End of the End

by Paul Kane, Simon Guerrier

  “Actually, I put Abney in here.”

  “Yes, and we both know why. Don’t you trust me?”

  “Of course I do,” he whispered. Why couldn’t he just have relaxed, been in the moment, enjoyed the sensation of Sophie’s lips on his skin? He had to go and spoil things again.

  Sophie looked to the side, staring at the wall. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it, Mark.” There was silence between them for a few moments, then Sophie turned to him and said: “This is just like what happened with Dale. You’ve got such a jealous side to you, Mark. It makes you—”

  “Makes me what?”

  “Sometimes...” Sophie drew in a breath, as if wondering whether she should say the next bit. “Well, sometimes it can be a bit ugly.”

  Mark felt those tears rising again, this time for a different reason. How could he tell her, that he only got that way because he knew how men looked at her—had always looked at her, even on the day they met? How he shouldn’t worry, but couldn’t believe his luck that she’d wanted to be with him in the first place. Was always terrified she’d wake up and realise her mistake, then want to leave him. The rational part of his mind was saying that if he kept up this kind of behaviour, he’d push her away anyway. But it wasn’t logic that was in control when he had these feelings. He wanted to say all these things, yet in the end it was easier to just say: “I’m sorry.”

  “Hey, and how are you two lovebirds doing?” As if on cue at the mention of his name, Dale was at the door to check in on them. “Not interrupting anything, am I?”

  Mark’s expression told him he really wasn’t.

  “I see you got nabbed, Soph,” said Dale, changing the subject, his hair flopping over his eyes so that he had to brush it back with one hand. Then he indicated the paint splodges on his own T-shirt. “Us too. Never would have happened a few moons ago. Must be getting too old for this shit, eh, Mark?” He laughed, but Mark didn’t join in.

  Probably because right at that moment, in spite of the fact he was only in his twenties, he felt ancient.

  Old, useless—and very, very ugly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  HE KNEW HE was growing older, but still felt like he was in his prime.

  He still felt young. Which was surprising, considering everything he’d gone through over the last decade or more. Having his new family helped, of course. And even when he’d been going through those sleepless nights, changing nappies and feeding April after she’d been born—a second chance for him, after the loss of Stevie to that damned virus—he’d never felt more alive. He had Mary, he had a brand new daughter to love and care for, and he’d seen his other son, Mark, settle down with Sophie.

  Even the day-to-day running of the Rangers wasn’t so much of a grind as it had been in the past. He’d always been fighting for a better existence, a world without dictators and madmen holding people to ransom or using them as slaves. They were far from finished yet, but Robert Stokes—Robin Hood, as many were now calling him—had made a decent enough dent in things. One day, he’d hand over the reins completely to Mark, knowing things would be in safe hands. That kid had always had an old head on his shoulders. But Robert wasn’t done yet, there was too much work still ahead of them and it didn’t do to become complacent. Whenever they’d relaxed in the past, that’s when they’d had the rug pulled out from under them. He didn’t intend to let that happen again.

  Which was one of the reasons he’d agreed to this tour. Every now and again they’d do a sweep of their own country, which was in pretty good shape, all things considered. There were the usual naysayers, at the moment in the form of those massive pain-in-the-arse Defiants, but generally Robert was happy with the way things were ticking over at home. It was certainly a step up from what they’d all been used to, in the post-virus era. So, it was time to look further afield, to ensure that their outposts abroad were doing okay—after all, some of the most serious threats had come from there: France, Germany, Russia... all had taken a crack at Britain. Tried to crack Britain, more accurately, and they might have succeeded were it not for men like Robert and his band.

  Of course, while he might feel young in himself, Robert was becoming increasingly aware of the toll the last several years had taken on his body. He’d been half-killed more times than he cared to remember, and become a little too reliant on the strange healing powers of his beloved Sherwood—the place he’d retreated to when his first family had passed away (even then, perhaps the forest had been working on healing his mind? Who knows... Robert had never questioned it, tried not to think about it too much if the truth be told). Sherwood was also responsible for those strange prophetic dreams he often had, particularly when he went and stayed there, as he did periodically to recharge his batteries. He knew that Mark also experienced them, though neither of them talked much about what they actually contained—they were always quite personal. Maybe they thought some of the magic would disappear if they discussed it?

  In the last few, Robert had seen himself as the stag once more, only this time it had aged—the grey of the beast reflecting Robert’s own salt and pepper hair now. Another reminder when he looked in the mirror that his body was growing older even if his spirit wasn’t. In the dream, the forest had been ablaze, scattering the animals that lived there and decimating the trees. What it meant, he had no idea... But he would probably find out in the fullness of time, he suspected.

  He always did.

  Then there had been that thing in Spain, as they’d passed through after their tour of France was done with. The local Rangers had invited him to sit in on a display of combat techniques in one of the old rings that had once been used for bullfighting. One of their champions had then asked if he could have the privilege of sparring with the legendary Hooded Man himself: an eager and altogether too cocky individual called Vivas. Though the Commander there, Rojas, had refused on Robert’s behalf—and both Jack and Ahzar had counselled against it (the ever silent Azhar had just shaken his head, and Jack’s exact words were: “Don’t be a dumbass, Robbie. Look at the size of him!”)—Robert had accepted the challenge, like some kind of knight of yore or something.

  Jack had reminded him of the sage warning as the NRI doctor who was with them—Cole, a heavily tattooed ex-field surgeon; even his bald head was covered in them—had treated his numerous cuts and bruises. “Yeah, but he went down, didn’t he,” Robert had said with a tight grin.

  “Eventually,” Jack conceded. “After using you as a human basketball for a while first.” He then made Jack swear not to tell Mary; she’d finish the job and kill him if she ever found out. Jack had zipped his lips shut with a wink.

  Robert had been tempted to cheat a little with his recovery, to utilise his ‘secret weapon,’ but he didn’t like abusing it—especially as it had been his own pride that had caused the injuries. Mark and he had discovered a long time ago that by carrying a pouch containing items gathered from Sherwood—stones, twigs, grass, bark and leaves—the place’s power would somehow be with them. It was like some kind of weird portable battery. Again, Robert couldn’t explain it, and didn’t question it: he was just grateful for it. In the end, he simply rested up until it was time to carry on with the next leg of the inspection.

  Aside from Jack, Azhar and Cole, Robert was travelling with a mix of Rangers and NRI soldiers, the latter carrying weapons he didn’t really approve of but had absolutely no say in. The current Monarch, King Jack Bedford (sometimes referred to as John II, in spite of the unhappy reputation of the last king to bear the name), the latest in the unfortunate bloodline of royals since the A-B virus, was quite stubborn when it came to that. Insistent that his men be fully equipped for any eventuality—particularly when in foreign territory. “Think of the kind of message that sends, when we’re trying to keep guns off the streets,” Robert had argued with him, but got nowhere. In a lot of ways Robert and King Jack saw eye to eye, enough so they could work together for the same goals, but there were still sticking points.

  He als
o knew the soldiers Jack had sent were partly there to protect him, not that he needed it. Indeed, he railed against it when they’d huddle around him at times. Not only did he have his own men there, people he’d personally trained, but Robert was still more than capable of looking after himself—as he’d shown that huge Spaniard Vivas.

  The locals were no less protective wherever he and his people went, though, laying on armed guards as they were ferried from one Ranger outpost to another. He remembered when they arrived in Rome, there had been that welcoming committee. They’d organised a brass band for the reception, the pomp and ceremony making Robert cringe inside. He’d smiled through gritted teeth as he’d shaken hands with the local official there, Baldinotti, a bespectacled individual who’d bent over backwards to make sure his visitors were given the VIP treatment.

  Jack had nudged Robert as the band was playing, commenting: “Hail to the chief, baby.” None of it had sat very well.

  They’d been treated to a tour of the capital then, their guide bemoaning the state the city had been in for a long time—“Oh, the treasures we lost to mindless vandalism,” he sighed—but it had been the same story everywhere, post-Cull. That had been the purpose of the peacekeeping force in the first place, to try and put some of this right. And, if nothing else, Robert felt proud of that fact. It would hopefully be a legacy beyond the whole ‘Hooded Man’ thing that had built up around him: the reason for the protection in the first place. He was the figurehead of all this. Shouldn’t be taking pointless risks. But he was also Robert Stokes, a man who didn’t know how to do anything else. Who’d earned his reputation by doing precisely that.

  At the same time, he was a husband and a father now—with all the responsibilities that entailed. He was keenly aware of the fact that, with one false move, April would grow up without her Daddy.

  And Mary...

  She hadn’t really wanted him to come, he knew that. Knew his wife, and should do after all this time. But she also realised the responsibilities that came with his ‘job.’ It had taken them both a few years to come to terms with that, but they eventually had. “It’ll only be for a month or so,” he’d told her, dreading leaving her and April. “A whistle-stop tour.”

  “I know,” she’d said, planting one of her tender kisses on his lips. Then: “You be careful.”

  “Hey, it’s me,” he’d said with a half smile.

  “And that’s why I worry,” she’d said without any hint of humour.

  “I’ll be in touch whenever I can on the radio. And I’ll be well looked after,” he assured her, taking both of her hands in his.

  He certainly had been, from place to place. A lot of effort had gone into co-ordinating this tour, which would now head further northwards towards Florence and Bologna. Robert had to admit he was dreading Venice, though. It was where he’d honeymooned with his first wife, Joanne, and would bring back memories. As with Paris when they’d passed through there, that place would—even now—forever be associated with romance and love. And, although Robert knew Jack would make some kind of jokey comment about them being there together, would probably even make to hold his hand or something, that the big guy would be feeling it, too.

  Jack hadn’t exactly been what you’d call lucky in love, even in the time Robert had known him. First he’d fallen for De Falaise’s daughter, Adele, though he hadn’t known who she was until it was too late. Then, on the mission to take down the Welsh Dragon, Jack had met Meghan, Sian’s aunty.

  He had been happy back then living over in Wales, and it was so nice to see, as everyone else was hooking up with people and Jack had always felt like he was missing out. But that hadn’t ended well, either. Nothing sinister this time, she hadn’t been murdered by a deranged lunatic, or died in a terrorist explosion. No, they’d simply realised—or at least she had—that things were not working out. Robert got the sense that Jack would have hung on in there for grim death, just to have someone by his side. But when a relationship goes sour, there’s nothing you can do to fix it. Real life battles were one thing, but battles of the heart... they were something else. So, Jack had moved back to Nottingham Castle, they’d got drunk together and commiserated, going over all the shit that had gone wrong with women in both their lives, and Jack had started to get on with his own life again. Last Robert heard, Meghan was living with someone else, and by all accounts was happy. He didn’t know whether Jack knew that—probably did—but wasn’t going to be the one to tell him if he didn’t. Someone would come along at some point and make an honest man of his best friend, Robert was certain of that. Jack had so much love to give the right person.

  But all that was for another day. Today, right now, they were on the move. They were a small convoy: a couple of VTLM Lince personal carriers peopled by Italian troopers, about eight between them; an Iveco MMV general utility truck carrying Rangers and NRI in the back, including Azhar and Cole; then finally a black Lancia Thesis, official state car of Italy, which was chauffeuring Jack and Robert. The latter was in the middle, to ensure maximum protection. The modest size of the party was due mainly to the fact that they didn’t want to draw attention to themselves. Regardless of how safe the route might be, there was still a chance they could come under attack from thieves or other organised criminals—which was why there were also just enough soldiers in tow to make those kinds of people think twice. The other reason was that fuel remained in such a short supply these days; more so than at any other time post-Cull. Which was why it was reserved for occasions like this.

  Robert and Jack admired the scenery, as their driver Lagorio ferried them through the Italian countryside—made all the more pleasant as spring lazily made its way into summer. They were not far from Amelia, they were told, when chatter started coming across the airwaves. Even though Robert couldn’t understand what was being said, he could tell from the voices that something was wrong. Leaning forward, he asked Lagorio what was going on.

  “Is nothing. Some sort of communication problem, they say,” the incredibly stubbled man told Robert.

  “Communication problem?”

  “They’ve lost touch with an outpost just east of here and are calling it in. Don’t worry, Signor Stokes, it happens from time to time. Poor reception out here. They’ll send someone to look when they get a chance.”

  Robert and Jack exchanged glances; they’d already been told how stretched Ranger forces were in more rural areas of Italy. “How far away are we from this outpost, Lagorio?” asked Jack.

  The driver shrugged. “Not too far. An hour, maybe.”

  “Then we should check it out,” said Robert.

  Lagorio half turned in his seat. “Is not a major outpost. Is not on our list to visit. Our schedule—”

  “Sod the bloody schedule,” Robert answered back, drawing a frown from the Italian. “I’m altering it. We can afford an hour or so to see what the problem is.”

  Langorio looked back at the road, then turned again to face Robert.

  “That’s an order, by the way,” he told Lagorio.

  The driver nodded. “Si, signore.” He let the other vehicles know they were making a slight detour, then turned the wheel. Soon they were heading off in the general direction of the outpost.

  It took them a little over an hour and a half to reach the place, situated in the middle of a rolling green field, with hills behind and on either side. They passed through a forest to reach it—the only route along a narrow road. It made Robert feel almost at home. The outpost itself was a small converted fort—once called Fort Vittoria—with a high stone wall and a wooden gatepost: an odd mixture of Robert’s twin homes, in fact, Sherwood and Nottingham. Even before they got to the gateway, they could tell something was amiss.

  “No guards,” said Robert.

  “And the gate’s wide open,” Jack added. “Busted open, by the looks of things.”

  There were also bloodstains on the gateposts. This wasn’t an ordinary communications problem; something very serious had happened here—and re
cently.

  There was only room in the small courtyard for a couple of vehicles, in addition to the two battered jeeps already parked inside, so one Lince and the truck went on ahead. Robert made to open the door of the car they were in, but Lagorio urged him to stay inside. “I cannot... If something were to happen to you... Please, signore!”

  Jack placed a hand on his friend’s arm. “At least let them make sure the area’s secure first, Robbie,” he said.

  Reluctantly, Robert nodded. Gone were the days when he could just storm in somewhere himself. Now there were rules and regulations to follow, some of them not even made by himself. And there was Mary and April to think of.

  So they waited, and eventually Azhar came to the gate to beckon them inside. Encircled by armed Italian guards, Robert and Jack made their way inside the small outpost, only to be informed that no local Rangers could be found. Just more bloodsmears on the interior walls.

  “What the hell happened here?” asked Robert of no-one in particular.

  They were taken into the building that housed the main office area. The radio had been smashed to pieces, the chairs and desks around it overturned. “This isn’t good,” said Jack, always one for stating the obvious.

  Suddenly, there was a noise from somewhere beyond the office—a rattling sound. A handful of Rangers and NRI led the way through into some kind of kitchen area. The noise was coming from a metallic storage cabinet at the back. Motioning for everyone to stand back, Azhar, one of those lethal-looking scimitars in his left hand, pulled on the door with his right. There was some resistance at first, but then it gave, and a body dressed in green fell out onto the floor with a thud, bags of what looked like sugar or salt falling out with it.

  Cole rushed forward, turning the body over. One of the local Rangers, who looked like he’d been raked across the face and chest, blood still pumping from his wounds. Robert thought he was dead, until the man’s body shook with a sharp breath.