The Forever Man: Axeman

by Craig Zerf

  The sun set and, when they got closer, the marine told them to all dismount and tether their horses. Then they continued on foot.

  As the laager of vehicles hove into view, the marine called them all together and explained his plan. They would split into three groups. Tad and three others, Nathaniel and five outlaws and then Jonno, providing cover with his rifle, and two assistants.

  ‘Right, Jonno,’ whispered the marine. ‘You and your two boys stay here. Keep cover, no need for you to take a chance on getting hurt. I’ll go right and Tad will go left. Once we’re opposite each other I’ll signal with an owl call and then Tad’s group and my group slip in, cut throats and call you when it’s done. Happy?’

  Jonno nodded. ‘Happy. Let’s do it.’

  They split up and started to crawl through the grass to their appointed positions. Nathaniel waited until they had crawled for over a hundred yards then he tapped one of the men on the shoulder and beckoned for him to stop crawling.

  ‘What’s your name?’ He whispered.

  ‘Jason.’

  ‘Good,’ said Nathaniel. ‘Listen, Jason. Slight change of plan. I think that it’ll be better off if we spread out a little. Come from them at all angles at once. Really use the element of surprise. Get it?’

  Jason nodded.

  ‘Fine,’ continued the marine. ‘You stay here and wait for the signal.’ Nathaniel looked up to check and saw that the rest of the outlaws were still crawling and were now over fifty yards ahead. Carefully, he drew one of his knives and then he leaned over, as if to pat Jason on the shoulder. But instead he clamped his hand over the man’s mouth and nose and then slit his throat from ear to ear. Jason’s body jerked spasmodically for a few seconds and then went limp.

  Nathaniel crawled quickly through the long grass to catch up with the other four outlaws. As soon as he caught up with the man at the back, he did the same thing, leaving another cooling corpse behind him.

  But the third man turned as Nathaniel put his hand over his mouth and, instead of clamping over his face, his grip slid off and the man shouted and bit Nathaniel’s thumb hard enough to bring blood welling to the surface.

  The marine stabbed the man in the stomach and pushed up hard, attempting to reach his heart, but the blade wasn’t long enough. Nathaniel pushed again and then his vision starred as the last outlaw in the group smashed the butt of his shotgun into Nathaniel’s temple. The marine dragged the blade up as hard as he could, disemboweling the biter as he did. Then he spun around, grabbed the final outlaw by his neck and, with a heave of supercharged muscle, snapped his spine.

  The marine then made a split second decision. He would have to rely on Tad taking care of his own business and he would have to neutralize Jonno. He picked up two of the fallen men’s shotguns and, one in each hand, pointed them at the laager and pulled the triggers. Four shots boomed out across the landscape and four massive tongues of flame lit up the night.

  Then he turned and ran as fast as he could back towards Jonno and his two men, unsheathing his axe as he moved.

  ‘What the hell is happening?’ Shouted Jonno.

  ‘Everything’s gone wrong,’ replied Nathaniel as he approached. They were waiting for us. Everyone else is dead.’

  ‘What? How?’ Asked Jonno.

  ‘I killed them,’ said the marine as he swung left and right with his axe, decapitating the two men with Jonno.

  He raised his axe high. Jonno fired and Nathaniel felt the bullet burn as it creased his ribs. Then the blade bit down and struck Jonno’s head from his torso in a spectacular fountain of gore.

  He spun and started to sprint towards Tad’s side of the laager, cutting through the middle of it as he ran. He broached the circle and saw the little man standing against the bonnet of a truck. His face was covered in blood and he was smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Took your time, didn’t you,’ said Tad as Nathaniel jerked to a stop, his chest heaving with the effort of sprinting so fast.

  The marine pointed at the little man’s face.

  ‘Blood.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Tad. ‘I know. One of the bastards shot the top of my ear off. Doesn’t half bleed, I tell you. And you?’ He asked.

  ‘And me what,’ countered Nathaniel.

  Tad pointed at the marine’s side. It was covered in blood.

  ‘Oh,’ admitted Nathaniel. ‘That. Got shot. Again. Should be alright by the time that we get back.’

  Tad lit another cigarette and handed it over to the marine.

  They stood in silence for a while and smoked.

  Above them the night sky coruscated with the color of the aurora borealis.

  Far away a fox barked.

  And Tad told the marine his story. Starting with the death of mister Burnaby, and then Zorba, Adelpha, the bearded fat lady with the poison mushrooms. By the time that Tad got to the five clowns killing each other over a tin of pickled fish and the victors dying of botulism poisoning Nathaniel could no longer control himself and he burst out laughing.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ said Tad. ‘It’s bleeding tragic, is what it is.’

  Nathaniel shook his head. ‘It’s funny is what it is. Jesus. Clowns killing each other over a tin of fish, bearded fat broads called Dorcas. Man, you couldn’t make that crap up.’ He guffawed again.

  Tad cracked a grin and the he too started to laugh. The two men laughed until they collapsed. They laughed until they were hoarse. They laughed far beyond the humor of the situation because they knew, the real reason that they were laughing was that they were surrounded by dead bodies. Corpses of men that they had just killed.

  And they were still alive. So they laughed at the essential insanity of the whole thing. They laughed at life. They laughed in the face of death.

  And finally, sated by the blackness of their humor, they walked to their horses, mounted and trotted back to Harry’s Farm, leading the spare horses behind them.

  They rode in silence and, because Nathaniel took a direct route back, it did not take long. When they arrived back at the farm there was still at least three hours of darkness left.

  ‘Right,’ said the marine to Tad. ‘Let’s get into character. Panic. We were wiped out. We’ve been shot…’

  ‘We have been shot,’ said Tad.

  ‘Well…yes,’ admitted Nathaniel. ‘True. That’s good. More real. Okay, game faces on, lets go. Remember, divide and conquer, we split them up like we did before and take them down.’

  The two of them kicked their horses into a gallop and came crashing up to the front gates. Two armed guards stepped out.

  ‘Quick,’ shouted Nathaniel. ‘Open up. Let us in, then close the gates. They’re coming. Move it.’

  The two guards hurriedly yanked the gates open and let in the two newcomers and the spare horses.

  ‘You,’ Nathaniel pointed at one of the guards. ‘Run. Call G-Man. Call out the men. We’re going to be under attack very soon.’

  The guard ran towards the main farmhouse, shouting as he did. Before he had even got there the front door had been flung open and a bleary eyed G-Man ran out, followed closely by Ratman carrying his sledgehammer. At the same time the other outlaws emerged from their tents and began running towards the boss.

  ‘Soldier boy,’ shouted G-Man. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We were attacked,’ said Nathaniel. ‘It’s like they were waiting for us. We both got shot but we made it. Everybody scattered, not sure who made it out alive and who didn’t. But I do know that they’re following us. Quick, we need to set up a perimeter. Maybe three men at each corner. I’ll take a group, Tad can take a group, you take one and Ratman the other.’

  G-Man shook his head. ‘No way. I want my boys around me. We stay right here, in front of the farmhouse and wait. Strength in numbers.’

  ‘Maybe Tad and I take a few of the boys and patrol the fence,’ suggested Nathaniel.

  ‘Hey, soldier,’ answered G-Man. ‘What the hell don’t you understand about this? We stay here and wait. Anyone
tries to kill me you boys kill them. Got it?’

  There was a chorus of agreement.

  Nathaniel stared at Tad.

  Tad shrugged.

  ‘Oh, screw this,’ said the marine.

  He climbed down from his horse, pulled his axe from his belt and stalked towards the group of men standing around G-Man. As he walked forward the air around him wavered with the exothermic heat waves that poured off him. And his body seemed to sparkle as hundreds of tiny bolts of blue-white electricity flashed and rippled over him.

  The axe spun. Smashing and cutting through flesh and bone. Some of the defenders opened fire on the marine but, although some of the shotgun pellets did hit him, they did more damage to each other.

  Tad stood up in his stirrups, whipped out two throwing knives and launched them at the men that were firing. They both went down, their life’s blood gurgling from the slashes in their throats.

  Nathaniel continued to cut left and right with great swing arcs of destruction maiming and dismembering with consummate ease.

  And then there was only G-Man and Ratman left.

  The look of surprise on G-Man’s face was almost comical. Ratman, however, seemed almost pleased.

  ‘Told you so,’ boss,’ he said. ‘Can’t never trust no Yankee. Didn’t I say so?’

  He hefted Daisy over his one shoulder and steeped forward.

  ‘Come on soldier,’ he said. ‘Let’s dance.’

  He twirled the huge hammer around his head with a speed that amazed Nathaniel. The blobs of bone and gristle that stuck to the steel showed clearly in the torchlight. The muscles in Ratman’s overdeveloped shoulders and arms stood out like steel tendons, pushing up taut against his skin. The swinging hammer made a fluting sound as it cut through the air.

  Nathaniel shook his head. ‘Marine, you dick. Not soldier. Marine.’

  Then he simply kicked Ratman in the knee and, as the hammer wielder fell forward, the marine decapitated him with a one arm downward swing of his battle-axe.

  ‘Wow,’ said Tad. ‘Now that was humiliating. All show and no go. You know, I’m actually a little embarrassed on his behalf. I mean, let’s dance, puh-lease. Melodramatic non-starter.’

  ‘Well you weren’t much help,’ said Nathaniel.

  ‘Was so,’ argued Tad. ‘I killed the two guys who were shooting at you.’

  ‘Granted,’ admitted the marine. ‘But only after they’d shot me.’

  ‘Would you have preferred I did nothing?’

  ‘No, said Nathaniel. ‘Just, I dunno, maybe you could have chucked a few more knives or something.’

  There was the sound of a hammer on a 38 revolver being cocked.

  ‘Stop talking,’ shouted G-Man. He waved the revolver at Tad. ‘Get off the horse.’

  The little man complied, dismounting and walking over to Nathaniel.

  ‘This is your fault,’ he said to the marine.

  ‘Oh yeah? How?’

  ‘You should have been watching him.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I was busy explaining my battle tactics to you.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Screamed G-Man. ‘It’s time for you both to die.’ He raised the revolver and took aim at Nathaniel.

  Tad grabbed a throwing knife from his waistcoat and flicked it overarm at G-Man.

  At the same time, Nathaniel whipped his axe at the outlaw, using an underarm fling to send it on its way.

  The knife struck G-Man in his left eye. The axe hit him in his stomach. Either wound would have killed him outright, so he was dead before he hit the ground.

  ‘Battle tactics?’ Questioned Nathaniel. ‘Where do you get off chucking a couple of knives at someone and calling that battle tactics? Bloody cutlery tactics, that’s all.’

  Tad laughed. ‘I wonder if they have any of that coffee left.’

  ‘I thought that you didn’t like coffee,’ said Nathaniel. ‘You said that it made you go mental.’

  ‘True,’ admitted Tad. ‘But, in the current circumstances, who would possibly notice?’

  The two of them went into the house, found the coffee pot, threw in a handful of ground coffee and put it onto the wood-stove to brew.

  Chapter 25

  Commander Ammon looked at the map of the so-called United Kingdom on his desk. Around him stood his three generals and his chief Mage, Seth Hil-Nu. It had been seven months since the Fair-Folk had started their advance across the island and now, when one looked at the map, most of the south-west of it was shaded in Fair-Folk blue. A dark blue line was drawn from Avonmouth in the west, through Bristol and on to Bath, Salisbury and terminating in Southampton on the east coast.

  And, as they advanced, the birthing vats in Cornwall continued to produce Orcs at a prodigious rate. The goblins also had upped their breed rate to a phenomenal level as commander Ammon demanded more and more troops in order to fully occupy and control their new world.

  The commander now had over three million troops under his command. After consulting with some human advisors, Ammon had decided that the next big step that the Fair-Folk would take was to spearhead through the south of England and occupy London in force. He had seen a number of human cities by now and, according to his sources, London simply dwarfed all of them. It had a large river, many open spaces for cultivation and a proper stone castle. That is where the Fair-Folk would set up permanent residence.

  Ammon had planned no fancy tactics. The Fair-Folk would simply mass at Bristol and then march down a road designated M4 right into London. And let woe betide any creature that tried to stop them. One million battle orcs, four hundred thousand goblin archers, thirty trolls, over one hundred thousand constructs and nearly ten thousand humans.

  In the last seven months, Ammon’s, and thus the Fair-Folk’s, attitude towards the humans had changed.

  Initially the Fair-Folk had looked to subtly subjugate the humans by the use of glamour and reward. They would offer security, food and in return would use them as servants, thereby voiding the need to create more constructs. It seemed a logical and obvious trade.

  However, there was something essentially wrong with the human psyche. Some of them welcomed the Fair-Folk and their offerings with open arms. In fact Ammon was sure that they would have been just as happy even without the use of glamoring. Then there was a second strata of human society that would simply not work as servants no matter how dire a situation they found themselves in. They would literally rather starve to death or at least die trying to fend for themselves.

  Then there was the third and, quite frankly, the most disturbing group, albeit it the smallest by far. And this was the group of human dissenters. Not only would they not work for the Fair-Folk, they would simply refuse to accept them at any level.

  Ammon felt that the humans had no right to any grievances. He granted that the new Fair-Folk habit of “terrormelding”, where the master would induce terror into the human subject and then vicariously revel in their emotions, may have bordered on the un-ethical. But, as far as he knew, the humans were unaware of it. Some had developed suspicions but there was no actual proof.

  The same group of humans did not want garrisons posted outside every village and town and they refused to let the Fair-Folk decide on food and crop rationing.

  In fact there was now an underground band of human resistance that called themselves ‘Humans for Humanity” or “Double H” and their motto was “There will be blood for blood.”

  Ammon had decreed that anyone found to have even the slightest connection to Double H was to be publicly hung by the neck until dead. As he had explained to his human advisors, it was for the good of all.

  Ammon rolled up the map and tied it with a ribbon.

  ‘That is all, good fellows. Prepare the troops, we shall march tomorrow.’

  All inclined their heads in respect and made to leave the tent.

  ‘General Atemu,’ called Ammon. ‘Stay for a while, please. We need to talk.’

  The general stood while the others walked out.
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  ‘Yes, Atemu. We appear to have a problem. The problem is wide spread, I have merely called you out because the most recent infraction has occurred amongst your Orcs.’

  ‘A problem, my lord? Pray tell.’

  ‘Discipline, general. For the first time in Fair-Folk history we seem to be having a growing discipline problem amongst the battle Orcs.’

  Atemu nodded. There was no use denying a fact. ‘Perhaps it’s a defective batch,’ he said. ‘Mayhap they breed different here on this earth place.’

  ‘No,’ disagreed Ammon. ‘This actually started a while back but we of the council have been keeping a lid on it. Some seven months ago, sergeant Gog refused a direct order. When asked why, he said that it was because he had made friends with a human child.’

  Atemu snorted with amusement. ‘Impossible. Orcs do not make friends. It is beyond their remit.’

  ‘I do not lie,’ responded Ammon coldly.

  ‘No. Of course not, my lord,’ blustered the general. ‘It’s just that, well…’ he was at a loss for words.

  ‘It has never happened before,’ finished Ammon for him.

  The general nodded.

  ‘But there has been more,’ continued the commander. ‘Cases of Orc guards bringing water to human prisoners in their cells. Orcs covering for human servant’s mistakes. I have even come across two Orcs playing with human children. Pretending to fight them. Pretending to lose and die. It is most disturbing.’

  ‘It is the human emotions,’ said Atemu. Somehow they seem to confuse the Orc’s rudimentary control systems.’

  ‘It is not only the Orcs,’ said Ammon.

  ‘What? The goblins as well?’

  Ammon shook his head. ‘No. The goblins seem immune. I am talking about us, dear general. This new habit of terrormelding. In theory I see nothing directly wrong with it. Some humans have been seen to die from the experience, more lately than ever, but that is of no moment. The problem is that many of our elite have become hopelessly addicted to the practice. It needs to stop.’

  ‘How, my lord commander? We can’t punish the thin skins. I mean, they don’t actually want to do it in the first place. We can’t punish ourselves because, well, no Fair-Folk has ever been guilty of transgression of any of our taboos and strictures, as far as I know, so we do not have the necessary structures in place. Anyway, the mere thought of placing a limitation on our own is abhorrent.’