Rebellion: After It Happened Book 6

by Devon Ford

  “Bonjour Claude,” he began in appalling French, “Je m’appelle Da—”

  “I know who you are,” Claude interrupted in good English, before the unreadable look on his face softened slightly. He turned to Leah, and the beard revealed something of a sad smile.

  “And I have seen you too, mon chéri.” Leah smiled sweetly in return, and held out a hand to the old man whilst somehow managing to convey a look of embarrassed apology for how she looked.

  Claude took the offered hand gently, and bent to kiss it with such an old-fashioned display of manners that Dan felt instantly boorish. There was zero, utterly no, feeling of inappropriateness in Claude’s behaviour towards Leah, and both were struck by the obvious sense of paternal admiration he radiated.

  “My name is Claude,” he said, “you have heard stories of the crazy old man on the hill? Yes? Well I am him,” he said with a smile of humour now, making an introductory jest at his own expense. Greetings over, Claude clapped his hands suddenly making everyone jump.

  “Now! Get off these wet clothes and hang them by the fire to dry,” he ordered them. Obeying, both stripped off their outer layers and equipment to place them on the wooden pegs by the hearth as Claude disappeared upstairs only to return momentarily with heavy blankets to wrap around their shoulders.

  Instantly at ease and welcomed, they hovered by the fire as a metal teapot was hung in the flames to boil.

  Dan eyed up the chairs, his senses pricking at something not being quite right, unable to yet articulate the thought knocking on his brain.

  “So,” Claude said again, joining them to warm his hands at the fire, “you want to take the defence of this town seriously?”

  This unexpected clairvoyance saved Dan a lot of uncomfortable small talk – he liked a person who got straight to the point. Opening his mouth to speak, Dan closed it again as Leah answered first.

  “Yes. How did you know?” she said sweetly, playing along with the tone of his greeting to her.

  “Because, mon chéri, I watch you most mornings looking over the walls. I see you planning where to put the guns, and where to attack from. I saw this too when we first came here and nobody listened to the crazy old man,” he said with another depreciating smile.

  “We?” Leah probed gently, pressing her advantage.

  “My wife and my granddaughter,” he replied, eyes sad and glistening. “Both succumbed to illness, sadly,” he crossed himself, the genuflection autonomous and subtle.

  Placing a hand on his arm Leah offered her condolences.

  “My wife was already very sick, but my sweet Claudette – my namesake as you would say – she caught a fever and did not recover. Both are buried outside, and I never left this tower since the day she joined her grand mère. I keep watch over them and the town below.”

  A moment of silence prevailed, during which everyone present tried to convey their sadness and respect. Until Ash shook himself again and settled at their feet to monopolise the heat from the fire, breaking the tension of the moment with a comedy deftness no human could pull off.

  Laughing gently, the three people relaxed and Claude invited them to sit. Hesitating, unsure how to word his request, Dan suddenly realised what had piqued his senses about the seating situation.

  “That’s your wife’s chair, isn’t it?” he asked carefully.

  Relieved that someone understood him, Claude smiled again. “Yes. Nobody has ever sat in it, but I would be honoured if you would, chéri,” he said, turning to Leah who graciously accepted the offer with a sad smile.

  Dan sat on the rug next to his dog whilst the girl carefully perched on the unused rocking chair and settled back. The kettle began to whistle, and over coffee the three of them discussed the plans to keep watch over their safe haven.

  EYES ON

  From a similar vantage point high on the cliffs opposite the tower and overlooking the wet, windswept town, one of Leo’s most trusted men shivered in the storm.

  He had performed this same task in Afghanistan, in Africa on the Ivory Coast, and a dozen other territories he hadn’t known much about, nor could he accurately point to on a map.

  His job was simple; he was a watcher, and sometimes he was a killer at great distances. There was something about his stone-cold psyche that made him perfect for this role, and the training and years of experience had only served to harden those traits in him to a granite-like veneer. He barely blinked, barely spoke, needed little in the way of comfort and never complained. He never asked too many questions either, and that endeared him to his superiors greatly. Throughout his long years in the vaunted French Foreign Legion, his demeanour perfectly fit the mysterious air that followed those soldiers everywhere they went, prompting young recruits to stop and stare in awe as they strode past.

  Allowing the focus of his left eye to fade away he concentrated through his right down the long scope of his PGM Ultima sniper rifle. He had carried this rifle for a long time, and it had been with him on four continents now, not that he could recall each individual country – only the targets. There were newer weapons issued to the Légion Étrangère, but being something of a celebrity among the elite troops, his stubborn refusal to part with the weapon had been tolerated. It wasn’t that it was better, just that it was his. The bulky metal and plastic gun was part of him, and he could wield it with near perfection.

  It wasn’t just his accuracy with the rifle that made him so effective, but his attitude towards his task: he was told to watch, so he watched. Failure wasn’t an acceptable outcome to him, and only once had he failed. He allowed that one missed shot to sting his soul forever, as the tribal leader he intended to hit bent down suddenly allowing time for the bullet travelling the distance between barrel and target to slice through his shoulder and into a child behind the warlord. That moment would never leave him, not for sadness at the killing of innocent, but for the fact that he failed where he had never failed before.

  Scanning the ramparts of the medieval town walls far below his uncomfortable hiding place high on the cliff, his crosshairs showed glimpses of activity in between the squalls of rain which temporarily blinded his tiny window into the lives of the town’s inhabitants. Few people showed themselves since the weather turned vile, not that he hadn’t been prepared for a long and uncomfortable wait, despite still shivering through four layers of clothing and equipment. Continuing his methodical scan of the view below, the small and slow movement of the rifle barrel pointed his zoomed view to the lonely, round tower on the cliff opposite him. He could barely see in this weather at that distance, much less have any hope of making a successful shot, but another break in the stinging rain gave him a snapshot of two people outside the structure. One taller than the other, both unmistakably carrying weapons. This was a development, as the French sniper had yet to see anyone who offered him any threat. Le chasseur had briefed him about one person specifically - the man with the scarred face who had escaped their unit when their only sniper was deployed to protect a scavenging run.

  Waiting patiently, barely moving other than to slowly inch the barrel to follow the pair’s progress down the slippery path back to the town and to wiggle his toes and tense the muscles of his calves periodically to stimulate blood flow to his feet, he tracked their progress until they were close enough to make out more detail.

  The man was carrying a rifle capable of reaching his position, not that the shot could be made easily in this weather, and he would surely have time to kill him three times over as he was already sighted in. The man also had a big dog following him, which seemed happy enough despite obviously being soaked to the skin. More curiously, he saw that the other person with the man was actually a young girl, even though she was dressed up like a soldier and carrying an automatic weapon. His trained eye noted that the way she carried herself indicated an ability to use the weapon.

  He also made one small detail out as the man turned his head up to speak aloud when he reached the gates. He saw a faint, pink line running down the lef
t side of the man’s face over the eye, accentuated as the exposed skin of his face was pale and drawn in the appalling conditions.

  Satisfied that he had accomplished enough of the mission parameters to justify withdrawal given the worsening weather, he continued his emotionless routine scanning of the town until nightfall, when he silently withdrew from the ridge and began the long journey to extraction.

  FIRE SALE: EUROPEAN STYLE

  The plan was ready, having been assessed and reassessed so many times due to the weather keeping them prisoner. When the endless series of storms finally broke, the heightened sense of excited anticipation buzzed throughout the town, as it was widely known what the newcomers had been asked to do.

  This was an intentional display of public support by Polly, and an ingenious one in Dan’s opinion: she was telling the town that the newcomers had brought abilities they needed, and were now willing to perform a task outside the walls for the benefit of everyone. Public support was not a problem, bar one or two sullen looks and grumbled French complaints.

  The team had been carefully picked in a theme of both Anglo-French diplomatic relations, and ensuring adequate protection remained behind to secure the town. Dan selected his obvious candidates with care, needing Mitch’s military weaponry experience and Neil’s mechanical engineering mind to break into things. Who to leave behind was the biggest worry, and in the end he chose Leah. She complained to him recently about being seen as a child again, and he thought this was the best opportunity to show the residents of Sanctuary that he trusted her to stand in his place. He left Adam with her, confident that he would follow her instructions and provide the support of a familiar face.

  More importantly than who to leave behind was the question of who to bring from the existing population. Obviously, they were in need of strong hands to carry the goods they hoped to find, but the political move of adding French fighters to their protection detail was needed to show that trust was a door which swung both ways.

  Despite protests from others, he insisted that Olivier join them. The idea was Marie’s, which she made sure was presented as Dan’s, and was a clever move to show inclusion of the man they all suspected was, to put it bluntly, completely full of shit. The insistence of his inclusion was designed twofold: to suss him out, and to keep enemies closer.

  There had been a lot of whispering amongst the people safe within the walls, and each night when they convened for their evening meal, more and more of the multinational band of genetic mutation lottery winners joined them, indicating a full swing in their favour on the trust-o-meter.

  Amongst the shy newcomers that evening was a dark-haired beauty who Dan had seen working in one of the tall, narrow buildings in the town. She was short – no taller than Leah in fact – but beneath the lowered head and curtain of wavy hair hid a strikingly beautiful, hawk-like face. Slightly hook-nosed, but with distractingly big, dark eyes she smiled and seemed almost embarrassed as she perched next to Mitch.

  Dan figured it out immediately, as had Marie probably a few minutes or even days before he did, but Leah paused with a fork halfway to her mouth as the scene before her bounced around her brain like a series of errant synapses that couldn’t quite get the flow right. Then it hit her. She was holding Mitch’s hand.

  She fought to swallow her mouthful whilst simultaneously blurting out her accusations about where he had been disappearing off to all the time, when the sudden duplicity of her actions made her inhale her food and cough noisily, silencing the room.

  With streaming eyes and a look of shame as everyone had stopped to watch the girl choke, she stood and looked at Mitch but instead of voicing her accusations she simply released a strained burp. As her watchers in the immediate area fell about laughing she sat down, her face reddening through a mixture of embarrassment and momentary oxygen deprivation.

  “Everyone,” Mitch announced to the table in general, “this is Alita.” He smiled broadly as he looked at her, totally unaware that she wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole.

  Alita was a good few years younger than Mitch, and had yet to turn thirty. Originally from Spain, which in reality was just over a day’s walk away from where they were on the southern coast of France, she had travelled all over the world as a scuba diving instructor. She had lived in the Maldives, the Philippines, Fuerteventura and Lanzarote, as well as working in the Caribbean and Australia. Of all the wonderful and exotic locations she had lived and worked, there was always something tugging at her heartstrings when it came to the southern coast of the country neighbouring her birthplace.

  All of this she would have explained to the group who were obviously eager to know more about her, but the overwhelming fact about Alita was that she hated being the centre of attention, and didn’t much like talking to strangers. True, she spent her life teaching strangers how to dive and leading tourists through the reefs and rocks she grew to know like she did the way around the town streets, but that was work. Mitch wasn’t work and, as such, she now felt like running from the room because everyone was looking at her and expecting some sort of response to Mitch’s introduction.

  Slowly, she raised her free hand as the other still gripped Mitch’s like a vice and gave a tentative wave in combination with a small smile.

  That seemed to satisfy the inquisition, and the collection of smiles aimed at her relaxed a little. As talk of the plan unfolded, she was happy to melt back into comfortable obscurity and listen as Dan laid out the bones of the plan for the following day.

  ~

  Before sunrise the chosen team assembled by the gates, shivering with the combination of inactivity and cold. The defenders were also standing by to watch the small exodus, and for some a familiar feeling of purpose returned to invigorate them despite the chill in the air. With very little ceremony, the heavy gates creaked open and the team filed out with Dan in the lead under the considerable shadow Pietro cast from the weak light shining over the ancient archway.

  His question of why there were no modern vehicles in the town had been answered simply weeks before; they kept some vehicles a way inland under cover to try and preserve them for as long as possible. Under Polly and Victor’s joint leadership, the absence of fuel-driven vehicles was also a tactical move to adjust the psychology of the population; without daily reminders of missing the trappings of their now extinct modern lives, they would let them fall from their consciousness more easily.

  Forty minutes’ walk for their small group found them at an industrial hanger-type building, where they loaded up into three small commercial vehicles and let them run at idle to warm the settled oil in their engines.

  Dan detailed people for each vehicle, unwittingly intimidating some of the locals who, until that point, did not realise they were undertaking a military operation.

  Simple rules were set, actions on different situations arising were reiterated, and the order to move was given. Pietro drove the first vehicle, complaining good-naturedly about having to drive as he felt it made them soft.

  “Would you prefer to carry a couple of large machine guns on your back?” Dan asked him.

  “Biz problema!” Pietro retorted ebulliently, before remembering his audience and adding. “This would be simple”.

  “And the ammunition to feed them?” Dan pressed.

  Pietro paused, evidently giving thought to the additional weight.

  “Maybe this time it is good to drive,” he said reluctantly.

  Leading the carefully-moving convoy of three, with Mitch in the rearmost vehicle as the most trustworthy and capable, Dan checked in intermittently via the radios they had recharged for the first use since their ignominious flight to safety months before.

  Dan’s eyes flashed to high points, to anything on the roadside which caught his attention, to possible ambush sites. The increase of tension felt both familiar and exhausting.

  The only source of discontent was Ash: he had to pick the only day for months when he was in a confined space with others t
o release a series of noxious smells, each time looking simultaneously innocent and offended at the reactions around him.

  By the time the sun hit its peak they had arrived without incident or sign of life outside of their caravan.

  Dan stepped down from the cab, took a lungful of unpolluted air, and stretched his back, feeling that old sensation of a compressed spine from too long in a car.

  Looking behind as the others emerged, he caught the eye of Olivier. Making the quick decision whether to leave him with the others as protection or take him along; he decided to keep him close. Making the hand signals for ‘on me’ and ‘rally point’ he kept Olivier in his sight to see how he responded. If he were the infantryman he claimed to be, then his response to these silent instructions, in any language the world over, would be instantaneous.

  They weren’t. Mitch saw the signals and reacted, as did Neil, but Olivier looked around confused. Unsure, he walked tentatively towards Dan.

  Catching Neil’s eye, Dan indicated that he should stay put and guard the vehicles and received immediate confirmation that his orders were understood. He returned the long battle rifle to the cab of the lead vehicle as it would be useless in the confined spaces he expected, instead relying in his sidearm and the shotgun on his back.

  Leading a team of four and a half; himself at the front with Ash pressed to his leg, Pietro behind followed by Olivier and Mitch at the tail, they began a slow circuit on foot of the base.

  As in all military fashion for any continent, the base was a very unassuming and dull-looking fenced enclosure with a series of low buildings. The full lap took them almost another half hour, and solidified Pietro’s assurance that the base was totally abandoned.