End of the End

by Paul Kane, Simon Guerrier

  A place he’d seen thrive since they’d got the market system up and running once more, making the trade routes as secure as they could between communities—thanks in no small part to the Rangers.

  And to him.

  All right, there was still the odd incident with bandits, but generally they were few and far between. Not like they had been when the Dragon and the Widow had been around. Back then, you could virtually guarantee your load would get ’jacked—in fact it had almost put paid to the trade routes altogether. It gave him no small satisfaction to know they’d kicked both of those maniacs’ arses, kick-starting a new era of trade in the process. They’d definitely come a long way since those sporadic, ad-hoc markets near Nottingham he’d overseen, that was for damned sure. The ones the Sheriff’s men had loved to tear into. That was how he’d met Robert Stokes in the first place, when the Hooded Man had intervened during one of those attacks. Mark had been there too, just a boy back then. And look at him now.

  Progress, thought Bill Locke as he watched the hustle and bustle of the stalls in the square. It was good in one way, and he was certainly proud of all their achievements in this respect, just as Robert was rightly proud of his Rangers. But it had taken such a long time, and before you knew it, you were getting on a bit in years. Next thing you’d be “Ready for the knackers’ yard” as his dad used to say.

  “Not bloody yet, though,” Bill mumbled under his breath, taking another long draught of the pint he was enjoying. Real ale, brewed right here in town. You couldn’t beat it.

  He was standing in the doorway of the Pig & Whistle, which had been totally renovated a few years ago, courtesy of the new owner Arnold Brant, who’d been a landlord all his life. Bill had helped organise the labour and facilitated the procurement of any bits and bobs Arnold needed, all of which meant that he never had to pay for another beer ever again. Not that anyone paid for anything in the old sense, since they went back to the barter system. Every now and again there was talk of a monetary system, talk of the banks starting up again—usually at one of those terminally dull council meetings he’d had the misfortune to attend once or twice himself. Or the King might say something about it. But it would get forgotten about just as quickly. This worked, for now—might even be better than going back to having those fat cats, creaming money off people. At least it was all up front and honest this way. Any disputes over the worth of items were usually settled by having local Rangers step in.

  He’d often been accused—though never to his face—of being like those fat cats of years gone by. That Bill was using the marketing systems to cream things off for himself. Those kinds of people obviously didn’t know him that well, didn’t realise what he’d done in the past to battle bastards, and bitches, like that. This was all the reward he needed: a busy market; a fine brew in his hand; and maybe, just maybe, to find a good woman he might share it all with.

  He’d been thinking about that more and more lately, how he’d sidelined that kind of thing while he’d been so busy. Or maybe it was the other way around, kept himself busy so he wouldn’t have to think about all that. How he’d been doing the same thing since he was twenty-five and Connie had broken his heart, leaving him standing there at the altar like an idiot in front of all their friends and family. Only to be told later that she’d run off with someone else, that she’d never really loved him in the first place. He’d vowed after that to leave love well enough alone, that it was a mug’s game. And yet... This was a new world after all, and time was ticking on. Perhaps—

  Bill shook his head; such thoughts were more dangerous than a whole gang of bandits. He took another gulp of his drink instead.

  It was then that he noticed them, on the main road heading into town. This town, the real name of which had been lost in time and was now only referred to by its nickname; a joke that had stuck: ‘Bartertown.’ In the distance were several men on horseback. Several hooded men. The hooves were kicking up dirt on the track, making it look like they were riding in on a dust storm. Rangers...

  Now what were they doing here? Bill wasn’t aware of any patrols that were due, nor that there were any disputes that needed attending to—and he liked to keep track of these things. Which usually meant there was trouble. Maybe they were coming to fetch him? Wouldn’t be the first time he’d been called on since he’d left Nottingham Castle and branched out on his own. Somehow his and Robert Stokes’ paths always kept crossing, and you could almost always guarantee bloodshed in the wake of it.

  The riders brought their horses up short on the edge of the town square, prompting the people at the market to look over in their direction. One of the Rangers trotted his horse forward, obviously the captain of the group. He kept his hood on, though, which Bill found strange. Rangers were taught the value of letting the people they were dealing with—or protecting—see their faces. After all, they were people as well; peacekeepers, not soldiers. “Your attention!” he shouted from under the hood. He had most of the crowd’s attention already, but now all the townsfolk gathered were looking directly at him.

  No “please can I have your attention,” no common courtesy. Whoever was in charge of training them at the castle these days needed tearing off a strip or two, Bill decided, and he’d be more than happy to oblige.

  “We have reason to believe that illegal weapons are being hidden in this town,” the man’s booming voice continued. By illegal, he probably meant guns—the kind that had been banned by the Rangers to make their jobs safer and easier. Bill’s reaction when he’d heard about the law had been “Bollocks to that!” Same as it had been in all those ‘discussions’ with Robert over the use of them by Rangers. ’Course, now they had the NRI, which carried and used modern weaponry, so it made more sense. The police hadn’t used guns in the world before the Virus, apart from in emergencies, and had banned them on the streets: why not now? After kicking up such a stink, though, and in light of the things that he’d done in support of the Rangers in the past, Bill had been given a special licence to carry his beloved twelve-bore. There was no way he was going to be parted from that after everything they’d been through together. It wasn’t some kind of toy, like those stuck-up twits used to have at their country retreats back in the day; it was functional, practical. And it was the closest thing he had to a best friend.

  “These weapons, we believe, are being kept here with a view to aiding and abetting the organisation known as the Defiants,” the Ranger added. “Everyone remain exactly where they are. We’re here to search this place from top to bottom, to search everyone present. And if we find anything suspicious, then...” He deliberately let the sentence tail off.

  There were murmurs from the townspeople, concern etched on their faces. One minute they were enjoying looking round the markets, making a few deals, the next they were being accused of assisting terrorists. Oh, Bill knew all about the Defiants and their methods, their wild accusations against both Rangers and the new monarchy alike. Sadly, they were growing in number, but surely it hadn’t come to this? Bullyboy tactics and what had to be unsanctioned searches? Were Robert’s people so spooked by this group they’d lost all sense of proportion? Bill doubted it. Even if there was a cache of weapons here, and anything was possible, this wasn’t the way to go about dealing with it. By putting fear into ordinary folk.

  Gritting his teeth, Bill slammed his pint down on the nearest table, sending a crack up the side of the glass. “Oi!” he shouted back to the mounted man. The hooded Ranger looked across towards him. “Hold up, there.”

  When the Ranger didn’t answer him, Bill continued. “On whose orders are ye doing this? I’m pretty sure it’s not gonna be Robert Stokes. Or Jack Finlayson’s, fer that matter.”

  Again, nothing. Bill was starting to get a really bad feeling about this.

  “We don’t need to tell you anything, scumbag.” This was from one of the other Rangers behind.

  “Izzat so?” Bill cocked his head, jabbing a finger in his direction. “Well, let me tell you something
, scumbag. I—”

  A couple of the Rangers had readied their bows and were training arrows in his direction. “Aye. So it’s like that, is it?” said Bill to himself.

  Several things happened all at once then. The first was, somebody broke free from the market crowd and ran for it; Bill didn’t know why, and probably never would. Maybe they were worried the Rangers would search them and find something else, maybe they were armed illegally. Whatever the case, the man—who was dressed in jeans and a white shirt—darted like a hunted deer, away from the Rangers. One of the men turned and let his arrow fly. It struck the fleeing man in the back, hard. Not in the shoulder or thigh, or anywhere else a Ranger would be trained to target just to take someone down, but slap-bang in the middle of his back. The man spun, blood staining the front of his shirt and spraying from his mouth. A girl nearby, not much older than Robert’s lass, April—Bill’s god-daughter—screamed loudly.

  Understandably, the crowd panicked.

  As the Ranger was turning and firing, Bill saw the handle of an automatic pistol slip out from under the man’s top, the rest of it tucked into his trousers. If the killing wasn’t enough to tell him these weren’t Rangers, then that definitely was. No way any of them would be armed with guns; it went against everything they stood for.

  More arrows were loosed into the crowd, piercing chests, arms, legs. One poor soul was even staggering around with an arrow in the face, like some kind of warped recreation of King Harold’s death.

  You could almost always guarantee bloodshed in the wake of it...

  But not like this, not a massacre. And it had absolutely nothing to do with Bill and Robert’s paths crossing, he knew that. This was cold-blooded murder, pure and simple.

  Bill ducked back inside the doorway and an arrow hit the jamb, inches away from his head. “Judas Priest!” he exclaimed, rummaging around under his seat for the bag he’d brought in with him.

  When Bill emerged again from the Pig & Whistle, it was with his shotgun in his hands. He was already moving forwards when a couple more arrows flew past him. Then something caught his eye.

  Turning, he saw a dozen small fires had sprung up, the pub included. Flaming arrows! The gun was up and at his shoulder even as he was arcing back in the direction of the ‘Rangers.’

  Blam!

  The one just to the left and behind the lead Ranger was blown clean off his horse. The man in charge growled something, then pulled out a gun of his own—abandoning any pretence of legitimacy now. He fired a couple of bullets at Bill, who stepped sideways, letting them splinter off the frame of a market stall.

  “Damn and blast it!” growled Bill, as the other Rangers began firing as well—not just at him, but at the people escaping. He leaned on the stall, tipping over a stack of cheeses, but creating cover he could hide behind. Bill rose and emptied another barrel in the Rangers’ direction. It went wide, but caused one of the horses to rear up. The Ranger astride it had a hard time trying to wrestle the animal under control again.

  More of the incendiary arrows were loosed, this time into the market itself. Awnings quickly caught fire, the wood of stalls doing the same moments later. A couple of the projectiles slammed into Bill’s makeshift shield, sending a wave of heat up and over the top. He had to break cover. Bill primed his shot-gun again and half-ducked, half-stumbled out from the stall, firing another round as he did so.

  Something landed a few metres away from him, small and black.

  He barely had time to register the fact it was a hand grenade—let alone think again that this was definitely not the kind of weapon a Ranger would use—when it went off. Bill was carried upwards and sideways across more falling market stalls. He blinked once, twice: taking in the sight of the flames engulfing not just the market, but the entire town. All reds and yellows and oranges. In their own way, they looked beautiful.

  Then, as his eyelids grew heavier, all Bill could see was blackness: total and overwhelming.

  CHAPTER SIX

  THERE WAS NO point in asking how things had taken such a turn for the worse, this quickly.

  They had, and not for the first time, so that was that. Now it was simply a case of dealing with them. Though how this was ever going to be resolved was anyone’s guess.

  “Why don’t they just make their goddamn move?” asked Jack, standing next to him on the battlements of the outpost, looking out at the forest ahead, then looking up and seeing the sky was growing dark. It would be night soon; they’d probably come then.

  The monsters.

  Of course, there were no such things. Robert used to tell Stevie that, when he swore blind there were goblins and all kinds of hideous creatures hiding in his wardrobes, or under his bed. Humans were bad enough—the things they did to each other—without anything supernatural adding to the mix.

  He cast his mind back to when they’d arrived at the fort, hours ago. To when that local Ranger had also sworn he’d seen monsters. That is, until he’d passed out from blood loss. Medic Cole had tried to stabilise him as best he could—which wasn’t easy, as what passed for a med-bay at the outpost had also been trashed—but the man needed urgent medical attention.

  Nobody asked the obvious question: what had happened to the rest of the contingent? Nobody really wanted to know.

  “Get on the radio, we need to call this in,” said Robert to a young female Ranger called Poynter. And that’s when they’d encountered their first problem. None of the radios in the vehicles they’d been travelling in worked, she reported. And the same went for the battered jeeps they’d found in the yard, the radios in them still strangely intact.

  “Could be just a problem with the signal out here,” suggested Lagorio once more; they were, after all, surrounded by hills. But Robert, Jack and Azhar thought otherwise.

  “They have... had a radio,” said Robert. “But something tells me it wasn’t working even before it was busted up.”

  “Some kind of jamming?” said Jack, scratching his chin. “You’re thinking whoever struck this place knocked out communications first, right?”

  “It’s definitely a possibility,” Robert replied. “And way too much of a coincidence.”

  That didn’t help the poor local Ranger, however. So Robert suggested sending him off with Cole and an armed guard, to get the medical attention he needed and to alert the authorities. For all they knew, those people were still working under the assumption that there had been some kind of communications breakdown rather than an enforced blackout.

  So, a handful of Italian troops accompanied Cole as they loaded the dying man into the back of one of the Lince vehicles. They trundled off out of the gate, towards the one way to and from this outpost—through the forest.

  The rest watched as it entered, Jack nodding in satisfaction. But only a few minutes later the sound of gunfire reached them. “What in the Sam Hill...?” said Jack, opened-mouthed, as he saw the Lince backing up again, skidding on the grass as the driver attempted a handbrake turn—which wasn’t a good idea in a vehicle that size. The sides of the green and black camouflaged brute were covered in dents, the glass of the windscreen and side windows splintered or smashed completely, and the thick wheels looked like they’d been clawed at by wild animals. Even from this distance, they could hear the screams and cries of panic as the Lince suddenly pitched over onto its side, parallel to the treeline.

  One of the Italian troopers emerged from the back, firing off a machine gun into the forest. Then suddenly he was gone again, spirited away into the foliage before anyone could see what had happened. More of their party began to clamber out, but were meeting the same fate. One minute they were there, the next they were gone.

  A couple managed to make it away from the Lince, running in the opposite direction. With them was Cole, easily recognisable by his tattoos. He had a handgun and was firing indiscriminately back into the trees. They began to sprint then, as if their lives depended on it.

  “We have to help them!” Robert called out, signalling for Lago
rio to come with him and directing him to the Thesis state car they’d ridden there in. The man hesitated, then saw the look in Robert’s eye and did as he was told, climbing in and gunning the engine as Robert climbed into the back with his bow and arrows. The car had no sunroof, so Robert ground the back window down and clambered out with his weapon—arrow pointing beyond the soldiers in case whatever was inside the forest should think of pursuing them. Lagorio pulled up alongside the men, who gladly clambered into the car. “What the hell’s going on?” asked Robert, as Cole climbed into the back. He didn’t get a reply.

  Robert kept his weapon trained on the trees, but nothing emerged. The car did a u-turn, throwing up clumps of grass, then Lagorio sped up—heading towards the fort. Still nothing followed.

  Once they’d got the trio of men back to the outpost, they sat them down and asked what exactly had attacked them. The Italian troopers were gabbling, speaking faster than Robert could keep up with even if it had been in English. But he did catch that word again: “Monstri!”

  “Cole, help me out here. What did you see?”

  The medic just shook his head. “It all happened pretty quickly, but... I don’t know, suddenly there were these... these things all over the vehicle. Clambering all over it, trying to get in.”

  “Things? What kind of things?” Jack demanded, turning Cole’s chair round to face him.

  “Feral, all teeth and hair and—they were quick, I can tell you that. I just got flashes of them. But I did see what they did to the wounded man from the outpost. Practically dragged him out through the window, like they had unfinished business with him.” Cole hung his head, and one of the Rangers gave him a mug of steaming black coffee, a jar of which they’d manage to salvage from the wrecked office. “And there were a lot of them. I mean a lot.” Cole looked up. “I think maybe those woods are full of the fuckers.”

  Robert frowned. “So why didn’t they attack when we first arrived?”