Broken Arrow

by Paul Kane

  Both the tone of voice and language was distinctive. Russkies, Bill said to himself. What in the name of fuck's sake are they doing here?

  "Turn around!" demanded the voice again, this time in broken English.

  Slowly, Bill did as he was told, but at the same time he brought his gun up from under his coat, finger squeezing the trigger even before he was fully around. The loud bang coincided with his first glimpse of the soldier, barely out of his twenties, but hefting a deadly AK-47 that would have cut Bill in half given the chance. The shotgun blast hit the man in the chest, knocking him clean off his feet. Bullets from the machine gun pinged off a wall to Bill's left, the soldier's finger automatically pulling back, but his aim completely thrown.

  As the first soldier fell, Bill risked a look over his shoulder at the others below, rushing up the incline to take him out. He fired another cartridge at them, causing the group to scatter.

  Then he ran towards the felled soldier as fast as he could. Ignoring the blood being coughed up by the wounded trooper, he reached down and grabbed the Kalashnikov, swinging it around at the others.

  "Welcome to England, Comrades!" he shouted before crouching and spraying them with bullets. They hadn't been expecting that, apparently, because they all went down fast, barely getting a shot off. "Like t'see a bow an' arrow do that," he muttered under his breath.

  Bill reloaded his shotgun, then rose, holding both weapons out in front as he traversed the slippery road down to where the soldiers lay. He was well aware there could be more in hiding - it was what he and Robert would have done once upon a time - but felt the risk was worth it for information. He'd killed some of the men, he could see, on approach, he'd only injured others. When he reached one of the soldiers who had multiple leg wounds, he picked up his booted foot and brought it down on the man's thigh.

  Then he pointed the twin barrels of his shotgun in his face.

  "What are ye doing here, Red? What d'ye want?" he asked him through clenched teeth. The man shook his head, so Bill leaned more heavily on the thigh. There was a howl of pain. "I'm not a patient bloke. Tell me!"

  "Poshyol ty!" Bill had no idea what it meant, but the way the man spat this out told him he was getting nothing.

  "Fair enough," said Bill, taking his boot off the wound long enough to kick the man across the face.

  He made his way a little further down the slope, to the dead locals. The fact there were women and children among them eased his conscience somewhat about the killing he'd done that day.

  Then he heard the groaning. One of the 'dead' was trying to speak. Bill whirled around and immediately went over, getting down on the ground beside him. The man was in his thirties, with a kind face. His thick woollen jumper was stained crimson where the soldiers' bullets had eaten into him.

  "Easy lad," said Bill, and though it would leave himself vulnerable to attack he placed the man's head on his knee. "What happened 'ere?"

  The man's eyes were glassy, but Bill knew he could still see him. He winced when he tried to talk, but forced the words out anyway. "H... Huh... Hit us hard... without warning... jeeps and....bikes...and..." The man attempted to shake his head. "We made a stand... but we were no m-match for 'em..."

  "Judas Priest," Bill said under his breath. "I don't understand this." The man groaned again, in terrible pain from the bullet wounds. And something else. As Bill's eyes were drawn down the man's body, he saw an object sticking out of his side. It had snapped off almost completely when he fell to the ground - after being raked with bullets - but there was no mistaking the crossbow bolt that was wedged in there. Bill would recognise one of those anywhere.

  Quickly, he cast his eyes across the rest of the bodies. Sure enough, he saw it at least a half dozen times. More of the bolts sticking out of people, a way of slowing them down for the infantrymen to pick them off.

  "Who did this?" Bill asked the man.

  He looked annoyed and answered, "Soldiers," as if he resented the waste of his dying breaths.

  Bill shook his head and pointed to the broken bolt. "No, who did this to you? T' the rest of those people. I seen it before, y'see."

  The man appeared confused, then it dawned on him what Bill meant. "The... the giant..."

  "What?"

  "B-Big man... olive skin..."

  "Shooting people wi' a crossbow," Bill finished for him. The man nodded, then hissed in agony.

  It couldn't be. I killed him.

  Bill had certainly shot him, square in the chest as far as he could tell - though it had been pretty hard to concentrate on anything when that bolt had punched into him. They'd never found a body, though, had they? In spite of searching when everything had calmed down. Nothing in the wreckage from the platform; neither Jack nor Mark had seen anything. But still... How could it be? And what was he doing with Russians?

  Well, he'd been with the Frenchman, hadn't he? He'd been with the German, the Italian and Mexican. Used them. Race meant nothing to Tanek, only the need to destroy and take what he could for himself.

  Bill was brought back to the here and now when the man began to convulse. "Easy," said Bill again. But the man couldn't hear him anymore. Bill held him tightly by the shoulders. The convulsions ended suddenly, then the man went completely limp. Bill closed the dead man's eyes.

  He stood, feeling numb: none of his original questions answered and a whole lot more lumped on the pile. If Tanek really had returned, bringing with him another army, then there was only one place they could be heading. As he was righting himself, though, at least one of the mysteries was solved. Across the sea, and almost obscured from view by an outcropping, he could see some kind of ship. Bill took a pair of binoculars out of his pocket and looked through them. Maybe it was just the light, but it looked slightly silvery, and it had three big fan-like things on its back. It resembled a grey slab of concrete on the water, except it wasn't quite on the water - a black ring was keeping it afloat like a fat man sitting on a rubber ring.

  "A bloody hovercraft!" said Bill.

  But only one of them, and now he remembered what that lookout at Whitby had said: "Several somethings." Bill had no clue what one of those brutes could carry in terms of equipment, men and vehicles, but he was guessing it wasn't to be sniffed at. Imagine what had come across in a handful, splitting up and branching out to land at different points along the coast so they could take out observers before a flag could be raised. Bill was betting the army would rendezvous somewhere inland before heading on for their final destination. "Shit," he added for good measure.

  Time he wasn't here. Grabbing the other rifles - jamming them under his arm - and stuffing anything else he could find of use into a backpack one of the soldiers had been wearing (like grenades, knives and spare ammo) Bill began the task of climbing back up towards his chopper. Hopefully before anyone over at the hovercraft realised something was amiss.

  What he was going to do first, he didn't have a clue. Deep down he knew not only was the region in danger again, but probably his friends as well.

  And he realised they'd only been in the middle of the calm before the next storm. A lull which had made them complacent.

  All of this and more was buzzing round Bill's mind as fast as the rotor blades on his helicopter when he started her engine.

  Everything being mulled over, especially Tanek, always Tanek, as he made his way upwards and eventually away from Robin Hood's Bay.

  CHAPTER TEN

  "Are you sure this is such a good idea?"

  If he'd been asked that once today, he'd been asked it a million times. By Mary - of course - by Jack, and now the one person he'd thought would be guaranteed to be on his side: Mark. This was for his benefit, after all.

  Wasn't it?

  Mostly. Robert was finally beginning to concede that the boy was getting older, that maybe it was time he started his training in earnest - and that didn't just mean messing about on the Bailey with Jack and the other men. It meant taking him out to where he himself had learnt his skills
.

  Where Robert had become The Hooded Man.

  "Sherwood? Are you serious?" That had been Mary. "You can't go off again now, with everything that's happening."

  Jack had broached similar concerns. They were only just starting to figure out the cult, with Tate's help, and for their leader to keep vanishing like this...

  "I'm not vanishing. You know where I'll be if you need me," he argued. The first trip to Hope had been essential. This one they really didn't understand, and his flimsy explanation about Mark hadn't cut it. Especially after he'd been the one who kept knocking the boy back, telling him he wasn't ready.

  Robert couldn't blame them for being freaked out, not after the incident at The Britannia. Mary had only just been able to save Geoff Baker's life. She'd set to work straight away after getting there, seemingly taking the dead body slumped across the table in her stride. Then she'd had Geoff moved somewhere they could treat him properly. Mary hadn't even acknowledged Robert or Tate's presence. Though that was understandable because she had her hands full, Robert still had a niggling feeling she was punishing him.

  Later, when Geoff was stable - though there was still a good chance he wouldn't see the next dawn - Mary had demanded to see Robert and Tate alone in one of the small conference rooms at the hotel. That was when she'd asked them what they thought they were playing at, interrogating a prisoner without her present, with only Lucy on hand to deal with the medical side of things. "What were you thinking?" she'd asked, pacing up and down in front of them.

  "There wasn't time, Mary," Robert told her.

  "No time to let me know you were back, either," commented Mary with a sour face. "But time to send for me when Geoff had been attacked?"

  "Lucy had given the Servitor-"

  "The what?"

  "It's what they call themselves. Anyway, Lucy had given him something to calm him down. He was secured. We didn't think-"

  "No, you didn't, did you?" Mary sighed. "Look, some people's reactions to any drugs can be totally unexpected. Here, the Chlorpromazine obviously had exactly the reverse effect to calming him down."

  Tate, seated on one of the chairs, was tapping his stick with a finger. "Can I just ask, Mary - and by the way, it's nice to see you again." His smile was weak, but sincere. "Could that same side-effect have made him stronger?"

  "It's possible, yes," Mary admitted. "And it's nice to see you again, too, Reverend. I wish it was under better circumstances."

  When they'd finished going over what had taken place, possible causes and reasons, and coming to no definitive conclusions, Tate had left to go and get settled back at the castle, he'd be staying there until this mess with the cult was sorted out. Robert and Mary had hung back in the room, at first hardly able to even look at each other. It was Robert who broke the silence first.

  "I'm sorry."

  "For what? For leaving so suddenly, or not saying a thing when you got back?"

  "For whatever it is I'm supposed to be apologising about this time." It hadn't been the wisest thing he'd ever said.

  "How about for giving Adele the run of our bedroom?" Mary had said, hands on hips.

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  Robert wracked his brains. Had he done that? He didn't remember it... maybe something about borrowing anything if she needed it, but he just assumed she'd ask first. Robert shook his head. This wasn't really about privacy, no more than it had been the other day. This was about him and Mary. About how strong they were together or, right now, the opposite.

  "You've got to stop this, Mary. Adele is-"

  "I know exactly what she is - and what she's after," Mary stated emphatically. "What I don't know is, if she's being encouraged."

  "It's been another long day, I've just been wrestling with a maniac and almost seen one of my friends die right in front of me. I haven't got time for this nonsense."

  "I understand," she'd told him; he could feel the chill in her words.

  Robert followed Tate's lead, leaving Mary alone in the room. He hadn't seen her again until that night, when he'd felt her climb into bed. Part of him just wanted to reach out and put an arm around her, snuggle up tight and forget everything else. But his stubborn pride got in the way: wait and see if she does it first. She didn't. In fact she edged as far away from him as possible.

  It was as he was lying there awake again that he'd thought of a solution. Of what he must do. Of a way of figuring out a direction. Things were falling apart rapidly, not only in his personal life, but in every other department. He didn't know how to fight monsters like the one who'd broken free at The Britannia - it was so far removed from his experience. He knew his men were being spread too thinly, both on patrol and looking after the prisoners they'd captured. Robert not only needed to get away from the chaos and confusion for a while, to rediscover who exactly he was, he needed some kind of guidance.

  He needed to be back in his one, true home.

  So yes, Mark had been an excuse if he was honest - but Robert saw no harm in that. If the youth was one day to take all this over, which was Robert's hope, then he needed to begin where Robert had. Needed to experience what he'd experienced out in the wilderness, or at least start his journey there.

  It hadn't gone down well. Mary believed it was just another excuse to get away (from her, though she only implied the last bit). "Go then. It's obviously where you'd prefer to be right now," she'd sniped.

  Meanwhile Jack was worried because of the new threat they were facing. "I thought you were too, Robbie. The kid's training's going okay on the castle grounds."

  "There are things I can show him at Sherwood that no-one can show him here. Things I never taught any of the troops when we were living there."

  Jack had accepted it, but didn't like it.

  Tate, on the other hand, never said a word. It was almost like he knew why Robert was making this pilgrimage, and why he wasn't going alone. He'd merely blessed him and said he would pray for his speedy return. "Bring wisdom back with you," Tate had said.

  "I'll try, Reverend."

  Mark had been all for it initially. But now, on their way to the forest on horseback, he asked Robert if he knew what he was doing. "I don't want to take you away from important things at the castle," he said, riding at a trot alongside.

  "This is important, Mark. What we're doing here. But you're not the only reason we're heading back to Sherwood."

  "I'm not?"

  Robert leaned across and clapped him on the shoulder. "No. This trip's for me as well. I need to reconnect with something I've lost."

  "Oh, okay... Talking of which," broached Mark. "You and Mary."

  "Not you as well!" Robert gave him a stern look. It was the face he'd pulled when Mark had first followed him into the forest, first begun pestering him to help them against De Falaise. He'd eventually accepted his other role as well, his relationship with the boy growing, each of them replacing something - someone - they'd lost during the virus. But that didn't mean he could be as cheeky as he liked. "There's nothing to discuss, Mark. Drop it."

  "But you need to reconnect with something back there as well, don't you see?"

  "Since when did you become the fount of all knowledge?"

  Mark laughed. "I always have been, didn't you notice? You two are good together."

  "You think I don't know that?"

  "I do, and that's the pity. You've lost your way a bit, that's all. What is it you say to me, face your fear?"

  "And how about you and Sophie? How's it going there, bigshot?" Robert knew it wasn't really fair to turn this around on Mark, but the boy had asked for it. God, teenagers thought they knew it all, didn't they? But Robert had to stop and remind himself that this kid wasn't any ordinary teen, not like those he used to see on street corners with their mates during his time on the beat. Mark had already seen more than he should have of life's horrors, and perhaps that afforded him some leeway. Only not to discuss Robert's private life, and not this frankly.

  Mark reacted
as if slapped. "There is no me and Sophie. That's the trouble. If we had what you and Mary had... still have, then..."

  Robert held up his hand. "I told you, let that drop." But then he couldn't help digging himself deeper. "Jack told me about the fight, you know. You're a brave guy taking on Dale. He's one of the best fighters I've got."

  Mark grunted. "He's not so tough."

  "Heard you gave him a bloody nose." Robert smiled. "That makes you pretty good too in my book." Mark joined him in the smile. "Mind if I ask what he did to deserve it? Jack told me about the song. He was just pulling your leg, the men do it all the time with each other."

  "The men," said Mark, hinting at the problem.

  "Ah, I see. You're fed up of being treated like a younger brother or something."

  "Brother?" Mark let out a long, mournful breath. "Yeah, I guess that's how Sophie sees me."

  "I meant Dale and the blokes. But now I see what's at the bottom of all this. She doesn't treat him like a brother, does she? Dale, I mean?"

  Mark shook his head.

  "Women, eh?" said Robert, then waited for the smile to broaden; and for it to become another laugh. "They operate on a whole other level, Mark. Out here it's simple. Even in a fight, it's simple. But relationships..."

  The horses made their way up one final road. Robert saw the faded brown signs saying 'Sherwood Forest National Nature Reserve', and indicated they should turn in there. Normally, he would have entered the less obvious way, but he wanted to show Mark something before they got to all the survival stuff.

  "Come on," he said to the boy, urging his horse to speed up a little and taking them through the first and biggest of the car parks. He looked around, admiring the way the forest had taken back what belonged to it, punching through the concrete in many places, overrunning the dividing posts and benches where families would have had their picnics in summer months. Where he'd once brought Stevie and Joanna to do the same.

  Swinging down from their steeds, the pair walked them down an overgrown trail, marked out by fences, and left them with plenty of hay inside the abandoned and rundown 'Forest Table' - once a thriving eating place for visitors to Sherwood. They walked on into the middle of the Visitor's Centre, with its focal point: the peeling statue of two legendary figures battling it out with staffs. "Reminds me of the night we met Jack, remember?" said Mark.