The Forever Man: Axeman

by Craig Zerf

  Vincent nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Many.’

  ‘Return in four days time. Bring another seven horse riders with you. You will officially start as scouts and messengers. We shall see where that takes us. Well done, people, and welcome to the Fair-Folk defense force.’

  Chapter 11

  Pain crashed through his body. A tsunami of pain, thundering across his exposed nerve endings and newly formed flesh. The pain of re-birth.

  He took a deep breath and almost passed out. Stars flashed in front of his eyes and he took a moment to steady himself.

  ‘Damn,’ he growled, ‘I’m going to have to stop dying before it kills me.’

  The marine stood up. The first thing he noticed was that, apart from his boxers, he was naked. No shoes, no shirt, no weapons. Secondly, he was unbelievably cold. Finally, both Milly and Tintin were gone.

  ‘Damn again,’ he said as he stumbled down the alleyway and into the road.

  First things first, he thought. Find some sort of clothing.

  Nathaniel wandered from house to house picking up random pieces of clothing. Half a burned shirt, a pair of ragged trousers, arbitrary pieces of cloth that he simply tied around himself to keep warm. A single, bright red Doc Marten left boot in his size and, a few houses later, a black leather right foot riding boot, also in a size thirteen.

  As Nathaniel left the last house he glanced at himself in a broken hall mirror.

  He saw a scarecrow from hell. Burnt and bleeding. And he remembered a poem from his teenage days.

  Once I said to a scarecrow, "You must be tired of standing in this lonely field."

  And he said, "The joy of scaring is a deep and lasting one, and I never tire of it."

  Said I, after a minute of thought, "It is true; for I too have known that joy."

  Said he, "Only those who are stuffed with straw can know it."

  Then I left him, not knowing whether he had complimented or belittled me.

  The marine grimaced at himself.

  ‘It’s time to go scaring.’

  Nathaniel had no particular plan so he decided to grid search the area until he found another living human being. The he would question them so that he could build up some intel. After that he would formulate a plan of action.

  The sky was beginning to darken but the ever-present aurora overhead provided a ghostly light by which to see as it coruscated across the heavens. Blues and greens and reds. Nathaniel smelt something. He paused, sniffed the air and then simply followed his nose.

  His search led him to a derelict end of terrace house. The house itself had been almost burned to the ground; all that was left was a pile of bricks, charred timber and roof tiles. However, cunningly concealed in the wreckage, Nathaniel spotted what looked like an entrance. And the smell was coming from there.

  The marine delved around in the rubble, looking for a suitable weapon. Eventually he found two lengths of steel reinforcing rod, each about two feet long. He wrapped a piece of cloth around the end of each to form a handle and then he crept into the grotto.

  The entrance led to a trapdoor set into the floor. Nathaniel opened it and went down the steps. There was a small room, lit by a candle and a tiny fire, a sofa and an armchair, a mattress on the floor. Many books. Above the fire was were two sticks with, what appeared to be four or five rats skewered on them. They were sizzling and sputtering over the little flames. Next to the fire stood an old man. Grey bearded, a large blue overcoat, jeans and boots. In his hand he held a catering sized carving knife. His expression was wary but not scared.

  ‘I smelt the food,’ said Nathaniel. ‘I mean no harm.’ He dropped the two lengths of steel on the floor in front of him.

  The old man gestured towards the sofa with the knife. ‘Sit down, friend.’

  Nathaniel sat.

  ‘My name is Curtis,’ said the old man. ‘Curtis Kadogo.’

  ‘Nathaniel. Nathaniel Hogan. Master sergeant, United States Marine Corps.’

  ‘Welcome to my abode, jarhead,’ said the old man, using the nickname for a marine soldier. ‘Fancy some food?’

  Nathaniel nodded. ‘Thank you. I’m starving.’

  The old man took a rat kebab off the fire and offered it to the marine. Then he took one himself.

  Nathaniel waited for it to cool down and then took a bite. The meat was tough and rank. It filled a hole.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Pleasure.’

  The old man dipped a tin mug into a bucket of water and offered. Nathaniel downed it and handed it back. The old man helped himself to some.

  ‘Saw you earlier,’ said Curtis. ‘You were dead.’

  ‘Well,’ answered Nathaniel. ‘Looks can be deceiving.’

  The old man shook his head. ‘No. You were dead. I checked. Also you had no clothes.’

  The two of them sat in silence for a while. Eventually the old man spoke again.

  ‘So, jarhead. What gives?’

  And Nathaniel told him. From the very beginning. The pulse, the embassy, the abbey, the whole immortality thing, the traveling people, the Belmarsh boys, the lunatic asylum and Milly.

  The old man did not speak the whole way through and, at the end, he simply nodded and said.

  ‘Well, that explains it then.’

  ‘You believe me?’ Asked Nathaniel.

  ‘Yes. Only a few months back I would have reckoned that you were a few sandwiches short of a picnic, but now…the world has gone mad. I met someone last week, claimed that he had seen trolls and goblins and huge gray pig-men. Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe not. Fact of the matter is, I never seen no pig-men but I did see you dead and now you’re alive. The proof of the pudding and all that. So, I believe.’

  ‘The men that took Milly, any idea where they might have hailed from?’ Asked Nathaniel.

  ‘Yep, got a choice of three major gangs. You got The Specials, The Overlords and The Students. Those three pretty much control the area although The Students are the big hitters.’

  ‘The Students?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the old man. ‘The Specials and The Overlords are the remnants of two drug gangs that had set up shop in the old pre-pulse Nottingham. They had weapons, structures and the will to fight. Some of the cops tried to intervene but most of them simply went home to protect their families. Can’t say I blame them. Anyway, the two drug gangs thought that they were the mean machine, but they didn’t reckon on the fellows from the university. The students. It seems that the students were a few steps ahead of everyone. They figured out what the pulse was and what its effects would be in both the short and long terms. The SRC or students representative council gathered together about one hundred jocks, mainly ruby players, wrestlers and such, put a few super-bright nerds in charge of them and swung into action. There are around seven major gun stores in Nottingham and they hit every one within an hour. Rumor has it that they have an arsenal of over four thousand firearms including semi-auto assault rifles, sniper rifles and shotguns. Also around a million rounds of ammunition. Not only that, they also raided the antique arms stores and swept up all bladed weapons, crossbows, spears. Then they sent armed contingents to the three major superstores in town. They did this before the looting started, maybe three or four hours post-pulse. So now they control all of the weapons and food in the town.’

  ‘Impressive,’ admitted Nathaniel. ‘So then, why are you hiding out here eating rats? Why don’t you go and join the students?’

  The old man laughed. ‘I tried. They rejected me. Too old, they said. It’s a new world order and they’re strict about who they will accept. The whole thing is being run by a super-bright nutcase, goes by the rank of Senior Squire Roland. Got an IQ of over 180, Einstein stuff. Used to be a sweet kid. Problem is he suffered from paranoid schizophrenia. His meds kept it under control but now, no meds. The bastard has gone completely insane. He’s like Hitler on a bad day. Thing is, he seems to be possessed of the same sort of charisma. His people worship him. Anyway, he and his cronies hav
e put together an acceptance test. Before they let anyone in, they check age, then they make you sit an IQ test and a medical exam. I didn’t get past the obvious being-an-old-man part of the interview. Stupid thing is that I worked there before this all happened. Janitor. Kept the little bastards bedrooms clean and made sure the toilets flushed. Wankers.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that,’ commiserated Nathaniel.

  The old man shrugged. ‘Stuff ‘em. Now, your little girl. It won’t be The Specials; their bit of turf is the other side of town. They wouldn’t venture into The Overlords patch. So, it’s either The Overlords or The Students. The Students go wherever they want and they’re always out searching, particularly for youngsters that they can test and bring into the fold.’

  ‘Where are they all situated?’ Asked Nathaniel.

  The Overlords are close. Two blocks north, they’re in the old seaman’s boarding house. Must be around fifty of them. The students are west; they’ve taken over the whole university campus. Four, maybe five miles away.’

  ‘Right,’ said Nathaniel. ‘I’ll check out The Overlords first.’ He stood up. ‘Thanks for the meal, old-timer. I appreciate it.’

  The marine picked up his two lengths of steel rod, nodded his goodbye and left the basement.

  It was dark and a light snow was falling. The wind cut through Nathaniel’s rags like they weren’t even there. But the ragged clothing did have its advantages. Its dark coloring and broken appearance acted like a disruptive pattern camouflage. A post apocalyptic ghillie suit and, as the marine slipped through the night, he was almost impossible to see.

  He found the seaman’s boarding house with ease. There were four armed guards outside the front door and a row of flaming torches made from canvas wound around wood and dipped in diesel. Keeping his distance, Nathaniel crept around the outside of the entire building, noting windows, doors, rooms with light in them and any people that he could spot. He found no conclusive proof of Milly’s presence, nor could he discount it.

  There was nothing else he could now do but enter the building and see if he could find the little girl.

  If he was a SEAL or even an army Ranger he may have climbed onto the roof and then infiltrated through a top floor window, or found an unoccupied room and snuck in that way. But he was a marine, and by the nature of their training they approached obstacles in a much more direct fashion than any other elite forces.

  Nathaniel simply erupted out of the darkness, steel reinforcing rods whipping around like helicopter blades as he mowed down the four guards. The only sound was the thud of steel on flesh and the slightly softer sound of bodies falling to the ground.

  Nathaniel dropped his steel and went through the guards’ weapons. Two were carrying Mac 11 submachine guns in 380 acp. Cheap crappy weapons loved by gang-bangers all over the world. Nathaniel took the 30 round magazine off the one and stuck it in the band of his trousers. He quickly stripped the weapon and threw the parts into the street, keeping the second Mac that he also pushed into his waistband. Although he now had a machine gun with 60 rounds of ammo he wasn’t filled with confidence. The Mac 11 was notorious for jamming and it fired at a rate of 1200 rounds per minute. That meant that he had less than 4 seconds of fire.

  The third gangster had a small 5 shot 38 revolver. Nathaniel checked that it was loaded and then stuck it into one of the rags tied around his leg. The final prostrate gangster had a double-barreled shotgun. Once again, Nathaniel checked the load and, satisfied, went up to the front door, opened it and walked in.

  There was a large, empty entrance hall. A corridor ahead of him and two staircases that curved up each side of the hall to the first floor. Nathaniel reckoned that he simply needed to find someone, ask them if Milly was there and then react accordingly. A simple plan that was so simple as to not actually be a plan.

  He walked slowly down the corridor, stopping outside each door and listening to see if any of the rooms were occupied. Near the end of the corridor he heard voices. He put his ear to the door. Two men talking. Maybe three.

  He twisted the door handle, opened the door, stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.

  He was correct. There were three men talking. However, there were also another eight men listening.

  There was a split second while everyone stared at the marine who stared right back and then said.

  ‘Crap.’

  There was the terrifying sound of weapons being cocked and safety catches flicking off. And then one of the men fired. The slug missed by an inch at most and slammed into the doorframe.

  Nathaniel needed no further invitation. He pulled both triggers to the shotgun, filling the room with lead pellets. Then he threw the empty weapon at the crowd, dropped to one knee, drew his Mac 11 and pulled the trigger as he swept it, right to left across the room.

  There is a reason that street gangs call the Mac 11 a bullet hose. 30 rounds sprayed across the room in one and a half seconds. Using his enhanced speed, Nathaniel dropped out the expended mag, slapped in the second one and sprayed the room again. This time from left to right. Finally, he dropped the empty Mac, pulled out the little 38 and stood up, ready to question any survivors regarding Milly’s whereabouts.

  Unfortunately everyone was dead.

  ‘Crap,’ said the marine again.

  He put the 38 back into its rag holster, quickly searched the bodies and found another three Mac 11’s. He ejected their magazines, put one into his Mac and slipped the other two into his waistband.

  He could hear people shouting, questioning and calling out. Footsteps thundering up and down stairs and corridors as everyone in the building dashed around attempting to find the source of the gunfire.

  Sticking to his original non-plan, plan, Nathaniel simply stepped outside the room, into the corridor and waited.

  Three men came running down the corridor towards him. He dispatched them with three quick bursts from the Mac. A door opened and another man ran out. The sub-machine gun burped and the man went down. Another door, another two men. The rattle of machine gun fire. Two more corpses.

  Nathaniel dropped out the empty mag and slammed in another. Began to walk slowly down the corridor towards the entrance hall. He positioned himself at the bottom of the double staircase and waited. A group of men burst out from the upstairs corridor and split, half running down the one staircase and half down the other. Around twenty in total.

  The marine raised the Mac, pointed at the group on the left and fired. One and a half seconds. Thirty rounds. People died. Bodies fell. Others tripped over the corpses and rolled down the stairway.

  Change magazine. Point. Fire. Time edged by in microseconds as Nathaniel’s gamma-enhanced speed turned mortal combat into a slow-motion movie. Another second and a half. Another thirty full metal jacketed messengers of death.

  And the marine was running. Up the stairs. Pausing to pick up a pump action shotgun. He fired. Racked the pump. Fired again. Again, Again.

  Blood flowed down the walls and steps as the weapon chewed into human flesh. Destroying. Disintegrating.

  People fired back and bullets plucked at Nathaniel’s rags. He felt a burn in his leg and glanced down to see blood flowing. Deep crimson. Staining his filthy clothing.

  He drew the 38 revolver. Five shots. Two more dead. Knelt down. Picked up another shotgun. Looked around. All dead.

  He ran down the corridor shouting.

  ‘Milly! Milly! Are you there?’

  More doors opened. More men died.

  Finally.

  Silence.

  Breathing.

  The odd groan of agony. Followed by a death rattle as someone’s last breath shuddered from their heaving chest.

  Nathaniel wandered through the building searching. But he found no one. No Milly. In fact, no women at all. Not one living soul. The Overlords were no more.

  And Milly was still missing.

  With heavy heart the marine collected up as much shotgun ammunition as he could find and left the building, he
ading for the university campus.

  Heading for The Students.

  Chapter 12

  It was time for expansion.

  The Fair-Folk now controlled the 2200 square miles that consisted of Cornwall. Ammon had set up a human cavalry detachment of one hundred riders that provided a daily messenger service between all major towns and villages. The area was no longer plagued by bandits. Food, although scarce, was available to all. For the first time since the pulse, humanity was no longer going backwards. Not in Cornwall.

  Using human knowledge, Ammon had located and restarted the China clay mines of Cornwall. The clay was perfect for the manufacture of the Orc pods or eggs that were used to bring the Orcs to their larval stage of development.

  The Orcs were mining vast quantities of the raw clay and groups of goblins were fashioning numerous eggs. The eggs were then fired in huge peat fed fires and then transported to either the Carnglaze caverns or the defunct Geevor tin mines where the mages initiated the initial stages of fertilization.

  More Orcs were building hundreds of vast thatch roofed Longhouses that would be used to house the Orc growing vats after they had progressed to the larval stage. Like the eggs, the vats were constructed from fired clay.

  At the same time, many of the goblins had morphed into the female sex due to advantageous prevailing conditions, and, very soon, they were all pregnant.

  Within the next few months Ammon estimated that there would be another seven hundred thousand Orcs and goblins under his command.