’t allow that to stop him; too much was at stake. Dale grabbed the guard’s gun arm, pulling it down and forcing the man to pull the trigger again, to shoot himself in his foot. Dale barely heard the muffled howl of agony. He looked over to see Jack wrestling with his own guard, having already disarmed him – a final head butt saw the man sinking to his knees. “The girl,” Dale just about made out from Jack’s lips, while the larger man concentrated on the guard holding Meghan. The guard pushed her to the floor, readying himself for Jack’s second attack of the day.
As Dale moved forwards, though, the Dragon pulled Sian into a headlock, as though to twist it off if he came any closer. “Let her go,” Dale repeated.
“No! She’s mine.”
