Rebellion: After It Happened Book 6

by Devon Ford

  Waking with a start, Olivier regarded him with wide eyes until logic overtook fear. When Leo knew the man would not cry out, he removed his hand and spoke to him in hushed French.

  “Help the others up, and well done, solider,” he said with a smile dripping with insincerity.

  The man didn’t notice, he just seemed pathetically pleased to be part of something. To be accepted by a man he clearly envied and wanted to emulate: his new master.

  One by one the other legionnaires gained the high ground in deathly silence and took big lungfulls of air to begin the day’s work.

  “How many up here?” he asked Olivier.

  “Six,” he replied, “and me.”

  Seven to kill then, though Leo.

  Drawing his knife and waiting for his soldiers to follow suit, he crept into the darkness.

  One by one, the sleeping guards of the sky fort died.

  Leo killed two himself. One young man, asleep on his back, woke to see the snarling Frenchman leaning over him, hand clamped across his mouth, and the long drive inched slowly between his ribs to penetrate the heart. Le chasseur was enjoying himself, and he took a sick pleasure in watching the man’s life fade away from his eyes.

  The last man, the only one awake, stood and watched the glow of the sky from his position overlooking the road. An impressive rifle was slung over his right shoulder, but such a distance weapon was useless. He may as well have been carrying a stick for all the good it did him.

  Approaching him from the shadows behind like a cat stalking prey, Leo rose and drew the wicked edge of the blade across the left side of his neck and pressed harder as he opened the windpipe to prevent any noise he might make.

  Catching his body as he fell back, he watched the man spasm and die like a landed fish. His men watched his smile without betraying any emotion, but Olivier stood open-mouthed in horror.

  “Strip the bodies,” he ordered him, “and dump them over the wall where we climbed up.”

  Olivier did as he was told, struggling with the dead weight of each man as he dragged them by their feet or hands to the ramparts leaving trails of blood to mark his progress. Each man was stripped of equipment, and Olivier took their personal possessions without any shame.

  When the last body was ready to be hauled over the side, before he heard the now familiar sound of silence ending with a crunching, wet thump, Leo reappeared flanked by two of his men.

  “I will help you with that one,” he said, surprising the smaller man.

  The two of them lifted the body, and Leo leaned over with a smile to watch it fall like a rag doll to the pile of broken bodies below.

  “Look at that!” he said to Olivier, who leaned over out of some automatic obedience.

  As he did, the two men behind him stepped forwards and lifted a leg each, pitching him over the side.

  Desperately Olivier spun and scrabbled for safety, managing to turn his body and grip the stone ledge. The rough surface cut into his soft hands painfully as he stared at Leo with pleading eyes.

  Leo left him there, dangling, and smiled wider.

  “You know,” he said, “if there’s one thing I cannot abide, it’s a traitor.”

  With that, he drew his knife and sliced deep cuts across the backs of Olivier’s hands.

  The tendons and ligaments irreparably damaged, Olivier’s grip failed and he dropped into the wind-rushing silence of the void.

  ~

  “I do not like it, Englishman,” said Pietro testily. He had joined Dan on the wall above the gate by the big machine gun.

  “There is bad in the air,” he finished.

  Dan, perplexed at the superstitious air about the big Russian, asked for elaboration.

  “It is, how you say, the other senses?” he said questioningly.

  “Like a sixth sense?” Dan asked him.

  “Exactly this,” Pietro replied, failing to expand any further.

  It worried Dan, because he had failed to trust instincts before. He had ignored his own and almost died. He had ignored Ash’s and almost died along with Leah and two others. He felt uneasy ignoring the instincts of the big game hunter by his side, but he did not feel the same sense of foreboding which was troubling the man now.

  The Russian walked away, but Dan noticed he wore his own unique version of full battle gear; the wolf pelt, a quiver brimming with feathered arrows and likely more blades than a butcher’s shop.

  Dan, similarly dressed in a fashion, wore his customary black clothing with his heavy body armour. On the back, trusty as ever but rarely used, sat the brute of a shotgun and the front of his chest was festooned with spare magazines for his new assault rifle and silenced sidearm. Ash, wearing nothing but his mottled grey fur, was always dressed for battle.

  He stood there, immovable and implacable, until the sun rose. Pietro’s uneasiness had been infectious, and he now began to sense that something was amiss.

  Picking up one radio set, he checked in with the tower high up on his left side. All clear.

  Picking up the other, he checked in with the fort.

  Silence.

  Trying again, using a more urgent voice as is the way of people using communications, he hailed them again.

  “All clear,” came the gruff response after a pause.

  Sighing with relief, a small amount of the pressure lifted from his shoulders, he relaxed.

  ~

  Five miles away, at the agreed time, two men were unbound and dragged to their feet. Both seemed broken, but the taller man’s dark skin was swollen and bruised.

  A man stepped forward to the smaller one and dragged him a short distance away. Opening his heavy coat given to him to protect him from the elements, the man connected a wire to the batteries strapped to the vest under the coat, lifted his right hand, and squeezed it easily around the ball and trigger switch. Putting a single piece of loose sticky tape over his fingers, he let the hand fall and connected another wire running down the other sleeve.

  “You remember what to do?” he asked him quietly in English.

  “Yes,” replied Chris, woodenly and with unfocussed eyes.

  “When you see the gate, click the other switch to arm it,” said the Frenchman, receiving a nod of understanding.

  Turning away, he ordered the other man to be brought up as he zipped up Chris’ heavy coat.

  “Walk,” they were ordered, the way to the road being pointed out to them.

  Chris and Simon began walking towards Sanctuary.

  CHECKMATE

  Benjamin heard the news, but did not have time to process it. His man had run to him when Will had first stepped in the arena, so neither knew the violent and gruesome result of the fight yet, but both ran to the ring of shipping containers with desperate purpose.

  They needed Will for their plans in just a few days’ time, and even more so after that, and they needed him even more after that. Having him injured now would be a foolish waste of an opportunity that they had staked their lives on.

  A massive commotion met them as they neared the arena. Barging through the single entry door, Benjamin emerged out to see Jan being guarded at gunpoint. The two guards seemed unsure of what to do, and more and more people flocked to the crowd to see what had happened.

  The relief was evident on the faces of some as Benjamin could finally give coherent orders, but most viewed him with a strange look of frightened anticipation.

  Looking past the shirtless man on his knees, he saw a body slumped on the ground. It was clear to Benjamin that the way the body lay indicated that they would never get up, and his worst fears materialised into reality as he stepped nearer.

  His brother lay face down at his feet, one leg bent backwards at the knee. He barely breathed, and Benjamin was too frightened to move him and injure him further.

  “Who did this?” he asked pointlessly, prompting everyone around him to glance at one another hoping that they would not be the bearer of bad news.

  Turning to face the guards covering the
kneeling man, one of them wordlessly pointed at him.

  Looking at the man’s face for the first time, he saw him smiling.

  Drawing a sidearm in one smooth motion he braced one leg back and took a two-handed aim at the man’s forehead with tears pricking his eyes.

  A single shot rang out, but not from Benjamin’s gun. Confusion called for a moment’s silence, before another shot tore the air from the other side of the camp.

  As one, the guards and Benjamin ran from the arena; vengeance for his brother’s injuries temporarily forgotten.

  Jan, still breathing heavily from the fight and his expected death, slumped to the ground and lay on his back.

  Looking over to his left, the outstretched hand of Will was near his own. Slapping it weakly, Jan lay back and muttered to himself.

  “High five, bro.”

  ~

  Steve and his group of militants rounded the corner and came face to face with the two bored sentries stood by the weapons locker.

  They were startled by the appearance of him, but their confusion evaporated when the others came into view and their weapons came up to point at the intruders.

  “Just listen for a second,” Steve said, holding his open hands up. “Richards has to go, we all know it. Join us, please.”

  One man hesitated, his aim wavering, before he dropped the barrel of his rifle to point at the floor. Standing up, he turned to the other guard.

  “It’s not worth dying for,” he said simply.

  The other guard’s response was to shoot him, point blank, in the chest.

  Steve dived for the fallen rifle of the dead man before it hit the floor, but as he saw the guard switch his aim and fire a second harmless round, which miraculously missed everyone, a shape stepped quickly from the shadows and flashed a bright reflection across the man’s neck.

  Dropping to his knees, blood bubbling at his throat, Lizzie walked slowly into the light with a bloodied scalpel in her shaking hand.

  Steve lay on the floor with the rifle half aimed towards the dying man, and made eye contact with Lizzie.

  “I knew it,” she said, almost triumphantly, as though trying to ignore the fact that she had just cut a man’s throat. “I knew you’d be involved in this somehow.”

  Climbing to his feet, seeing the shock in her eyes that he stood tall and strong, he hugged her tightly.

  “Lizzie,” he muttered in her ear, “I’ve been planning this from the second I woke up here.”

  Withdrawing from each other, Steve rapidly opened the locker using a key found in the bloody pocket of the guard Lizzie had killed and began issuing weapons. Others were emerging from the shadows now, falling in line to be armed.

  Steve felt like a Russian army officer in the siege of Stalingrad. He had no idea why the imagery from a film seen long ago came to him then, but he thanked whatever higher power that looked down on them that he was issuing guns to everyone, and not having to give one person a gun and the next a clip of spare ammunition.

  The first shouts of alarm were punctuated by the sounds of incoming fire from the rush of guards heading their way.

  Barking orders, Steve organised his guerrilla forces into the dark alleyways of the camp, knowing that this fight could rage throughout the night.

  ~

  The sounds of gunfire silenced the giggles in Richards’s office. Max had managed to get him to drink almost half of the bottle now, pretending to be getting drunk with him as he suffered the boring vitriol which the man spouted.

  When the first shot rang out, closely followed by a second, Richards stood with a wobble and retrieved a sidearm from the top drawer of his desk. Snatching up two spare magazines, he shoved them into his pocket as he tried to walk around the desk but bumped his leg into it heavily.

  Max jumped to his feet, forgetting to pretend he had matched the man measure for measure, and stood to block the doorway.

  “Probably just some of the lads getting carried away celebrating!” he said with a false smile.

  “Carried away?” Richards slurred, taking a step backwards to steady himself.

  He closed one eye to focus better, and used the gun in his hand to emphasise his words, unintentionally pointing it at Max’s chest.

  “Carried away?” he snarled. “Young man, there is never an excuse for a soldier to discharge his firearm for any reason other than training or during hostilities,” he said arrogantly, making Max believe he was quoting some old rule book on the correct conduct for soldiers at war.

  Max opened his mouth to protest further but was interrupted by further shots.

  He glanced to the window, as though the inky blackness outside could provide an answer, and turned back to find the gun pointed in his face.

  “You’re part of this, aren’t you?” Richards said, sobering up.

  Max stammered in answer until the pistol barrel whipped across his cheek and knocked him to the ground in agony.

  Scrabbling backwards he held his hands in front of his face and begged for Richards to stop. Blood already ran down his face and he could feel the hot wetness of it as the metallic smell hit his nostrils.

  “Please, sir, no!” he said, tucking himself into a ball as Richards aimed two wild kicks at his body.

  “This is a coup!” he screeched.

  “YES!” yelled Max, stopping the next kick before it landed.

  “It’s Benjamin,” he said through tears, “and Will. They threatened my family and said they would kill me if I told you. I tried to keep you here so they wouldn’t hurt you.”

  The lie, smoothly told under the extreme circumstances, performed perfectly.

  Richards staggered back, as though physically wounded by the news, but was touched by the false sentiment.

  “You care about me?” he asked in disbelief. “You tried to save my life?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Max, snivelling as he regained his feet.

  Richards stepped forward and pulled the young man into a tight embrace.

  Max, in his fear and inexperience, then made a mistake.

  He reached for the gun as he soothed the man. Richards felt the pressure on the weapon and gripped it tighter. Max tried to pull it away from him. The two men locked eyes and Richards knew with absolute certainty then that Max was lying to him. He was part of it.

  Baring his teeth he pulled the gun away harder as he disengaged from the younger man. Max held on.

  The report of the weapon, muffled in the tight confines between their bodies, still deafened him. The flash from the muzzle still blinded him momentarily, and the stench of cordite stung his eyes. He watched as Max’s eyes went wide, as his mouth opened and closed twice, then let him fall to the ground and watched as the red circle of his white shirt widened until it covered his whole abdomen.

  Richards stood over the dying boy and said nothing. Wordlessly he walked to the large, ornate mirror in his office and straightened his collar and regarded his appearance for a few minutes. Satisfied that the Major looked his best, he stepped over the body and opened the door to face the threat head on.

  ~

  The fight did not last long. Steve had an organized group, although many were untrained, and the guards were in disarray. He had lined his rebels, his freedom fighters, behind a low barricade and cut down the reactionary force of guards easily. They were ill-trained, poorly led and utterly confused.

  As he ordered people to move positions in groups, the fighting condensed towards the building designated as headquarters where they met a stalemate. The heavy gun positions, in relative safety on the higher ground of the steps and surrounded by sandbags, rained fire on anyone who showed their faces in the open. Guards loyal to the cause, or at least confused as to whose side they should be on, trickled in to the defended position.

  The approach could not be flanked, and neither would any side agree to parlay.

  Steve had to break the deadlock quickly, or face an uncertain outcome.

  “You, you and you. Come with me,” he said, picki
ng out three men who he had seen handle their weapons competently. “Everyone else, stay hidden and keep them busy with occasional shots. Don’t let them get organized and flank you.”

  Jogging around the building, they followed him to the low window which he pushed open and climbed inside. Treading mud and blood onto Max’s clean bed, they filed into the room and prepared to break out into the corridors. They were in the enemy’s rear, and they had to finish it.

  Snaking through the rooms they heard the noise of the gunfire increase as they neared the main entrance.

  Creeping towards the door, Steve ducked back into cover as Richards’s office opened and the man himself strode out to the exit.

  Steve followed, stopping abruptly as his peripheral vision caught a pair of legs and a pool of blood.

  He couldn’t look at the body, but he knew who it would be and he knew, with absolute certainty, that the boy’s death was on him. He had enough blood on his hands already, but that sacrifice was entirely his doing. Leaving that demon to be exorcised some other time, he went for the door.

  ~

  Benjamin was staying low behind the sandbags and calling targets out to his few remaining troops. Of those with him, he had maybe half which were loyal to the brothers. Or, as he thought in anguish, to the brother. If he could quell this uprising, then Richards could still be overthrown and he could salvage at least something from the day. As he worked, the door burst open behind him.

  Richards strode up to him, anger on his face and blood on his uniform.

  “Sir,” he began, but never finished the sentence.

  Raising his gun, Richards shot Benjamin once in the neck and watched with satisfaction as he fell.

  The firing stopped, and the loyalty of the traitors was tested.

  It failed, almost instantly, and as one they turned their attention back to the threat ahead ever backing the status quo.