THE LAST SOLDIER
A NOVEL
BY RICH HAWKINS
All content © Rich Hawkins, 2020
Cover and interior layout © WHITEspace, 2020
www.white-space.uk
The right of Rich Hawkins to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Sara, Willow, William, Molly and Jack
acknowledgements
Many thanks to everyone who has supported my writing over the years. It means a lot.
Part One
The Plague Isles
PROLOGUE
The fleet of evacuation boats left the beach behind and speared through the water towards the grey hulks of the waiting battleships. Florence looked back for Frank and Ralph, but there were only the swarms of infected on the beach, mired and thrashing amongst the remains of dead refugees. And when the immense guns of the Royal Navy opened fire she covered her ears and screamed, because she knew her dear Frank was gone.
*
A refugee camp on the shore of a Norwegian fjord. Canvas tents and makeshift shelters made of wood and sheets of metal. Widows and orphans, grief and desperation. Silent men smoked their last cigarettes and rows of people waited in line for bowls of soup served by dull-eyed soldiers.
Beyond the shore, the HMS Bulwark dwelled on the dark water. The snow-capped mountains high above the camp were grand and beautiful and reduced Florence to silent awe. The air was cold and she pulled her coat and the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Joel and Anya comforted her when she cried, and she cried many times during those early days. They drank soup from their bowls, but were still hungry. Always hungry. Second helpings were forbidden and no amount of pleading swayed the solemn-faced officers in charge of the camp.
They were traumatised, displaced people sheltering from the terror of a new world. The horror of the plague in their memories. Survivors’ guilt gnawed at their hearts. Minds numbed and broken. Exhaustion and despair. Some of them gathered on the shore to grieve together, while others prayed and sang hymns. Others screamed at the sky and said the names of loved ones left behind.
*
Latrines were dug out of the ground. The pages of books were ripped out to use as toilet paper. The smell of piss soaked into the ground. It rained most days and when it didn’t rain it snowed, and no one ever smiled because it would be obscene and there was already enough misery to be shared amongst the broken people.
The medical station was always busy. Florence thought often of her parents and Frank. She tried to cry no more because she didn’t want Joel and Anya to see, but even when she hid her face with her hands, they knew and they went to her, and Anya held her and whispered folk songs from Poland.
In the sky, the Plague Gods wailed mournfully.
*
Joel and Anya were married by an army captain in a simple ceremony just after the first Christmas at the camp, gathered on the shore as snow fell on the dark water in the silvery gleam of the moon.
The weather grew colder. The rations were reduced to measly handfuls. One cup of water a day. Sickness in the camp. The winter killed many, and by the end of it the population of the camp had dwindled to a third of its original number. People died in their tents while others simply followed the winding trails into the mountains and never returned.
One night Joel found Anya dead by the shore, the place they’d been married. He held her body and cried and cursed God. Florence stood away from them and felt such despair that she fell to her knees, put her hands to her face and sobbed.
The HMS Bulwark left the fjord and took the soldiers away.
A few days later, after he’d buried his wife, Joel opened his wrists with a straight razor at the water’s edge. Florence dragged his body to Anya’s grave and it took her all of a day and most of a night to dig a hole for him. And when she was finished she slumped on the ground and passed out, and only woke when someone screamed from the far end of the camp.
The screams never lasted long.
She mourned Joel and Anya, as she did the others. Her parents. Frank, Ralph and Magnus. She mourned for the infected too. And afterwards she only left her tent to scavenge supplies from the scraps the soldiers had left behind.
At least now she had extra blankets.
CHAPTER ONE
Florence sat in the back of the rowboat and trailed her hand in the cold, dark water. She wondered of the beasts lurking below the calm surface of the sea: squid and whales, weird fish with bulging eyes and gaping mouths; half-blind things and pale arachnids hunting in deep fathoms and black oblivion. Abyssal trenches no man had ever seen.
Ashen fog was all about them. Florence lifted her hand from the water and dried it on her ill-fitting coat then pulled her woollen hat down over the tops of her ears. She hugged her rucksack tight to her body, and when the rowboat swayed she tried to dispel the image of something with a giant mouth hurtling upwards towards the underside of the boat.
Morse sat at the bow, his rifle held across his body. He turned back to Florence and nodded. She returned the gesture because that was all she could think to do. The fluttering in her heart and trembling of her legs only faded when she took shallow gulps of air.
Between them, Henrik worked the oars, boots braced against the uprights, his breath like mist in the cold air and his forehead damp with sweat. He said nothing, and the only sounds were of the oars slicing the water and scraping against the rowlocks on either side.
The shore appeared out of the fog. A grey beach and spikes of seagrass beyond. Henrik stopped rowing and turned to Morse. “I go no further.”
Morse hefted his pack and hooked it over one shoulder. Florence glanced down at the water and shivered. Morse caught her looking.
“It’s the shallows, Florence. Henrik wouldn’t drop us too far off shore. He’s not a complete wanker.”
The Norwegian snorted. “Lucky I come this far, Morse. I get nothing for this but wet fucking feet and sore arms, English bastard.”
There was a low splash as Morse jumped into the water. His face tightened at the cold as he looked at Florence. “I’ll carry you. Hurry up.”
“I’m not scared of the water.” She stood and tottered, raising her arms for balance. Henrik offered no assistance and just watched without expression. Morse lifted her from the boat, and when he lowered her into the water it reached her knees. Her heartbeat spiked at the shocking cold. Water sprayed on her face; she spat and wiped her mouth.
Morse nodded at Henrik. “Tell your captain we’re even now. And give him my regards.”
Henrik scratched his grey beard then took the oar handles in his hands. “I will.”
“Thank you, Henrik. Now row back to your ship before the infected bite your stupid fucking arse.”
Henrik began rowing away, back towards the trawler waiting in the fog. Within seconds he disappeared.
Morse took hold of Florence’s arm and pulled her through the shallows and onto the beach. When she stumbled and fell, Morse helped her back up and brushed sand from her clothes.
“Welcome to Scotland,” he said.
> CHAPTER TWO
They kept low to the ground as they moved from the damp beach to a crumbling stone wall beyond the banks of seagrass. They crouched. Florence gasped for breath, shaking inside her clothes. Morse slung the strap of the rifle around his neck; glanced around then pulled the compass and map from one pocket of his tactical vest.
“Where are we?” Florence said, keeping close to the wall. Her feet were soaking wet.
Morse studied the map. “I think we’re a mile or two south of Eyemouth. If we were dropped in the right place, of course.”
A slow drizzle began to fall, so Florence pulled her hood up and turned her face from the sky. “Is that good?”
“It’s neither good nor bad. This was as far as the ship could take us from Norway. We were lucky they took us this far. It’s up to you now, Florence.”
“I knew you were going to say that.”
“This was your idea.”
“I know.”
“You ready for this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay. Let’s go.”
*
They walked through a weed-ridden car park where someone had arranged the bones of a small animal on the cracked tarmac, and then onto a road flanked by scrubland and wire fences, some of which had collapsed during the two years since the outbreak. Morse scanned the toiling fog with the AK-47 rifle and moved alongside Florence so that she was within reach. He glanced at the girl and had a sudden feeling he was a fool for following her back to Britain. He saw a future where humans were reduced to the remnants of feral tribes, hiding from the infected in dark holes and isolated hovels, the population past the point of no return for the species. And how many people were left alive? Probably not enough to start again. Perhaps it was time to accept the inevitable: the extinction of humans from the world.
Florence stared towards the hidden sky as she walked. Morse wondered what she saw. She was not an ordinary girl. She had a gift.
“Is this the right way?” Morse asked.
“Don’t you trust me?”
He wiped his mouth. “I’m not sure I trust the thing inside your head.”
She turned and her large eyes regarded him from within rings of bruised skin. She looked tired and pitiable, wrapped up and shuddering underneath her clothes.
“Sorry,” Morse said. “I shouldn’t have said that.”
She faced down the road. “It’s okay. I don’t trust it either.”
*
Morse checked his watch after they halted at a crossroads. “Got a few hours before it gets dark. We’ll have to find somewhere to stay for the night.”
Something shrieked out in the fog. They froze. There were other sounds – mewling, wet clicking, and crying – as though a herd of animals were bogged down in treacherous marshland and couldn’t escape. Morse raised the rifle. Florence stood close to him and trembled.
*
The sleet fell faster and thicker as they walked, and Morse had to shield his eyes with one hand while he tried to keep watch over the road and the surrounding fields. The spiked trees were knotted black growths sprouting from the soil.
Florence walked with her head bowed and arms folded. Such a slight form inside her oversized coat. Twin plumes of misted breath drifted from her nose. She muttered something Morse couldn’t quite hear.
There were more sounds beyond them. The hair stood up on the back of Morse’s neck and his guts churned and reared. He looked to his right and thought he saw movement far across the field, but it was only there for a second, and he didn’t look for long because the sleet on his shoulders was pushing him down, wearing him down. The wind pulled at his body and tested his strength. He felt tired, old and worn out. Perhaps he had already lived too long in a world where untold numbers were dead. A man in his previous line of work was lucky to reach fifty, and he was a few years beyond that and still taking breath.
He started at a sound that might have been a crow cawing from a treetop. He raised the rifle and licked water from his lips. Breathed in deep and held it until his lungs tightened. The mist muffled sounds then amplified them when it cleared for a moment to reveal old farmland being slowly retaken by nature. Fields changing to meadows of sickly-looking vegetation. Everything gone-to-seed, desolate and withered in the winter. There were no animals to be seen, and he wondered if the infected had wiped out the wildlife once the human survivors dwindled.
Morse stopped. It was difficult to see beyond ten yards. The wet road was cracked and swollen where tree roots had spread under the tarmac. Weeds were sprouting through the fractures.
Florence stood beside him. “How far have we walked?”
“Maybe a mile or two.”
“Is that all?”
“Afraid so.”
“Feels like more.”
“Always does.”
*
The blunt shape of a car appeared ahead, skewed across the road and blocking their path. Morse kept Florence behind him as he moved towards the vehicle with the rifle pressed to his shoulder. Then he halted and let out a slow breath. When he noticed it was a Vauxhall Vectra, he snorted as he recalled he used to own one in a long ago time.
Flat tyres cracked and worn, sagging and airless. Rusted metal and flaking paint. There was a dirty handprint smeared across one of the windows. The bonnet was open and leaves and bits of straw and grass covered the exposed parts of the engine. Faint smell of oil when he lowered his head closer to the bonnet. He looked through a window and lowered the rifle.
“Is it okay?” Florence said from back down the road. She held her gloved hands together and glanced around.
Morse signalled her over.
She came over and stood beside him, scrutinizing the jumble of browned human bones in the front passenger footwell. Her eyes lingered on a stained jawbone.
Half a mile further on, Florence stopped in the road and turned her head to the right like she was tracking something unseen in the distance. She stared for a long while, and Morse followed her gaze but saw nothing and the fog remained undisturbed.
As they walked onwards, Morse scanned the area behind them then faced down the road again and made sure Florence didn’t get too far ahead.
*
They found a dead man by the side of the road. The right side of his body was covered in blackened cysts and drooping cilia, and the skin of his right arm was peeled back to reveal a fleshy proboscis all red and slack. Its tip was needle-like. Flaps of putrefying skin covered bulging tumours. Busy teeth had been at his face and his eyes were gone. A pale, withered thing, nothing more than carrion for the scavengers, stinking of sickly sweet rot.
Morse frowned. “Christ.”
Florence stepped towards the body, but Morse laid a hand on her shoulder and held her back. “Leave it alone.”
The girl stared at the man. “Who was he?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“It matters to me.”
Morse withdrew his hand. “Come on. Let’s find somewhere to shelter.”
“I’m sorry,” Florence said as they stepped away. And it was only when they walked down the road and she looked back that Morse realised she was talking to the dead man.
CHAPTER THREE
The sleet turned to rain and they crouched against a tree trunk, huddled together and keeping watch like lost soldiers of a defeated army. They stayed there for a while. The branches were bare and offered little shelter from the downpour. Florence recited a nursery rhyme as she looked out at the land. She was very pale and her bloodshot eyes never stayed on one place for long.
Morse leant on his rifle, blowing into his hands. His boots sunk into the dirt beneath the wet layer of leaves, bark scrapings and pine needles. Florence startled him when she pointed suddenly in the direction she’d been looking.
“There’s a house over there.”
Morse wiped his eyes. “Where?”
“I just saw it. Only a glimpse, but I definitely saw it.”
Morse stared out to wh
ere she pointed, but it was impossible to see through the fog and rain that conspired against them. “How far away?”
“Not far, I think.”
“You’re sure?”
She regarded him with the tired eyes of someone much older. “Would you rather stay here?”
*
Further on the house appeared out of the murk, and Florence halted and turned back to him. Inside her hood, she smiled sadly and her face was damp with rain. A haunted girl who communed with monsters and pestilent minds.
*
They approached the cottage from the north side, stumbling through puddles and over muddy divots. Florence tripped on a molehill but Morse steadied her and stopped her from falling. They halted within thirty yards of the cottage, peering over the rim of a ditch beginning to flood with rainwater. The downpour gave no respite. Morse looked to the sky and saw no end to the grey clouds. What he’d give to see the sun again.
“You think someone’s in there?” Florence sniffed and wiped her nose, bunching her shoulders against the rain.
Morse pulled out his binoculars. Nothing moved outside the house. He watched the windows, but it was too dark inside to notice anyone standing beyond the glass.
“Maybe. Hard to tell.”
“Bad people?”
“What?”
“Bandits or marauders. Murderers. Cannibals.”
“Cannibals?”
“You told me about what happened in that refugee shelter in Sweden. Remember?”
“That was just a rumour.”
The Plague Series | Book 3 | The Last Soldier Page 1