End of the End

by Paul Kane, Simon Guerrier

  I’d offered Ruth a headscarf the next day.

  “There is no need, doctor,” Ruth had replied flatly. “I am quite warm, thank you.”

  Olive had just rolled her eyes.

  I leant forward, Ruth’s chair squeaking beneath my weight.

  “Did you hear the alarm this morning, Ruth?”

  The girl nodded. “Of course. Was there a problem on the perimeter?”

  “Just a drill,” I lied.

  “There was shooting,” Ruth replied, a statement of fact, nothing more.

  I nodded. “There was.”

  “Part of the drill?”

  “Yes.”

  I searched her pale face for a response. Could she tell that I was lying? Any indication that she was aware that she was being deceived?

  “How did it make you feel?”

  “Curious.”

  “You weren’t scared?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because we are safe here.”

  “You and the other children?”

  Ruth paused, and there it was again; the same twitch in her eye that I had noticed yesterday. Was it a reaction to the mention of her fellow subjects? I wanted to turn to Allison, to ask if she’d seen it, but forced myself to focus on the girl.

  “Were any of them scared?” Ruth asked, her tone as even and considered as ever. “The other children, I mean.”

  “I don’t know yet. I haven’t asked them. I came to see you first.”

  She nodded, accepting this at face value and the moment was gone. What was she feeling? Pride that I’d favoured her? Frustration that I couldn’t answer her question?

  Something must have been going on behind those azure eyes.

  “Doctor, may I return to my game?” Ruth asked.

  “Yes,” I conceded, “but not for long. Your breakfast will be arriving soon.”

  “Of course,” Ruth replied, slipping the headset over her ears again. She picked up the controller and hit the start button, the car on the screen accelerating away.

  I watched her play, Olive’s words coming back unbidden: a machine.

  I turned to Allison, who shrugged and mouthed a silent See?

  Business as usual.

  I was about to say goodbye, when the door crashed open. It was Ed Dunning, one of the medical staff, his face almost as pale as Ruth’s.

  I jumped up. “Nurse Dunning?”

  “Doctor, you need to come.” Ed flashed a look at Ruth, who was lost to the game again. “Right now.”

  His expression told me not to ask any more questions until we were out of the room. I hurried after him, Allison shutting the door behind me, so we could speak freely.

  “Ed, whatever’s happened?”

  The nurse’s eyes were wide and full of tears. “It’s Samuel. He’s... he’s dead.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  KILL

  I LAUGHED OUT loud when I realised where I was being taken. Two goons had appeared to pull me to my feet and march me across the abandoned car park, long-established weeds reaching for the sun between gaps in the crumbling tarmac. The woman with the broken nose stalked behind us, my confiscated backpack slung across a muscular shoulder.

  Crossing to what was left of the stores on the other side of the shopping precinct, I was marched around the back of the warehouse-sized buildings and in through a back entrance. Our footsteps echoed along once-busy corridors as we moved from unit to unit to our final destination.

  They were taking me to Matalan!

  “What’s so funny?” Broken-Nose asked.

  “I was just thinking I could do with some bargains. New shoes, for a start. The leather on these boots is as cracked as you.”

  That’s it, soldier. Keep needling away at the enemy. Make them angry. Make them sloppy.

  We stepped into the huge stockroom. The racks had been rearranged to form shelters, tarpaulin stretched between metal struts. I doubted the residents of the hastily-assembled shanty town had found many spoils when they set up home—the store would have been looted long ago—but as camps went, you could do a lot worse. The walls were sturdy and, if the rain hammering against the iron roof was any indication, the place was reasonably watertight, save for the odd isolated leak. Sure, the building was cold, but here and there braziers had been lit, providing welcome heat, although my chest could have done without the smoke that hung like a cloud in the stuffy air.

  “Keep going,” Broken-Nose commanded as I slowed to check for available exits. The service doors were open, revealing even more tents in what would have been the shop floor.

  This is where they’d come from, those idiot raiders; part of a community, a tribe.

  I was shoved through a doorway at the end of the warehouse. A gloomy flight of stairs awaited me, which I duly climbed, ignoring the weariness of my joints. My head still throbbed, but I seemed to have avoided serious concussion. None of the tell-tale signs were there: I knew exactly what was going on, and was no more sluggish than before I’d received a rifle-butt to my forehead. The slightly brighter light as we stepped into the staff canteen didn’t worry me at all. Good.

  Of course, I wasn’t about to let my captors know any of this. I stumbled forward as we crossed the open space, as if I was in danger of losing my balance, or my breakfast.

  Make them think they’ve won. Lull them into a false sense of security. Then, when they least expect it, you’re ready to strike.

  “I need to sit down,” I croaked, lurching to my right. One of the goons reached out to steady me. I could have taken him right then, but I wanted to see where I was being taken, who or what would greet me when I got there.

  We pushed through double doors into a long corridor. Pin boards dotted the walls, some still smattered with remnants of the building’s past life. Health and safety notices. After work clubs. A picture of a missing dog.

  REWARD

  Male, 2-year-old, Jack Russell Terrier

  Answers to T.J.

  Last seen on Filton Ave July 19th

  I wondered if T.J. had ever been found.

  “In here,” Broken-Nose said, the goon on the left grabbing my arm and guiding me roughly towards an open door. I teetered through to find the room empty save for a high-backed swivel chair in the middle of the floor, and an office desk pushed beneath the window.

  Broken-Nose shoved me towards the chair. “You wanted to sit? Sit.”

  “Thank you,” I slurred, dropping harder than I needed into the seat. The hydraulic support shifted slightly beneath my weight, but it was comfortable enough, not that I had any intention of relaxing.

  I let myself slump forward, resting my genuinely throbbing head in my hands. I heard Broken-Nose drop my backpack onto the desk and open the zip. Soon she was rifling through the contents; the billy can full of what little rations I had left, a flask and my scope. I wondered if she would uncover the Colt stashed in a hidden compartment at the bottom of the bag. The Walther P99 I usually kept in my shoulder holster had already been confiscated along with my knife, the gun tucked into Broken-Nose’s belt. Through my fingers, I saw her weighing the seemingly empty pack in her hands. Then she was reaching back in, searching the lining until she discovered the concealed pocket and pulled out the Colt with a snort of satisfaction.

  She was good.

  Footsteps were approaching the room now. Brisk, confident. How many? I let my head drop, listening carefully.

  At least three. They slowed slightly as they reached the office, but walked straight in.

  “So, who do we have here?” The voice was female, the tones of a woman who was used to being obeyed. Northern Irish. I couldn’t tell how old without looking. Not young, but not ancient either.

  “He was on the roof, across the way,” Broken-Nose reported.

  “Did he do that?”

  No spoken reply.

  “Have Brassey look at it. So, he can handle himself, then.”

  “Not enough, by the look of things.” A new voice. West
Country, but not Bristolian. Devonshire, possibly Barnstable way. Nasal. Sneering.

  “He put up a fight, I’ll grant him that.” How generous. “Two guns and a Bowie knife, recently sharpened.” I heard the slide on my P99. “Both guns are well-maintained. He knows what he’s doing.”

  Still I didn’t look up. I could see their boots ahead of me. Scuffed leather, but sturdy. Cargo pants and military surplus, no jeans. The smaller pair of boots (brown) belonged to the Irish woman, the larger Doc Martens (black) to the Devon lad. Broken-Nose’s boots (also black) had clattered as we’d walked across the concrete floor of the store room below. Hobnailed, then, probably with steel toecaps. Good job she hadn’t returned the favour after I’d hoofed her in the side. Those things might have caved in a couple of my ribs, given the size of her.

  Irish strolled forwards, Barnstable crossing to stand beside my chair. Jesus, he stank. I mean, people generally smelled these days, especially on the road, but seriously? How did the others put up with it?

  Concentrate soldier. Don’t get side-tracked. Focus.

  Sir, yes, sir, etc.

  Irish stopped in front of me. I didn’t react, relaxing my shoulders, guessing what would happen next.

  And I was right.

  Fingers gripped my hair, jerking my head up to face her. I didn’t have to pretend to cry out, my bruised forehead saw to that. I let my breathing remain ragged, forcing my eyes wide as I stared up at the newcomer.

  She was a good ten years younger than me, maybe more. It was hard to tell. People looked older now. Late thirties, early forties at a push.

  Short ginger hair, cropped close, like Broken-Nose. Made sense. Less chance of lice.

  She had green eyes. No, that wasn’t right. One green, one brown. I used to know what that was called. Hetero-something. Like Bowie. There was a scar on her chin, not deep, but noticeable, and her nose and eyebrows were pierced with simple studs.

  She looked slight when compared to Broken-Nose, but so would Sly Stallone. It was clear from the way she held herself that she’d be handy in a fight.

  “Where’d you come from?”

  I coughed once before answering. “Around.”

  Barnstable yanked my hair, not satisfied with the answer.

  “I travel. Here and there.”

  “Pretty well-armed for a tourist.”

  “Can you blame me?”

  She smiled. It wasn’t entirely pleasant.

  “So why the roof? What were you doing up there?”

  There was no point lying.

  “I wanted to see the base.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? It’s MoD. There’ll be... stuff in there.”

  She regarded me coldly.

  “What kind of ‘stuff’?”

  “Medical supplies, equipment. There’s lights on, so there must be power.”

  “Clever boy. You planning a raid?”

  “I was, until someone got there first.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “What did you see?”

  “That they’re well defended. Guards. Guns. The works. Which means...” I left the sentence hanging.

  She couldn’t resist filling the silence. Good. “Yes?”

  “There’s something worth protecting.”

  Broken-Nose stepped up behind the woman. “How did you know about it?”

  “What?”

  “It’s a good question,” Irish said. “How did you know a base was even here?”

  I shrugged. “Followed the signs, from the motorway.”

  “Is that right?”

  “MoD base. Simple as that.”

  She glanced to my right, and Barnstable yanked at my hair, stretching out my neck, cold steel at my throat.

  “Try again,” he hissed in my ear, his breath perfectly matching the rest of his general bouquet.

  “O-okay, okay,” I stammered, raising a hand to signal capitulation. “I’ll tell you.”

  The pressure of the blade relaxed, only for a moment, but long enough for my other hand to grip Barnstable’s knife arm. I pulled it down, away from me, planting my feet firmly against the floor. Shoving back, I rammed the chair into the scrawny git, smashing my elbow into his face for good measure.

  Twisting his knife arm, I sprang out of the chair, feeling hair rip from my scalp. Something cracked and he dropped the knife with a yelp, his arm hopelessly over-extended.

  I heard the others’ guns as I pivoted around to pin him to the floor, knowing full well that I was hopelessly outnumbered.

  In fact, I was dead where I stood.

  So I answered the question properly.

  “MoD Abbey Wood. Opened 1996. Headquarters of the DE&S. Seven thousand staff across four buildings with an annual budget of roughly thirteen billion. There were plans to build a fifth building, but the Cull put pay to that. Would you like me to continue?”

  All the time I didn’t look up, staring at the back of Barnstable’s head. He was wearing a faded blue baseball cap, his lanky brown hair riddled with dandruff.

  I had to wait, to see what the boss-woman would do.

  She took her time.

  “Put them away.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation before the guns were holstered. I didn’t react until she spoke again.

  “I would prefer if you didn’t break Fenton’s arm.”

  “That you?” I asked the man still beneath my knee.

  His only reply was a curse. I released his arm and stood back. Fenton scrambled to his feet, massaging his shoulder, looking for the world that he wanted to punch me in the face.

  “That’s enough,” his boss commanded, and Fenton retreated, like the good dog he was.

  I stared at him, my expression neutral.

  “DE&S?”

  I turned back to the woman, who was standing as relaxed as ever, her eyebrows raised expectantly.

  “Defence Equipment and Support,” I explained. “Procurement for all the major services, from paper clips to aircraft carriers.”

  “And you know all this how?”

  “I’ve been inside, only a couple of times, but enough to know my way around.”

  “Military?”

  “The staff? Not largely. I’d say an eighty-twenty split, civilian to military.”

  “I meant you.”

  “Once upon a time.”

  She peered at me, weighing me up. I let her look.

  “Niamh Brennan,” she eventually said. “Fenton you’ve already met.”

  “And what about you?” I asked Broken-Nose.

  “Beck,” came the reply. It was strangely anti-climatic for such an impressive specimen.

  “They were your men? The ones the guards took down.”

  “They were.”

  “Shame. I thought you might know what you were doing.”

  Brennan found my audacity funny. From the depth of her scowl, Beck did not.

  “I mean, I get it; testing their defences. Very wise—but a frontal attack? A waste of good men. A waste of bad men, for that matter. How many have you got here?”

  “Just men, or do you want to know about the women too?” asked Beck pointedly.

  “Either. I’m all for equal opportunities when it comes to incompetence.”

  Brennan gave another laugh. “You’ve got balls, I’ll say that for you.”

  “You want into that place?”

  “I thought that was obvious. As you said, they must have something worth protecting.”

  “But you don’t know what?”

  “Do you?”

  I shook my head. “Don’t care, but I can get you in. For a price.”

  She nodded. “So, you’re a gun for hire.”

  “I prefer ‘consultant.’”

  “And what’s your price?”

  That was simple. “Drugs.”

  Brennan raised her eyebrows. “You don’t look like a junkie.”

  It wasn’t up for discussion. “You asked me what I wanted, and that’s my answer. Take
it or leave it.”

  “Says the man who I could have shot at a moment’s notice.”

  I shrugged. “If you do, you’ll never get in. Your choice.”

  Brennan smiled again, this time showing teeth that instantly aged her. I doubted they had a dentist in the camp.

  “Forty-two.”

  Her answer confused me. I didn’t like being confused.

  “Sorry?”

  “You asked how many of us there are. Forty-two. Until this morning it was forty-six.” She looked around herself. “Living here, in the place... we’ve had it worse. But living there, with fences and a moat?”

  “A palace fit for a queen.”

  “Get us inside, and I might just make you my king.”

  I grinned. “How can I refuse... Your Majesty?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CURE

  THE DOOR TO Samuel’s room was open, the observation area full with medical staff, Dr Atkins, Dr Heslin, a smattering of nurses. They stepped back as I entered, clearing a path to Samuel’s quarters.

  “Show me,” I told Ed, letting the nurse take the lead. I followed him into the room, Allison and Olive leading the rest of the staff in behind me.

  I took one look at what greeted us and ordered everyone out.

  “Dr Tomas—” Olive began, but I herded them from the room like cattle.

  “Everybody out! If you’re not Dr Harwood or Nurse Dunning, leave immediately.”

  Olive tried to argue—of course she did—but she was the only one. The rest of the staff obediently filed from the room, George Atkins glancing over his shoulder to take one last horrified look.

  “Clear the observation area, too,” I barked, shutting them out. “We don’t need an audience.”

  And then there were three—four if you included the body.

  I took a breath and turned to face the boy sprawled on the floor.

  Allison was standing with her hands over her mouth, staring down at Samuel. “Jesus Christ, Jasmine.”

  Beside us, Ed Dunning flinched, his Catholic upbringing clearly offended—but a little blasphemy was the least of our concerns.

  I reached into my pocket. This time I wasn’t going for my meds. I pulled out a small silver voice recorder and, checking the available space on the SD card, hit record.