by Craig Zerf
‘So, ten to twelve people per wall?’
Nathaniel nodded.
‘Well then, gunney, my informed opinion is, you’re well screwed.’
‘The walls are good and high, sir. Plus there’s a dry moat.’
‘They’ll come at night,’ said Axel. ‘First they’ll probe. Small groups, in, out fast. A few Molotovs, sniping. Grenades if they’ve manage to find any. Then they will probably attack in strength in two places at once. I would say the gates and one of the other walls. In the last skirmish that I had with them I would venture to say that we thinned their numbers a little but there are still close to two hundred of them. That means each wall will be receiving anything between seventy and one hundred attackers. They will come with plenty of ladders and will lay down overwhelming firepower. You will take casualties. If you manage to repel them they will do the same again the next night. And the next. Frankly, and I hate to say this, you cannot win.’
There was a pause and then Nathaniel spoke.
‘That’s pretty much what I suspected, sir. That’s why I was going to suggest a different way of looking at the whole thing. I propose that, instead of defending the abbey – we take the fight to them. We lay an ambush and we attack them. That way, we would choose the killing ground and we would be able to concentrate our firepower instead of splitting it between four walls.’
The marine pointed at the ordnance survey map.
‘This is the only route that they can take if they are coming from this village here, where they are currently stationed. Papa will send horse scouts out here and here so that we know when they are coming.’ He ran his finger down the track and then stabbed the paper. ‘Here. This is where we will destroy them. Note the gradients. Steep inclines on the sides of the road. A perfect pinch-point. Now this is what I want. Papa, get the scouts out ASAP. Secondly, Prof, I need all of the able bodied scholars to come with me to this point on the map. Don’t worry, they’ll all be safe, I merely need them to help prepare the ambush. We’ll need the two wagons we got from the hamlet. Prof, I seem to remember someone saying that there used to be a generator here before the pulse?’
The Prof nodded.
‘Diesel or gas?’ Asked Nathaniel.
‘Diesel.’
‘Great. Is there any fuel left?’
Prof nodded. ‘Hundreds of liters, actually.’
‘Excellent, could you get that loaded onto the wagons along with the scholars, some axes, shovels and picks?’
The Prof nodded.
‘Okay,’ continued the marine. ‘I am going to use Papa Dante’s people and myself in the ambush. The scholars, under the Prof and father O’Hara, will stay here as a second line of defense in case any of the horde get through. Oorah, gentlemen.’
There was silence.
Nathaniel raised his voice. ‘I said, ‘Oorah!’
Everyone shouted at once and the windows rattled so loud was the cry.
‘Oorah!’
Chapter 37
Marine master sergeant Nathaniel Hogan stood in the middle of the road. He wore full battle armor. Even the ceramic plates and helmet. He had linked all of his machine gun ammunition together and wound the one long belt around his shoulders. His Colt was on his left hip with two more full magazines. On his right hip was the double-headed war axe. At his feet, two Molotov cocktails. It was the late afternoon of that same day. He had an unlit cigarette in his mouth.
And around the corner came the Belmarsh Boys. Jonathan Naybor rode in sartorial elegance on top of the horse drawn Jaguar. Next to him were his bodyguards on horse. And behind him, ten abreast, were another one hundred and seventy rapists, thieves and murderers. He saw the lone soldier standing in the road and he held his hand up to indicate a halt. Behind him his cohorts lurched to a ragged stop.
‘Who are you?’ Shouted Naybor.
Nathaniel ignored him. Took out his Zippo. Lit his cigarette. Dragged. Exhaled.
‘I asked who you are.’ Shouted Naybor once again.
Nathaniel lent down, picked up the two Molotovs, lit them and threw them overhand, one on each side of the road. The flaming bottles arced high into the sky and then came crashing down into the brush on the sides of the road. At the top of the incline that hemmed the road in. Exactly where Nathaniel and the scholars had spent the afternoon piling up a six-foot high line of dry brush and covering it with diesel and gasoline. The side of the road literally exploded with flame trapping the Belmarsh boys in the depression.
At the same time, Papa Dante and his men opened up from behind the Belmarsh boys, automatic weapons pouring a wall of lead into the criminal gang.
This meant that the horde had only one way to go. And that was forward. Naybor couldn’t believe his luck. He had been ambushed by the world’s worst tactician. A perfect trap except for the fact that the only way to get out of it was through a single man. It was ludicrous.
He raised his hand above his head and brought it chopping down.
‘Charge!’
Nathaniel dropped his cigarette, rose up onto the balls of his feet, and sprinted straight at the enemy. At the same time some of Papa’s men started to kick bundles of the burning brush down into the road. The balls of flaming kindling rolled into the crowd of thugs, exploding on contact, causing tens of them to catch alight as they crashed into one another in an attempt to escape the flames. Burning people dropped to the ground and rolled, screaming in agony as they burned to death. The extra ammunition that they were carrying cooked off in the flames, exploding and adding to the complete chaos and mayhem.
And then Nathaniel opened up, working the SAW machinegun from side to side. Spent brass poured out of the side of the weapon like metal confetti at a wedding. The high velocity full metal jacket rounds tore through the pack of humanity, sometimes exiting one body only to go on and hit a second and sometimes even a third.
Nathaniel’s ammunition lasted for twenty-eight seconds. In that short time he killed over ninety Belmarsh boys. Another ten had succumbed to fire and Papa’s men had taken out a further twenty.
The marine slowed to a walk, dropped the machine gun and pulled out his Colt, firing as he walked. Every shot was a hit. As he fired the last round in his final magazine his luck ran out. Although he had been hit three or four times the body armor had deflected the shots. But this round, fired from a heavy caliber handgun, struck him under the armor, just above his hip. The round smashed his liver and kidneys and stopped against his spine.
Nathaniel ripped the axe from his belt and beheaded the person who had shot him. Another shot hit him in the right thigh and he staggered but pulled himself upright. The surviving fifty of the Belmarsh boys rushed forward to pack around him but Papa Dante and his boys were still firing, picking their shots with deadly accuracy. Half of the pack turned to face Papa Dante and the others continued to bear down on Nathaniel.
Nathaniel looked at them and smiled. He closed his eyes for a second and felt the power rush into him. Heat boiled off him and time slowed down. Milliseconds became seconds; seconds became minutes and minutes stretched out for days into the future. For he was Nathaniel Hogan and he had been gifted.
The axe flew in his hands, its heavy metal blades as light as gossamer and as deadly as sin as he carved his way through the crowd. Body parts leapt from their owners and rib cages shattered and brains spilt. Such carnage had not been seen since Samson slew a thousand men with the jawbone of a donkey.
Finally the marine stood in front of Naybor, the commander of the now extinct Belmarsh boys.
‘Who are you?’ Naybor asked for a final time, his voice shaking with fear.
‘I am Marine Master Sergeant Nathaniel Hogan,’ was the answer as the axe swept down from on high and clove the commander in twain.
‘And I am…THE FOREVER MAN!’
Please look for the next book in the series…
The Forever Man
Book 2: Axeman
Here is a sample to check out –
Chapter 1 Book 2
Toilet paper. Twin ply. Super soft.
Nathaniel grinned to himself.
And coffee. Made with a machine. By a barista. Strong, bitter, honest to God coffee.
Thousands of years of human endeavor. Countless millions of man-hours of invention had been wiped out by the pulse. Computers. Space travel. Brian surgery. And what did the forever man miss the most? Something soft to wipe his ass with and a mildly addictive hot beverage made from the roasted seeds of the Rubiaceae bush.
Nathaniel’s horse stumbled slightly. Weary from the days riding. Snow crunched like broken glass beneath its hooves. The air resonant with the fragrance of pine resin and ozone overlaid by the subtle steel smell of newly minted snow. Gusts of wind shivered the trees, shaking clumps of white from their laden boughs. A giant baker dusting the land with icing sugar. Breath steamed from Nate’s open mouth in clouds of condensate, leeching the warmth from his core. Puff the magic dragon.
Winter had come across the land with a speed that baffled all. And it was the harshest winter in living memory. Nathaniel had heard theories that the unprecedented level of cold was brought about by the fact that there were no longer any factories left in the world. Nor heating of any sort. The cattle population had been decimated and there were no cars to fill the atmosphere with carbon monoxide. Global cooling had become a reality.
It had been about three months now since the first electromagnetic pulse had struck the earth. Destroying all electronic and electrical equipment in an orgy of solar destruction. And the pulses had continued on a daily basis, apparent by the almost constant glow of the Aurora Borealis, or Northern lights, in the sky that was caused by the massive amounts of gamma radiation in the atmosphere.
But, apart from smashing mankind back into the dark ages, the gamma rays had also had another effect. Somehow they had changed marine master sergeant Nathaniel Hogan’s DNA structure. They had enhanced his speed, strength and, most of all, his ability to heal. He was now capable of sustaining fatal wounds and recovering. Although, he was still able to succumb to normal disease and starvation. He wasn’t sure about drowning. Unfortunately he still felt pain. And normal common garden fatigue. But then one doesn’t look an immortal horse in the mouth.
Nathaniel glanced down at the back of his left hand. The pink scar stood out like a brand.
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He had dreamed of Stonehenge and druids one night and one of the druids had cut the symbol into his hand with a sickle. When he had awoken it was there. An ancient Traveling women had told him that it was the sign for Infinity and he had been marked as The Forever Man. And then she had shown him some a small magik trick. Conjuring up fire with though alone. She had told him to practice this every day as he had the gift. He had been doing so for almost two months now but to no avail. If the entire world hadn’t become so topsy-turvy he would have dismissed her as a weirdo but given the current circumstances he was loath to do so. She had also instructed him to go north to seek his destiny. This he was doing. And, in lieu of any other plan, he was happy to do.
The marine decided to stop for the night and looked around for a likely spot, finally deciding on a fallen tree a little way off the beaten track. He hitched his horse to a tree, took out his collapsible shovel from one of the saddlebags and started to clear a spot next to the fallen tree, shoveling the snow aside and forming a low three foot wall in a horseshoe shape. When he had finished he spread a tarpaulin on the ground and then a couple of fur blankets. The blankets were black mink, as was the cloak that Nathaniel was wearing. He had come across a specialist fur shop in one of the small towns that he had traveled through and he had helped himself to a half a dozen black minks. Then, with clumsy male stitching, he had converted two of the coats into a full-length cloak. The other four had become two separate blankets. It amused him that his little bivouac now contained over one hundred thousand dollars worth of fur at pre-pulse prices.
He spread another tarpaulin over the walls to make a low roof. Then he collected wood and kindling and built a small fire close to the entrance. The fire would keep the shelter warm and keep predators from coming inside. After that, before the light went, he placed five rabbit snares in likely looking places. Finally he took three skinned and dressed squirrels from his saddle bags, spitted them and placed them over the fire to cook whilst he took the saddle off the horse and rubbed it down before putting a blanket over it.
After he had eaten, Nathaniel fell into a deep and restful sleep. He awoke the next morning about half an hour before sunrise, stoked the fire and went to check the traps. Two had been successful and he took the rabbits back and skinned and gutted them. For breakfast he threw a couple of old potatoes into the fire and then he melted some snow in a pot for drinking water.
Finally he packed up, got back into the saddle and continued on his unplanned way.
As the day wore on he started to pass more and more houses. He stopped to check a few but they were mostly empty. And those that were not empty contained only corpses. The lack of food, drugs and heating had taken a massive toll on the survivors of the initial pulse and now, a mere three months on, Nathaniel estimated that a full fifty percent of the population were dead. Over thirty million people.
Even so, he had expected to find some people in the houses. But the area was dead. Totally devoid of humanity.
Late that afternoon he came across the reason why. According to his map he was standing outside the rural village of Acton-on-vale. But what he saw in front of him looked nothing like a rural village. Running left to right the entire area was fenced in with steel reinforced concrete blast panels. Three meters high. Every one hundred yards a scaffold observation post rose another meter above the fence. Each observation post contained a soldier armed with a light machine gun. Far to his right he could see a steel gate. The gate was open and five armed guards stood in front of it. They were dressed in MTP camouflage and carried the SA80Mk3 assault rifles. One of them was already walking towards Nathaniel, his weapon brought to bear.
Nate dismounted and walked slowly towards the soldier, one hand on the horse’s reins and the other held up above his head.
The approaching soldier seemed satisfied that Nate meant no harm and he lowered his rifle.
‘Can I help?’ He asked.
‘Just passing through, lance corporal. Stopped to admire your wall.’
‘You’re welcome to come inside and take a look,’ said the soldier. ‘All are welcome as long as they obey then rules.’ The soldier stared at Nathaniel for a moment and then asked. ‘Is that a military uniform under your cloak?’
Nathaniel nodded. ‘Master sergeant Nathaniel Hogan, United States Marine Corps.’
‘The soldier came to attention, shouldering his rifle. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir. I wonder if I might insist that you accompany me inside, sir. The Brigadier has ordered that all military personnel be introduced to him before they go on their way.’
Nate shrugged. ‘Lead the way, Lance corporal.’
Nathaniel led his horse and followed the lance corporal to the gate. When he got there two of the soldiers barred his way.
‘Sorry, sir,’ said the one. ‘You need to check in all weapons before you go inside. We’ll keep them safe and issue you with a ticket. Also, we’ll take care of your horse. No horses allowed inside the perimeter.’
‘Fair enough,’ conceded Nate. He pulled back his cloak and unholstered two sawn-off double-barreled shotguns that rode in hip holsters. Then he unsheathed a rifle from the horse’s saddle. Finally he removed his double-headed battle-axe from the loop in his belt and handed it to one of the soldiers, then he hitched back his cloak so that it hung down his back, exposing his rank flashes. The soldier raised his one eyebrow but refrained from comment.
They wrote a receipt out in a small carbon book and gave Nate a copy.
‘With me, sir,’ said the lance corporal.
Nate followed him as he walked through the open gates and headed towards the center of the village. He saw a f
ew soldiers walking around and one or two civilians but on the whole, the place seemed remarkably empty.
‘Where is everyone?’ He asked.
‘Working,’ answered the lance corporal.
‘Where?’
The soldier didn’t answer and Nate couldn’t be bothered to push him. He would ask the Brigadier.
Eventually they came to a massive Victorian rectory. Two armed men stood at attention outside the front door.
Nate and the lance corporal mounted the stairs.
‘Someone to see the brigadier,’ said the lance.
The guards waved him through. The lance opened the front door and ushered Nate in, closing it behind him.
The entrance hall was huge, Persian carpets were scattered across the mahogany floor, large oils of landscapes and horses lined the walls. A fire crackled in the walk in fireplace and the light from thirty or more candles reflected off the stupendous crystal chandelier.
The lance carried on through the hall and down a corridor, stopping at the second door and knocking twice.
Within seconds the door was opened by a tall, stooped, gray haired man sporting the uniform and flashes of a warrant officer class 1.
‘Visitor for the brigadier, sir,’ announced the lance.
The warrant officer nodded. ‘Thank your, lance corporal. I’ll take it from here.’
The lance swiveled on his heel and left.
The warrant officer waved Nate into the room.
Nathaniel marched into the center of the room and came crashing to attention in front of the warrant officer and the brigadier. A short, wide man with cropped black hair and bristle moustache. He was dressed in combat uniform with his rank slide on his chest as opposed to shoulder badges. On his hip a Glock 17.
The marine whipped up a solid parade ground salute, stood at rigid attention and bellowed in his best master sergeant voice.