Plan for the Worst

by Jodi Taylor

  ‘Shit,’ said Markham, which really didn’t even begin to cover it.

  Half a dozen men appeared from nowhere. They were armed with long, sharp, metal-tipped sticks and spent a heroic ten or twelve seconds trying to drive the bulls back towards their pens. They never really stood a chance. The first was tossed. Almost casually, a bull swung his great head and the handler flew through the air, landing on nearby rocks with a very nasty sound. He sprawled face down, unmoving. I suspected he would never move again.

  The other men dropped their sticks and ran for the safety of their huts. I didn’t blame them in the slightest. And there was no nonsense about us facing them down. Their handlers were scattering and so should we.

  ‘Run.’

  We ran. Back downhill because it was faster. There was no time to look behind us – Major Guthrie had drilled into us over and over again during training: ‘Never mind what’s happening behind you. You’ll find out soon enough if you keep stopping to look. Just run. Run until you’ve left whatever it is safely in your dust and then run a bit more just to be on the safe side.’ So we did.

  We ran in a tight group which wasn’t tremendously sensible. We should probably have scattered, but I had no sense of direction, Peterson had a weak arm and Markham wasn’t going to let either of us out of his sight, so we ran in a tight group. To make it easy for the bulls.

  ‘Into the woods,’ said Markham and we did, splashing through the river, panting uphill and diving into the trees.

  Not all of the bulls followed. One or two just trotted straight past us, snorting and puffing away, their dewlaps swinging, freedom in their hearts. The remainder – still far too many for comfort – had their eyes very firmly on us.

  These were veterans of the arena, I guessed, with no reason to love humans. I suspect this trait had been encouraged by ill-treatment. Subtle ill-treatment because these bulls were ­destined for the pleasure of a god who would certainly turn up his nose at damaged goods. So no scars. No burns. No beatings. Nothing that would leave a mark. But there are many ways of making an animal hate you.

  And now they were free. We were faster but we had to dance and dodge roots, hidden rocks, fallen branches and so forth, whereas the bulls just ploughed their way straight through everything. The woods echoed to the sounds of large animals forcing their way through the undergrowth and ripping the occasional branch from a tree. Achieving their freedom hadn’t mellowed them in any way. They bellowed and grunted. Perhaps they would turn on each other and forget about us. Perhaps we could climb a tree.

  Evans’s voice sounded in my ear. ‘Take care – the bulls are out.’

  Markham’s response was, perhaps, just a fraction on the ungrateful side and not suitable for those of a sensitive dis­position.

  I managed to puff, ‘No time to talk,’ while concentrating on running downhill without breaking my neck. Most of my attention was on the ground directly in front of me and I was so busy watching where I put my feet that I ran slap bang into a tree, lost my balance and crashed to the ground.

  I scrabbled around in the prickly pine needles trying to get to my feet, expecting any moment to feel hot bull breath on my face or feel the ground shake as at least one of them lumbered in my direction. Remembering the bull-leapers, I rolled and rolled, finally finding a semi-refuge among a tangle of tree roots.

  The first bull swept past me at a determined trot, his hooves kicking up the dry dust in little spurts. Then another – a smaller, darker one with short legs, snorting great ropes of mucus from his nose. Then another – red with white patches. The ground shook beneath their feet. Not an earthquake this time, although I couldn’t help thinking that between all the seismic activity and these massive creatures zipping around, Crete must vibrate on an almost permanent basis. It was a miracle any of the buildings were still standing. Although not for much longer.

  The herd was thinning out, each animal choosing a different path. Off to find some lady friends, I suspected. Well, I wasn’t going to get in their way.

  I lay very still, pretending to be a tree root for a few minutes longer, just in case there were any more around that hadn’t been able to keep up, but there was silence under the trees. Bulls tend to have that effect on local wildlife. They hadn’t done me a lot of good either.

  Eventually I uncurled myself from between the roots, wiped the sweat from my face and called up Peterson and Markham, who weren’t that far away. Peterson appeared from further up the hill and Markham swung himself, disturbingly ape-like, from a nearby tree.

  ‘Everyone all right?’ I said, dusting myself down.

  We agreed we were absolutely fine.

  ‘And you,’ I nodded at a disproportionately scratched and bloody Markham, ‘could do with a good shower.’

  ‘And a strong drink,’ he said. ‘To keep the germs at bay.’

  ‘What germs?’ said Peterson in disbelief. ‘What germs could possibly want to take up residence inside you?’

  ‘Infection is a constant danger,’ he said primly. ‘Did you not attend any of Dr Stone’s lectures on the subject?’

  ‘Time to get back, I think,’ I said. ‘I shan’t feel happy until we’re back with the others. And it’s so bloody hot under these trees.’

  And it was. The trees were too skinny to provide any decent shade and yet still managed to make a good job of trapping the heat. Dust kicked up by the bulls hung in the air and stuck to my sweaty face.

  We set off again. Uphill. Obviously. Because we’d run downhill. And at some speed, too. Peering through the trees I thought we must be about level with the lower part of the town. A long, long way from the pods. ‘Can we get out from under these bloody trees? I’m about to expire.’

  Markham nodded. ‘We’ll walk around the outside of town, find that little brook, tidy Max up a little and then follow it upstream.’

  ‘Good thought,’ said Peterson. ‘It’s like a pine-scented oven in here. Which way?’

  ‘This way,’ I said confidently, pointing.

  The pair of them turned in the opposite direction.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Max, you are an infallible aid to accurate navigation. As long as we proceed in the opposite direction to your recommendation, we are assured of getting home.’

  ‘Bastards,’ I said, but without too much rancour. I was saving my energy. Besides, they weren’t altogether wrong.

  We set off. After a while the woods began to thin. I could see rooftops between the trees.

  ‘It’s still very quiet,’ said Peterson as we picked our way over rocks and roots.

  I stopped. It was, wasn’t it? The ever-present cicada racket had not picked up again. The only sounds were the occasional shout of a bull-hunting Cretan in the distance. If there was to be another ceremony scheduled for tomorrow, I hoped they had a couple of spare bulls tucked away somewhere because the speed those buggers had been going, they were halfway across the island by now.

  The earth trembled again. Just very slightly. Another one. Was it me or were they coming more quickly now? I put my hand on a tree trunk for support. Was Thera gearing itself up for the big finish?

  There was a shout and two men, hot and breathless, appeared through the trees armed again with their long sticks, ropes, halters and a very heavy-duty net. Wordlessly we all pointed downhill. They grunted their thanks and set off at a trot, considerably more sure-footed than we were.

  We plodded on. I was hot, dusty, sweaty, tired, desperate for a drink and worried to death about the others. I really, really wanted to be back at the pods. I could just imagine the cool caress of a shower. Chugging back a pouch of ice-cold water.

  It never happened. Because we’d forgotten about Clive Ronan.

  Yes, I know what you’re thinking, but cut us some slack here. We’d been playing hide and seek with half a dozen bulls. We’d been dodging around trees and rocks and God
knows what – there had been a worrying amount of seismic activity – of course we’d forgotten Clive Ronan. Six bulls, people. Probably more. Almost certainly more. Ten, perhaps. Or even twelve. All of them hell-bent on turning us into greasy stains across the pretty Cretan landscape. Wait until you have fifteen, twenty, maybe a whole herd of bulls after you, and let’s see you do better.

  He must have sneaked up behind us and, typical of Ronan, gave no warning. He doesn’t really do gloating. Shoot first – gloat later. Which, I suddenly thought, begged the question – why hadn’t he killed me at the remote site? Why hadn’t he shot me just now in the street? What was he playing at? What did he want?

  The first I knew was the sound of a whining blaster and then Peterson fell against me and we both collapsed on to the ground. For an impossibly long second, I couldn’t think what was happening and then Ronan stepped out from behind a tree. He had the sun low and behind him and I was dazzled. He was only a black shape but I knew it was him.

  He raised his blaster again – the two of us sprawled on the ground must have made a very tempting target – and then grunted as Markham charged at him and hit him hard.

  I had to leave him to it because Peterson was on fire.

  I slapped at the flames, hurting my hands uselessly, remembered the drill and rolled him over, ripping open our tiny packs to splash the contents of our water pouches over him. It was a nasty wound. His upper arm was burned black and red. The heat from the blaster had seared parts of his tunic into his skin.

  That wasn’t the worst of it. Ronan had managed to set fire to our surroundings, as well. It was the end of summer. The ground was tinder-dry. Tiny yellow flames ran along the ground. The undergrowth began to crackle. Shit.

  Peterson’s face was twisted with pain but he wasn’t going to die. Unless Ronan shot us both, of course.

  I turned back to Markham and Ronan, still rolling on the ground and fighting for possession of his gun. Markham had his hands full and couldn’t get to his own weapon. I had mine but they were too closely entangled. I should do something. I circled them warily, looking for an opportunity. They were so locked together I couldn’t see where one left off and the other began.

  Markham was panting. ‘Max. Get Peterson out of here.’

  ‘Not leaving you,’ I said, still waiting for an opportunity to brain Slimy Clive with a rock. With extreme prejudice.

  ‘Go. Now. You’re in my way.’

  He was right. He was doing his job. I should do mine. And there were flames beginning to leap around us. I heaved Peterson to his feet. He was conscious – in pain, but functioning. I couldn’t get him uphill, though. Returning to Site B was no longer an option for us.

  We ran. Well, we lurched. Downhill obviously because it was easier. We weren’t fast because Peterson was in a great deal of pain.

  My plan was to stash him somewhere safe among the trees and then get back to Markham so, typically, just when we needed them for cover, the trees ran out and we were suddenly in open country. A sloping, rock-free plateau of scorched grass and bare earth stretched before us. Further down the slope, a single tree dominated the headland – an oak by the spread of it, surrounded by a high stone wall. This must be the shrine I’d seen from further up the hillside. Before my life became so full of bull.

  God knows where we were. I’d never been to this part of the island before. I could see the sea from here, a distant turquoise and blue, glittering in the late afternoon sunshine.

  When the rains came, this meadow would be a beautiful spot, green and lush, providing someone with good grazing for their animals. There would be wild flowers everywhere. At the moment, however, there were no flowers at all and the grass was just dead brown stalks. Some distance away, Knossos spread up the hill above and behind me, glowing in the warm sunlight.

  I was surprised at how low down we were. It made sense now to abandon any plans of getting back to our own pods. I would call up Mr Sands, organise a rescue party for Peterson and get back uphill to Markham.

  The fire had taken hold frighteningly quickly. Within a very short space of time quite a large area was ablaze. The flames were between me and Markham. I could smell the smoke . . . hear the crackle of flames . . . feel the heat.

  I eased Peterson into a rocky crevice. He leaned back, his eyes closed. I could smell scorched material and scorched flesh. I wasn’t going to touch anything. This was one for Dr Stone. I didn’t even have any medical plastic on me.

  He opened his eyes and looked down at himself. ‘Why am I soaking wet?’

  I couldn’t resist. There would never be a better opportunity. ‘Relax,’ I said. ‘I put the flames out.’

  He stared at me suspiciously. ‘How? How did you put the flames out?’

  ‘Not important right now,’ I said.

  He tried to sit up. ‘You didn’t. Did you?’

  I smiled down at him. Just to put his mind at rest. Strangely, that failed to work.

  ‘Max, what did you do?’

  I smiled at him.

  He stared at me. ‘You didn’t?’

  ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘You did, didn’t you?’

  ‘Make up your mind.’

  ‘Max . . .’

  ‘Gotta go. Markham’s still back there.’

  ‘Go,’ he said, faintly, leaning back again. ‘Get back to Markham. I’ll wait here and enjoy the view.’

  I left him suspiciously sniffing his tunic.

  Fatigue forgotten, I tried to run back the way we’d come. Unfortunately, we had a problem. I could see yellow and orange flames dancing through the trees. Shit – had Ronan started a forest fire? At this time of year, with everything so dry, it would burn and burn, endangering all of this part of the island. And possibly Knossos itself. It would be a bit of a disaster if the palace burned down before it had a chance to be destroyed in an earthquake. Guess who’d get the blame for that?

  I opened my com. ‘Markham – can you hear me?’

  There was no response. I told myself that was because he was busy and wouldn’t want me distracting him.

  I stood for a moment, undecided. I could try to circle round and bypass the flames, I suppose . . . I looked around. The pretty little field in which I was standing would soon begin to smoulder. It wasn’t safe. Nowhere was. We needed to get out of here.

  I think the same thought had occurred to Peterson because he was already painfully pulling himself to his feet. At the same time, ten or twelve men and boys appeared over the hill. I braced myself for fresh catastrophe.

  Oh my God, they were firemen. They were virtually naked, so I suppose I should have realised. Armed with leather hides and big wooden paddles, they began to slap away at the flames. They were shouting at each other. One lifted his head, wiped his sweating face, saw us and shouted, gesturing with his arm. His message was obvious. Get out of here.

  ‘Well,’ said Peterson, as I slung his good arm over my shoulder again, ‘it’s been a funny old day today, don’t you think?’

  I didn’t have time to bloody think. The earth shook again. And it didn’t stop this time. This one was less of a bellow and more of a rumble that went on and on. A burning tree toppled showering sparks everywhere and now the dry grass was alight.

  Shit. This was going from bad to worse.

  The flames raced in all directions at once. Earthquakes didn’t seem to bother them at all. Or vice versa.

  ‘We have to go,’ shouted Peterson, master of stating the bloody obvious. All the firefighters were racing to the edge of the plateau and then disappearing. I could only hope there was a path of some kind and they weren’t just hurling themselves out into space.

  Peterson was shouting into his com but if he was on the communal link then I couldn’t hear any response. I staggered to the edge of the plateau and looked down.

  Again – shit. Ther
e was a path but it was bloody near vertical. Fine if you were a Minoan, born and bred to it, or one of their goats – less so if you were from St Mary’s with non-Velcro feet.

  The tremors did not die away this time. They increased. Once again, the bull beneath the earth bellowed. The ground shook. More trees crashed down. Smoke caught at my throat. Sparks flew through the air, settling on us and the ground around us. I slapped at my skirt which was beginning to smoulder as well. This was why the firefighters had fled. We needed to get out of here. Fast.

  Once, at St Mary’s, we’d tried to reproduce Hannibal’s method of splitting rocks using fire and vinegar – and very successful we’d been too. Rocks had cracked and exploded in all directions. This was something very similar.

  The rock cracked. A dark line zigzagged across the ground. The rumble turned to a clatter. Small rocks and loose shale bounced past us. I lost my footing and fell over. Then the entire plateau decided that being attached to Crete was so yesterday, people, detached itself and slithered down the slope, taking me with it. I caught one last glimpse of Peterson falling to the ground and then everything was about protecting my head and banging my knees and elbows and spitting earth out of my mouth and rolling over and over and being hit by every rock on Crete.

  I was very nearly laughing. This was so ridiculous. Dr Stone was going to have to write really small to get all this lot in the cause of death box on our death certificates. Bulls. Earthquakes. Clive Ronan. Fire. Landslide. He’d probably have to attach a file.

  I rolled and rolled down the hillside. This was obviously the god of historians’ idea of a joke. I’d been moaning about always having to trudge uphill so now it seemed I could only go downhill. I’d raced across this bloody island in all sorts of different directions – up, down, left, right. I had a horrible feeling every moment was taking me further from the safety of our pods. Even the ones in Knossos town. If they were still here. My instructions had been explicit. At the first sign of trouble – you jump. They might well have gone already. And I had no idea where Markham or Peterson were. Or how they were.