by Dave Lacey
To ease his mind a little, he moved to the side of the path, leaned against the decaying trunk of a dead tree and waited to see if his pursuers revealed themselves. He used the tree to distort their view of him, and, though he was loath to admit it, he needed a rest. He squinted hard and used a hand to shield his eyes from the midday sun. Though the land was more barren than before the invasion, it was still good to look at.
Living beneath ground for so long stole something from you. It changed your perceptions, changed your outlook. Your vision narrowed until sometimes all you could see was dirt, tunnels and darkness. With the sun on his face and an uninterrupted view of the country, or Cheshire at least, he felt like the king of the world.
Then he thought he saw something. Movement. A long way out, but, yes, it was there. He shifted slightly, using both hands to shield out the sunlight, but he lost it again. He licked his lips, suddenly feeling dry and cold. His body felt super tuned. His hearing and eyesight were pin sharp.
There it was again, movement. People. And they were coming his way. They were still maybe a mile out, but this was going to be tight. Jack realized it was decision time: stay here and hope they passed him by, or make a move for it. Sweat broke out on Jack’s brow and he ground his teeth. “Shit,” he muttered to himself. This was a clusterfuck if ever there was one. Keeping low, Jack moved away from the path he had been on. They were following that same path, which made it likely they would go on and bump into Jack’s group. He was almost certain it was them, certain enough that he knew he had to hide.
“Fuck, what a fucking mess.” He would not be able to move for at least ninety minutes. Then they would be ahead of him, walking right into the open arms of Bill, Millie, Smithy and the others. He cursed himself inwardly. “Jesus, Jack, think man.” But nothing came. His mind remained empty. He just stared at the ground, hoping for inspiration. He waited. And waited. He had been screwed to the ground for twenty-five minutes, yet no one had appeared. He shuffled on elbows and knees across the ground to get a better view.
He had to be careful. The approaching party could appear at any moment. When he reached the top of the slope, he saw them. They had stopped across the path, and people were taking out equipment. It was a food break. Jack shuffled backwards, cursing himself even further. “You dick, you wasted twenty-five minutes lying in the dirt.” As soon as he was clear, he stood up, grabbed his kit and loped off using his stick again. His speed surprised him.
Fear drove him on, and his bad foot was barely touching the ground. His technique was good, but he wondered how long he could keep going for. After a further twenty minutes, he was still going strong. His arm was beginning to tire though, from taking the weight of his bad leg. But Jack was confident he was putting good ground between him and his pursuers. He guessed they would be resting for another ten or fifteen minutes at least. Also, they wouldn’t be as quick as he was over the ground now. So, he had a lead of an hour maybe.
He could feel blisters forming on his hand where he held the stick. After a few minutes more, he could feel the blisters being smeared off. Fifteen minutes later, he stopped. He moved quickly to open his bag and remove what he needed. He took out a bandage and wound it badly around his hand, then used electrical tape to hold it there. It still hurt, but it was better now it was protected. He picked up his pace, matching that from before the stoppage. The fear of them catching him unarmed fuelled his escape.
He swallowed hard. Sweat poured off him, most of it natural, but some of it felt cold. The back of his neck prickled. The need to turn and look became obsessive, but he ignored it. There was no time for that. Keep going, he thought to himself. Ignore the pain. His lungs began to burn. Wet from the sweat, the bandages and tape began to slip. But on he went. Thoughts ran through his head at a hundred miles an hour. What if he never saw his family again? What if he never saw humans take back their planet? What if he never got to love again?
And on he went.
The blood-chilling shouts and screams haunted Millie. Her comrades were down there, doing the wet work. What if some of the screams were from them? What if they were dying? She took a step forward, desperate to see what was happening. But she knew she couldn’t reveal herself. She knew all eyes would be on her, waiting for her to make another mistake. She stood her ground, folded her arms huffily across her chest and breathed hard through her nose. Her chin jutted out, determined yet restrained. The torture of waiting.
Suddenly, Smithy appeared over the top. “Two of them ran off,” he said. His front was covered in blood. Millie just stared at him, worried it was his, but then disgusted that it was somebody else’s. He walked towards her, his head heavy. But Millie took a step back, her arms still folded across her chest, her face twisted with revulsion. Smithy stopped, looked at her and frowned, then followed her gaze. He looked down at this clothing then slowly back up. At least he didn’t grin, she thought.
Smithy looked down again at the blood. His hands came up, so his fingertips touched the stains. He held the bloodied tips in front of his eyes, and his mouth dropped open. “I’ll go and clean up,” he said, an automaton. “The guys, they’ve gone after the others.”
Millie said nothing, just watched him go. After a few minutes, she heard the others coming back. She turned her back on them and walked to her belongings. She had no idea why suddenly she had found the whole thing so distasteful. It was not the first time she had seen such things. She could hear Bill and Nick talking in low voices behind her. Not celebratory, but low and urgent. She turned, eager to know whether something else had happened. Then she heard a gunshot off to her left, followed by a ‘who goes there’ shout. This was followed by more commotion, weapons being picked up hastily, feet scrambling through the loose bark and stones on the ground.
Millie ran with the others to where a number of the team stood alert. She tapped Mark on the shoulder. “What happened?” she asked.
“More visitors.”
“Who, the same ones?” she said. He shook his head, but kept looking forward down the path.
“No, I don’t think so. Something else.”
Then a voice came from round the bend in the path. “We’re here on business. Can you please stop shooting at us?”
“What business?” Bill shouted back.
“Well, that’s complicated. I’d sure like to talk to you about it, without all of those itchy trigger fingers.” He had a point, thought Millie.
“Your timing couldn’t have been worse I’m afraid, my friend. Things are a little tense here, to say the least,” Bill shouted, panting from the tension and his previous exertion.
“Yeah, well, a friend of yours asked us to come find you,” the voice shouted. “The name’s Marl by the way.”
“Your name, or my friend’s name?” Bill asked finally.
“My name. Your friend’s name is Jack.”
The tension grew as Bill stared at the ground, collecting his thoughts. “And how do you know him?” Bill called.
“We bumped into each other a ways back. He’s hurt, we made a deal.”
Millie felt the cold touch of fear brush the tops of her shoulders. Her mind spun with possible injuries, none of them innocuous.
“Hurt how?” Bill called.
“Ankle. He twisted it I think,” said Marl.
“How bad?”
“Bad enough that he couldn’t catch you without help. But he can still move on it. He said you were good people. I hope he’s not wrong about that.”
Millie wanted to jump in, but she knew that would put her stock further into the red.
“I see. You armed?” Bill asked.
“I am. I have Jack’s rifle. He gave it me as a show of faith. I’m a cautious guy,” Marl replied.
“Me too, me too.” Bill paused. “Well, it seems we’re at an impasse, Marl. I propose you and I both place our weapons on the ground and meet each other in the open.”
For the first time, Marl delayed his response. After twenty or thirty seconds, he gave his
reply. “That sounds like an idea. But I’m still nervous about this…?” he waited for Bill’s name.
“Bill.”
“Bill, good. Ah, is there any way you can settle my fears a little?” Marl said.
Bill had nothing for him. “Nothing I can think of, Marl.”
Subdued voices came from where Marl was, probably his companions imploring him not to do it. Bill nodded at Millie and placed his rifle on the ground. Millie felt a swelling of pride. He was a brave man, if not a little naïve. But off he went into the dead ground between the two groups. Marl appeared a few seconds later. He was shorter than Bill, dark skinned and ragged in appearance. He looked harmless. Millie watched as there was much nodding and shaking of heads, then a handshake.
“Okay everyone,” called Bill. “You can come out now, weapons nose down, safeties on.”
After much folding of arms and lifting of chins, things settled. Millie waited her turn, and finally got to speak to Marl.
“How is he?” she asked.
“You his kin?” he asked her, eyes squinting in concentration. She nodded. “Yeah, you can see it, round the eyes especially. He’s just fine. Aside from his ankle that is. He shared his food with us, gave me his gun.” Marl’s eyes shifted a little, as though he was covering his own embarrassment.
“It’s fine,” Millie said, thinking of her brother. “He did it because he wanted you to trust him, and us. And you can, trust us that is.” They shared a smile. “How far behind is he?” Millie asked.
Marl frowned, his eyes looking over her head as he calculated. “Maybe two or three hours, if he’s been lucky and his foot’s not too bad.” Millie was relieved. “He has no intention of turning back, you know, injury or not,” Marl said, his hand resting on his hip.
“Yep, that sounds like him,” Millie said, smiling again. “So what are your plans next then, Marl?”
“You mean when he gets here and you move on?” She nodded. “Don’t know. I guess it depends what you guys are actually doing, and whether we have a choice or not.” Marl pushed back the open edges of his jacket and held them there with both his hands on his hips.
“Well, if you choose to go your own way, we can certainly give you a map back to our community. You’d be welcome there. It’s a good place, good people you know?” Millie said.
“Yeah, that’s what Jack said. Maybe that’s what we’ll do, but maybe we’ll come with you a ways first, provided that’s okay with you and yours.”
Millie shrugged, her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her jeans. “That’s not going to be up to me I’m afraid, Marl. That’ll be up to Bill, and maybe Jack. But what you’ve done, your help, it won’t go unnoticed.” She looked around to where Eric and Eileen stood talking to other members of the group. “Where do you live? How have you survived?” she asked, genuinely curious.
Marl lifted his eyebrows and his eyes grew distant. “That’s a long, painful story…sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”
“Millie, sorry, it’s Millie.”
“Millie.” Marl offered her his hand. “Pleased to meet you. I may tell you that story some time, should our paths continue to cross. And I hope we can earn your trust.” He smiled, his eyes wrinkling at the corners. His smooth dark, unlined skin belied his real age. Marl turned away to speak to Bill.
Millie stood alone, until Smithy arrived at her side. She was glad to see him, and they moved away, awkward at first, then sitting in companionable silence. Finally, Smithy spoke.
“Well, that was all quite frantic.” He extended his legs straight out, stretching his hands out along his thighs. “Yeah, it was. They seem like good people, at least Marl does,” Millie answered, rubbing the brow bone above her right eye. It had begun to ache. “It’s worrying that Jack has hurt himself again.” She sighed heavily.
Smithy reached behind his head to massage his neck. “Yeah,” he said, then winced at his own new injury.
Millie looked at him and shook her head. “You men are pathetic. What have you done now?” she asked, but Smithy just shrugged. She raised her eyebrows and looked straight ahead, her mind returning to her brother, out there alone and in pain. “He was so lucky he bumped into those three.” She gestured to where Marl and his associates stood talking to members of her own team. “He’d never have caught us, not on his own.” They both sat in silence again, each wondering what would have happened to Jack if he had been left behind.
Chapter 28
Vinnie watched as Duke raised himself out of his chair. As he watched the hulk move he allowed his thoughts to drift into the many fantasies he had conjured up in which Duke died. Some of them were horrible, others less so. At the moment, he played with the more cruel endings. The fat fuck, he thought to himself. Just as well Duke couldn’t read minds. It wasn’t the man’s dominance, or his cruelty, Vinnie had seen enough of that in the past himself. No, it was the madness. The madness that made him so utterly unpredictable. Benevolent one second, despotic the next. He had killed people just because they were there when he flipped.
A small voice bitched at him from the recesses of Vinnie’s mind: ‘Kill him yourself, then.’ He pulled a face, spat and shook his head. Duke looked at him, his eyes seeing his soul. He raised an eyebrow, but Vinnie just shook his head. Duke frowned and resumed his progress towards the men and women gathered before him now.
Poor bastards, Vinnie thought. The only crime they’d committed was to wander onto Duke’s patch. And just how the fuck would they even know it was his patch? Not that it mattered. Duke was no slave to reason, or sanity, he just did what came naturally. Anything Duke fucking pleases. Vinnie moved forward a pace so he was on hand to support his superior.
Duke was swinging a baseball bat in one meaty paw, allowing it to twirl loosely through his fingers, yet maintaining his grip. The seven unfortunates gathered in front of him, on their knees, and watched the bat, mesmerized. Even they knew where this was going, and they didn’t know anything about Duke. One of the men whimpered. Duke smiled, his face splitting in his satisfaction.
He loved their fear – the stench of piss, shit and sweat. And he loved the power he held over them. Vinnie continued to watch, but in his mind he stood over Duke, thrusting a gun barrel into the sick bastard’s mouth, poised to pull the trigger. One day, maybe. Then Duke leaned forward, stretching out a hand towards the one who’d whimpered.
The man pulled back from the filthy hand. Duke made a theatrical frown and tutted. “Poor thing,” he said, looking around at his entourage, laughing softly. “I might fuck this one first.” He stared at the man cowering before him. “Then kill him.” As he spoke, he caressed the man’s face with his right hand, the bat slung over his left shoulder. He leant forward, his face just inches from the terrified victim. “Duke likes to party,” he whispered.
Vinnie wanted to do something, but he knew his own death was certain if he did. He couldn’t talk to the others about killing Duke – he had no idea whom he could trust. And if he chose the wrong person, well, the tunnels were already strewn with the flayed bodies of those that had had similar thoughts. An opportunity might one day present itself, but until then he would just keep smiling the shit-eating grins.
Vinnie was brought back to the present as Duke spoke to the group. “You know your crime?” he asked, addressing the prisoners at large. He lifted his chin, drawing down a haughty stare over his broken nose. Two of the prisoners began to cry, closing their eyes, shaking their heads and bowing them. Duke frowned again, genuinely this time. “Don’t fucking lie to Duke. Duke doesn’t like liars, does he?” he shouted, his eyes remaining on Vinnie. Vinnie had assumed Duke couldn’t read minds, but he knew something. He always seemed to know something.
Vinnie stared back; it was the only thing you could do. Duke’s other followers were mumbling their agreement. Duke didn’t like liars, but he didn’t like anything much come to mention it. With a lazy swish and flick of his left arm, Duke swatted the bat into the head of the man who had cried. He hadn’t even look
ed. The bat crunched into the man’s temple, and Vinnie heard the crunch of bone. Then, as if to make sure, Duke stepped closer and, with terrible beauty, swung his weapon down in a vicious arc. Blood spread from the split skull over the earthen floor like spilled paint. We’ll never get those stains out, Vinnie thought.
The others cried and tried to move away from their dead friend. “Duke doesn’t like liars,” the killer continued. “He also doesn’t like mess. And your friend is messing up Duke’s floor. Which of you is next, Duke wonders.” They all began sobbing then. Duke just grinned. He raised a free hand and moved it through the air like a conductor before his orchestra.
He heard music in their terror. He was a big man, twenty stone at least, with an enormous bald head and a goatee. His huge arms, one holding the bat loosely, the other moving like a drunken snake through the empty air, could crush the life out of a man. Or woman. Or child.
Then, belying his huge frame, he pirouetted like a seven stone ballerina, twirled his bat through the air, and brought it down with frightening force into the side of another man’s head. The bat broke, and the man’s head exploded like an overripe melon. He was dead before he hit the floor. “Fuuuuuck,” Duke roared. He stood panting for a few minutes, glaring at then discarding his broken toy, until he regained what little composure he was capable of.
“Duke is, angry,” he bellowed. “This is Duke’s territory. Duke owns all of London, and more too.” He pointed at the group before him. “You should not have come here,” he finished, his breath sawing through his black and rotten clenched teeth.
“But, we d-d-didn’t know,” stuttered one of the women. Vinnie winced. He wanted to close his eyes, but he knew Duke would know if he did. Duke spun to look at who had spoken without his leave. The stupid bitch was staring at him, her mouth hung open. Duke frowned, his face filling with blood, his eyebrows like black, inverted ticks. Then they smoothed as he reared back, drew back his right arm, and delivered a terrible right cross. It hit her on the side of her chin, the bones cracking under the force.
