by Craig Zerf
‘Would you like a little time alone?’ Asked the Prof.
Hogan nodded. ‘Give me a few minutes so that I can come to terms with the concept of infinity.’
The Prof smiled and left the room.
Nathaniel Hogan simply sat on the edge of the bed and smoked his cigarette. He tried to process what the Professor had just told him but it was impossible. The entire concept simply slid away from him as he tried to pin it down. He wanted to rave. To tell the Prof that he was a bloody idiot. No one could cheat death. No one lived forever…no one survived the injury that Nathaniel had just survived. And especially without even the slightest hint of a scar.
By the time that he had finished his cigarette the marine had made a decision. He would simply ignore the newfound knowledge. After all, what possible difference would it make to his life in the short term? In the immediate future he was still an exile in a strange country in the new dark ages. The possibility that he may be in this position forever did not fill him with a feeling of happiness. Far from it. But forever is another day and today was here and now.
He stood, finished dressing and went to the dining hall to find some breakfast. There were still a few scholars eating, as was the Prof and the groundsman, mister Conradie, a ruddy faced fat man whom Hogan had met the day before. The breakfast was a pot of the ubiquitous oats porridge, sugar and goats milk. Hogan helped himself to large quantities of it and sat down next to the Professor, greeting him and Conradie as he did so.
‘So,’ said Conradie. ‘The Prof says that you may condescend to give us some advice on beefing up the security around here. Says that you fear the mobs might come back.’
Hogan shook his head. ‘No, I said that the mobs will come back. Definitely.’
Conradie smiled condescendingly. ‘Do them no good. High walls. Dry moat. We’ve got weapons and we’re not afraid to use them. No, I think that your fear has got the best of you. And if they do come, I think that you will find that we can handle ourselves pretty well without help from an American. No offense.’
Hogan smiled. ‘No offense taken, mister Conradie. Not your fault that you’re a self important, know all dick head.’
Conradie spluttered into his milk. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘No need to beg, mister, it’s just embarrassing,’ said Hogan as he lent forward. ‘Now listen, Conradie, and listen good. It won’t be long. Days, not weeks, and the mob will be back. And there will be more of them, much more. They will be desperate and more organized than the spontaneous rabble that you had here before. Most likely they will end up storming the gates. But first they will attempt to get in over the walls. Particularly the back wall, behind the armory. The stones are loose and there are trees close to the wall. All that they need to do is fell a couple of trees in the right direction and they get a walkway over the wall and into the digs. Once your enemy is inside your perimeter in strength, then you are well and truly screwed and hung out to dry. Id Est, Conradie, all dead. Or worse.’
‘Sergeant,’ Conradie interjected. ‘I hardly think…’
‘Exactly,’ said Hogan. ‘You hardly think. Fortunately, I do think. And as soon as I am finished my porridge we will take a walk around the walls and I will tell you what needs to be done and you will see that it is done. Correctly and well and all shipshape. Is that clear, mister Conradie?’
The groundsman stared at Hogan for a full few seconds before he replied. ‘Yes, sergeant,’ he said. ‘I understand.’
‘Good. And it’s master sergeant or Mister Hogan. Either or.’
Conradie nodded softly, his head down. Obviously embarrassed. A self-important man brought to bear by a soldier.
Hogan bolted the rest of his porridge down, stood up and gestured with his head to Conradie as he walked to the door. The two of them walked out together. The Prof stayed sitting at the dining table, a look of vague bemusement on his face.
After Hogan had left, the Prof turned to a group of scholars that had watched the altercation and he grinned. ‘Vociferous lot, our American cousins, aren’t they? Still,’ he continued. ‘Nice to see that ass, Conradie taken down a peg or two.’
There was a general ripple of laughter and the Prof helped himself to more goat’s milk.
Hogan strode out towards the back of the monastery walls and Conradie puffed along next to him, his fat wobbling and rolling as he struggled to keep up with the tall, long legged marine. Eventually Hogan slowed down, knowing that he was simply being childish. But the short fat man seemed to bring out the worst in the marine.
‘I’m sorry if you feel that I misspoke back there,’ puffed Conradie.
‘You didn’t misspeak,’ countered Hogan. ‘You simply talked crap.’
‘Steady, old boy.’
The marine stopped abruptly, turned and grabbed Conradie by the shoulders. ‘Conradie, I’m not trying to usurp whatever position you think that you have here. In fact I’m not even going to be staying here for much longer. However, I am a trained master gunnery sergeant with the US Marine corp. I have forgotten more about war and defense and protection than you and everyone within a hundred miles will ever know. I have been outside and I can assure you, it is a complete goat orgy! People are killing for a can of soda. So listen up, all I care about are the children. I will tell you how to seal this place up tighter than a duck’s ass. I will stay until I deem it safe for me to go and then I shall bugger off and you can continue being the self-righteous turd that you are. Comprendez?’
Conradie nodded.
‘Right,’ continued Hogan. ‘First things first. I want ladders up to the battlements on the back walls. The steps are messed up and I don’t trust them. Secondly, get some mortar and seal up the top three rows of stone. They’re crumbling. Thirdly, I need to take a group of strong youngsters out today to fell some trees. The forest has grown far too close to the back walls. You’ll need the wood for winter at any rate so it’s two jobs in one. Also, do you have any twine, lots of it?’
Conradie shook his head. ‘I’ve got a few hundred meters of fishing line. Will that do?’
Hogan nodded. ‘Perfect. Even better.’
After Hogan’s second admonishment, Conradie had developed a much better attitude and, while not brimming with enthusiasm, did seem to be trying to help.
‘Right,’ said Hogan. ‘You get a team of five boys together with axes, wood saws, perhaps some wheelbarrows. I’m going to tool up and I’ll meet them at the gate ASAP.’
Conradie looked puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, gunney, but I didn’t quite get that. You say, tool-up?’
‘Yeah,’ agreed Hogan. ‘Get ready to rock and roll. You know, weapons hot and ready to go.’
The marine left the perplexed groundsman and jogged back to his room to get his SAW and body armor. He started putting on the heavy Kevlar jacket and then stopped, smiled, and dropped it on the floor.
‘Bugger that,’ he said to himself. ‘I’m an invincible armor plated long-life mother.’
He slipped on his webbing, lifted the machine gun and headed for the main gates.
Five boys were waiting for him when he got there. Three carrying double handed axes and two had large wood saws and a wheel barrow each.
Conradie introduced them. Hands were shook and names mumbled. Hogan made a point of asking for the name to be repeated if he didn’t get it the first time. A leader always knows his men.
Then the groundsman opened the gate, let them out and closed it behind him.
The group walked slowly next to the walls heading for the back. Hogan took point and discouraged any talking with a look. He could see that the boys were nervous. More so of him than of any alleged nefarious interlopers that may or may not be on the prowl.
When they reached the correct spot, Hogan started them felling the trees closest to the wall. Chopping the trunks opposite to the wall so that they fell safely away from the structure. Two axe wielders would attack one tree, swing at it in rhythm until, after twenty or so swings each, the tree would topple to the ground.
> When a tree had fallen he instructed the saw holders to start sawing the logs into two-foot lengths.
The boys were young, strong and fit. But they were soft. City soft. And chopping wood is an extremely rough task. After two hours Hogan called a halt.
‘Well done, guys,’ he said. ‘I’ll get Conradie to send another team out to carry all of the wood back. If you could load up the two wheelbarrows then we’ll call it a day.’
‘Hell, sir,’ said the one boy. ‘What a pity, so soon and you didn’t even get to have a go.’
The rest laughed. Good-natured teasing. Hogan smiled with them, glad that their nervousness has dropped to the point that they could joke around a little.
He put the SAW down and held out his hand.
‘Pass the axe, Johnson. Let me get a feel of it, see what real work is like.’
The boys laughed again and Johnson passed over the two handed axe.
Hogan held it loosely in his hands and walked up to a massive Oak tree. He stood, legs apart. It felt good in his hands. Right. Three feet of polished Hickory and four pounds of English steel.
He picked a spot on the trunk, drew a deep breath and then took a huge swing.
The bottom half of the trunk simply exploded and a hail of splinters buzzed and whistled through the air like shrapnel. The Hickory handle shattered and the four pound steel head punched its way right through the trunk and embedded itself into the tree behind it. And then, ever so slowly, the immense Oak tree crashed majestically to the ground taking four other trees with it on its way down.
There was a stunned pause, eventually broken by Johnson.
‘Gosh. Good strike, sir. Well done.’
The other boys all clapped as if they were watching a good play or perhaps a goal in a soccer match. Hogan raised an eyebrow. It was the first time that he had come across the English Public school ethos. Be polite, be on time and never, ever appear to be taken by surprise. Even if your new guest has just smashed an Oak tree into smithereens with a single blow of an old, blunt axe.
Hogan dropped the remnants of the axe handle to the floor.
‘Well that’s about that,’ he said. ‘Load up and let’s call it quits for today, boys.’
They walked back in silence again. Hogan on point.
And his body shimmered in the heat haze that boiled off him as he walked.
Chapter 14
The Belmarsh Boys were on the move. After the attack on the American Embassy, their new leader, or the Chief, as he now preferred to be addressed, had finally forced the mob into some semblance of order.
Firstly he chose five personal guards, then he divided the rest of the gang into roughly four groups of fifty each. He had appointed himself some captains and, below them in the hierarchy a group of lieutenants. Each captain controlled a group of fifty and each group of fifty had been split into five groups of ten. In charge of each of these groups was a lieutenant.
Discipline was harsh and absolute. The few men who had not taken well to the new command structure were simply taken to one side and beaten to death by the others.
And now they were traveling out of London, raping and pillaging as they went, feeding off the general population like the Vikings of old. In the front of the column of evil rode the Chief, Basel Ratford. Or, as the pre-pulse newspapers had dubbed him, the Gentleman Killer. It was an odd moniker to attach to a serial killer as he was neither a gentleman, nor did he in fact, ever kill gentlemen. He was an ex-supermarket packer who killed teenage boys, dressed them up in tuxedo and top hat and then, under the cover of night, posed them in various positions in public places to be discovered by the next morning’s commuters. He had reached the remarkable tally of nine before a police car ran a red light and smashed into Ratford’s car, only to discover a dead, well dressed teenage boy in his trunk.
The police commissioner had tried to spin the story to make it appear like good police work, however the tabloids had run with it under the headline, ‘Keystone cops smash Killer case…literally!’
Ratford rode at the front of the column. His men had taken a new Jaguar XJ and stripped the engine out to lighten it. Then they had gone to the Bonny Bridge riding club in Millbrook road, a mere half a mile from the American Embassy, and commandeered a few horses. Two of these horses were then harnessed via saddle harnesses to a pair of D-rings that had been hammered into the Jag’s coachwork. Then the front windscreen had been smashed out and two drivers sat in the front two seats, one to control the horse’s reins and the other to steer the Jag. The Commander in Chief sat on a leather ‘La-Z-boy’ recliner that had been strapped to the roof of the car.
Behind him, being drawn by another two horses, was an open back Volvo truck, piled high with supplies. But this seemingly huge pile of food and consumables was not nearly enough for all two hundred men, so scavenging was a constant need.
From a distance the column looked like a carnival. The ex-cons had helped themselves to whatever clothes they had wanted from the very best shops in London and had given full rein to their sartorial whims.
Full length fur coats from Harrods. Men wearing women’s felt pillbox hats with long pheasant feathers from Rachel Morgan; milliners to the Queen. Savile row suits with the arms ripped off to cater for massive, prison-grown biceps. Gold chains and Raybans, Duchamp neckties worn as headbands and bright yellow Louis Vuittion shoes.
Chief Ratford had instituted a few strict rules, the major one being that every likely looking house or person had to be searched for food, water, drink, or drugs and weapons. Any of the aforementioned discovered were to be loaded into the back of the Volvo truck for fair distribution by the captains. As a result of this, the horde swept through the surrounding environs like a massive swarm of Schistocerca gregaria or the African desert locust.
The horde had lucked out earlier on that week when, using the weapons that they had, they had stormed the Sportsman Gun Center in Stephendale. Now every member had a firearm of some sort. Mainly double barreled shotguns but also a smattering of hunting rifles and 22 rimfire semi-auto rifles. They had also taken thousands of rounds of ammunition.
Already there had been a number of deaths through accidental discharges. But the commander didn’t mind that. He deemed it the result of natural high spirits.
They had left the larger London area some two days ago and the Chief had decided to take them due North, keeping off the major roads in the belief that there would be more food available in the outlying villages.
So far he had been correct and the first small village that they had come to, Moat Wood, although half deserted, had provided fair pickings. The villagers had organized themselves a committee and had pooled all of their remaining food and water in the town hall. This was guarded by two men with shotguns. The horde had rolled over the village in the same manner that Hitler rolled over Poland. Fast and savage, they left no survivors and burned most of the village to the ground.
Today, however, the Chief was looking for bigger bounty. He had sent two horse riding scouts ahead and one had just returned.
He trotted up to the chief and threw out a perfect Nazi salute.
‘Chief!’
The Chief nodded. ‘Talk to me.’
‘Village about five miles ahead, Chief. Judge’s Hill. It’s on a cross road, got a stream running through. The residents have barricaded the roads. Proper ones, not just piles of furniture. There’s wood fencing and cars parked against it. Guards looking over the top. Armed. Shotguns and rifles.’
The Chief nodded. Pleased. He beckoned to one of his captains who came running over.
‘Captain,’ said the Chief. ‘Make sure that all of the boys have ammunition. We’re going shopping.’
Five miles away a young girl pulled her horse to a halt outside a barricade made by two Landrovers that had been pushed across a gap in a fence to form a gate. Four men pushed them open and she rode through as they closed behind her.
She trotted down the narrow road and pulled the horse to a stop in front
of a large Georgian house. She jumped from the saddle and simply left the horse. The animal stood still and cropped at the short lawn as the girl ran up the steps, opened the door and went to the first room on the right.
‘Axel,’ she greeted as she walked in.
A young man looked up from the desk that he and two other men were standing over. All three men were dressed in identical No. 4 warm weather service dress of the Queen’s Royal Surrey Regiment. They all had three captains’ stars on their epaulettes.
‘Jenny,’ he replied. ‘How goes?’
‘Not good,’ she glanced at the two other young men and greeted them before she answered Axel. ‘Patrick, Dom.’ They nodded their acceptance. ‘That band of nut cases is close and heading our way. Probably five miles out or so.’
‘Are you sure?’ Asked Axel. ‘Definitely heading this way?’
Jenny nodded. ‘Definitely, brother mine.’
Axel stood up straight. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Looks like the time has come. Sound the general alert and let’s get to it.’
Both Patrick and Dom left the room and, less than a minute later, the banshee like howl of an old Second World War air raid siren shattered the clear English air.
Axel and his two friends, all captains in Queen’s Royal Surrey Regiment, had been rotated out of the endless Afghanistan war and sent home for three weeks R&R. Axel had invited the other two for a week at his father’s house in the country where they would ride and shoot grouse and drink until the early hours. His younger sister, Jenny, was also there although his parents had stayed on at their townhouse in London.
The first night that they arrived the pulse hit. Within two hours the three officers knew what had happened, although they all thought that it had been the result of a low level nuclear strike as opposed to a natural event. The three of them had immediately donned their uniforms in order to help impart a measure of authority to what they were about to do. They then called on the local priest, the local councilor, the head of the village Rotary Club and the president of the village Women’s Institute and insisted on a meeting at Judge Hall, Axel’s father’s house.