Hope: After It Happened Book 4

by Devon C. Ford

  “So what do we do about them?” asked Paul.

  “Follow them,” said Rich, standing up from his chair with more purpose than he had felt since the raid on the Welsh invaders. He saw this as a chance to make up for his lapse, to prove his worth once again, to turn his back on the depression he had allowed himself to spiral into.

  Paul and Lexi rose with him, but Rich stopped them.

  “No. This is on me.” He took a sidearm, loaded two magazines and picked up keys before leaving without another word.

  The sound of a second engine pulling away from the house faded into the distance as Lexi and Paul sat in silence. Paul reached over and refreshed their drinks, leaving the empty air heavy with words unsaid.

  UNCOMFORTABLE MEMORIES

  Dan carefully nursed his motorcycle along the roads flanking the two laden vans as they travelled south then east out of Belgium; the seat had made him numb and the cool night air was slowly freezing every exposed patch of skin. He ached throughout his entire body, but he couldn’t risk the lives of everyone just because he wanted a rest.

  It felt alien, dangerous even, to be driving through the night with lights on. Anyone within ten miles of them would be alerted to their vulnerable presence.

  Not since they had fled their temporary camp at the supermarket so many months ago had they journeyed at night with lights, and the feelings of that terrified flight brought back the same fearful sense of desperation he had experienced then.

  Of bringing a group of frightened people away from safety and into an uncertain future. Last time it had worked out, this time he hoped his luck would remain.

  As dawn broke they crossed two consecutive bridges and passed into Germany. There was no sense of ceremony. No celebration. Just exhausted progress; another milestone in their journey.

  The four-way flashers on the van illuminated for the third time during the night, signifying the need to stop for a comfort break. Dan sent up a silent prayer of thanks and responded by twisting the throttle and gunning his motorcycle ahead of their small convoy to search for a safe place to sit tight for the day. Mitch followed, tireless as ever, and the rest of the convoy hung back whilst they cleared a small fuel station.

  The vehicles were hidden away from the road and the group trooped into the building in silence. Cramped muscles and lack of sleep had stifled all conversation, and even prevented the ritual of hot drinks. People shuffled in, found themselves a comfortable corner and crashed.

  Dan sat, closing his eyes for just a minute. He woke to his shoulder being shaken by Adam, offering to take the night shift. He could only nod his thanks as his body failed him. Marie sat next to him, wordlessly unclipping his carbine from the sling attached to his vest and laying him down despite his weak protestations. He fought internally with himself to stay awake, to be alert and protect his group. He had to accept, to trust, to allow others to take the burden he always tried to take on himself. He had barely slept more than a few hours in one go since before they left home.

  Home. His thoughts drifted away with his consciousness, thinking that he had lost the right to call it home now. He had found it, cleared it, made it their home and now he had abandoned it. Abandoned the others who trusted him.

  Tormented, tired, he fell soundly asleep with a tortured conscience.

  TOO LITTLE, TOO LATE

  Renard was unhappy at being bested. He was unhappy with his two companions and let them know his opinion about their being bested by a child at length and with much use of foul language.

  He promised not to punish their incompetence in return for their total support for his version of events. That version detailed how he was a merciful and magnanimous leader, and that he had promised to allow them to leave because he pitied their plight.

  He then assembled a force of fifty fighting men and women, put his best trained at the front, and prepared for an attack under cover of darkness.

  As they crept forward in the cool night air, he located the sentry he had left on the southern road. He reported no movement, meaning that the ill-trained fools had believed they could safely leave in the daylight and not face any penalty for embarrassing him.

  As the group split off into three prongs to attack the compound, he relished the moment when he would take the suppressed weapon from the man who refused to accord him the proper respect. Maybe he could be put to work on one of the farming parties? He was sure he wouldn’t let him be armed; there was an edge to the man he would never trust. A fire still burned not far from the entrance, bathing the area in a warm, red glow.

  When the three prongs of the attack were in position he sent up the signal, prompting the first wave to attack.

  The gates, curiously unlocked and unguarded, were thrown open with next to no noise. A war cry went up as his troops stormed the compound and kicked open the doors of the buildings.

  The cheers died away when they found nobody inside.

  Striding through the gaggle of his uncertain militia, he made straight for the yacht; the technical prize of his assault.

  As he walked purposefully down the wooden gangplank, a slight resistance tugged at the ankle of his trousers making him stop and turn. A popping sound behind him echoed ominously. A wave of heat, and an invisible pressure wave pushed against him. His eyed widened in disbelief, then terror, as he dived headlong into the black water below.

  The thin wire Jack had painstakingly strung between two posts had worked perfectly. As Renard walked through it, the far end of his trap had pulled the trigger of the flare gun and launched the bright missile into the main cabin where almost all of their remaining petrol had been intentionally spilt. The flare caught the fumes even before the projectile had struck home, and the confined space only amplified the ignition.

  It didn’t explode, it would have had to be pressurized for that to happen he had explained to Dan earlier, but it would go up fast.

  The flames erupted from the cabin, blowing out the small round windows with the force of the fire desperately seeking a better supply of oxygen. By the time Renard had surfaced and looked back, the boat was engulfed in flames.

  He had been beaten again, and was now deprived of any spoils. Angrily climbing the rocks to reach dry land, he raged at the assembled men and women as he demanded to know who was ordered to keep watch on them.

  A man was pushed forwards by his scared fellow conscripts, and stammered his explanation that he had kept out of sight but was sure they hadn’t passed him heading south.

  “And who told you they were heading south?” Renard demanded furiously in French. The man had no answer, and had to watch in abject terror as the big man made ready to throw a punch at his face.

  Twenty minutes later, the boat gave up its buoyancy and with a violent hissing sound sank to the bottom of the small dock.

  Hope may have sunk, but real hope lived on and it had headed east before turning south in an uncomfortable convoy.

  THIEF IN THE NIGHT

  Rich employed all of the stealth he had learned over his years spent as an elite soldier to track the twins. His ingrained skills came back naturally, the thrill of it coursing through his veins and feeling better than any drink he could ever have sipped.

  He tracked them for miles in the failing light, shadowing their movements with relative ease. As the sun dipped below the horizon seven hundred miles as the crow flies away from Dan, he saw their vehicle pull off the road into a service station by the motorway.

  He hid his own vehicle away from the entrance and followed on foot, moving slowly through the overgrown bushes.

  Moving carefully on his knees and elbows, just as he had in Afghanistan and Iraq. In the jungles of South America and in the concrete sprawl of Northern Ireland, he inched towards his target once again the trained and proud man he knew he still was.

  Inch by inch his view expanded to encompass the large tarmac expanse of the abandoned car park until the Defender was visible, nose to nose with a big green truck. A classic British Army vehicle, one o
f the sights synonymous with his former life, felt homely for a second before the realisation hit him like a rubber bullet to the chest.

  The twins were there, talking to a man in camouflage fatigues. He froze, watching the animated conversation as the three men gesticulated at each other. A heated discussion was obviously taking place that Rich watched in open-mouthed exasperation at what he was seeing. They were right about the twins; they were a plant. Double agents sent to undermine their safety and security. As it dawned on him what he was seeing, the understanding fully sunk into his alert brain.

  He had to get back before them and report what he had seen. He had to have Lexi and Paul ready and armed for when they snaked back to the prison on their bellies like the serpents they truly were.

  He moved back as slowly as he dared, planning to steal away in silence to his vehicle and make his egress unnoticed.

  As he shuffled backwards on his belly far enough to regain his feet a blow stuck him hard across the back of the head. He went down, but not out, dropping to his knees. He lashed out viciously with his left elbow, hitting the man who had given him his best shot savagely in the groin and rendering him useless and probably sterile.

  As he fought to stand up against his swimming head, blinking his eyes back into focus, another blow hit him brutally from behind knocking him back to his knees. His retaliation was sluggish, leaving him vulnerable to a third blow.

  As his face hit the ground his hands instinctively covered his head. One, two, three barbarous kicks piled into his ribs and drove all the air from his lungs. Coughing, his hands fought to bring him back up; to fight and not go down. Lashing out with his feet he made contact with the second attacker. A sickening crunch erupted from the knee he had struck and forced backwards against the natural movement of the joint. A scream followed the crunch, full of agony and shock. Rich fought to regain his feet and escape when a hard object hit him in the head, a rifle butt, his damaged brain later registered.

  He dropped, beaten and too damaged to fight back.

  “NO. GET UP AND FIGHT!” shouted a voice in his head. It sounded just like the evil training Corporal from when he was eighteen years old and struggling to prove he was made of the stuff the Royal Marines wanted. A Royal Marine who, no matter how badly damaged, would fight all three of these bastards and kill them all.

  He lashed out again, slowed by the concussion and the blood running from his lacerated scalp. Again the rifle butt smashed down on him.

  He failed. Unconsciousness took him in its dark embrace.

  When he came round he was sat up against the tall wheel of the big green truck. From his swollen lips and broken ribs he was sure he’d received more beating after he was knocked out. No matter, he thought, pain is temporary.

  Four faces looked down on him, more annoyed than angry.

  “Well this is a damned inconvenience,” said the man in the crisply pressed fatigues. The insignia of an Army officer adorned his chest, and a scowl of contempt was evident on his face.

  “Deal with him,” he said, turning his back and walking away.

  The twins looked at each other, communicating without language but conveying a power struggle with their eye contact alone.

  Silently, the younger of them drew his sidearm and pointed it at Rich.

  Avoiding his eyes, he pulled the trigger twice and fired into his chest.

  As his last bubbling, bloody breath escaped his mouth, he saw his killer turn away and holster the weapon showing no remorse on his face.

  RELAX, I’VE GOT THIS

  Dan’s sudden panic when he woke was only soothed when he was assured that they were safe. That the necessary precautions had been taken and the group were adequately protected.

  Coffee was handed to him as he put on his kit and checked his weapons. He took the drink outside and nodded a greeting to Leah who was lay flat on top of an abandoned vehicle to peer down the scope of the rifle towards the direction they had come from. Marie told him she had taken over from Adam just before daybreak and sent him to find somewhere to sleep.

  Mitch and Neil had gone out to scout the area for anything useful.

  He lit a cigarette and leaned against the side of the van under Leah’s vantage point. He took a minute to tell himself it was ok, that he didn’t have to do everything for everyone, and to trust in the others to make good decisions.

  He had needed that six hours sleep, desperately. Although still bone-tired, he felt better. The coffee and nicotine coursed through his body, waking him up further until he was fully alert, although more like a reanimated corpse than a rested man.

  “Not to worry you or anything,” came the voice from above him, “but we’re being watched.”

  Turning and sinking to one knee he raised the gun to scan ahead through the scope.

  “When will this bloody end?” he moaned to himself having abandoned his coffee.

  “Three hundred yards, left side, behind the building with the red roof,” Leah calmly said to direct him to the source of her concern. That concern must have been minor otherwise she would have been a little more vocal about the presence of another person. It was clear she had been watching them for a while.

  Through his less powerful optic he could make out the shape of a head leaning around the corner of a brick building.

  “Can’t see enough detail,” he muttered to the girl. The scope of the larger rifle offered far more magnification and she filled in the information he didn’t have.

  “Male. Young. Nervous.”

  “Alone?” he asked.

  “Think so. What do you want to do?” she replied.

  Dan thought on that. Being constantly vigilant and permanently fearful of being on unknown ground with unknown potential enemies at every turn made for a stressful existence. He wanted the chance to talk to someone local without the threat of violence or the modern world politics of territory and possession being an obstacle

  “Where are Mitch and Neil?” he asked her.

  “Gone ahead,” she answered, meaning that they had gone in the opposite direction to their voyeur.

  “Sod it,” he said, regaining his feet and picking up his cup to drain the coffee, “cover me.”

  He put down the cup and gave two sharp whistles. He was rewarded seconds later by Ash bounding out to him full of expectation.

  “Heel,” he growled to the dog to curb his enthusiasm and began to walk slowly forwards with the carbine slung on his back so as not to look aggressive. Still, he was conscious to keep to the right side of the road and not impede Leah’s line of sight should things not go well.

  After a hundred yards of walking consciously as though he wasn’t stalking prey he saw the head duck out of sight. Ash saw it too and let out a low growl until he calmed him.

  He stopped fifty paces short of the building and called out a hello.

  No response. He fought to try and recall enough French to try again but he had never mastered the language sufficiently, and tiredness didn’t help his memory.

  He tried again in English, this time receiving a reply.

  “Wer bist du?” came a voice from behind the building.

  His flash of memory at crossing over the border into Germany came back to him in a sudden rush. He was being asked who he was in a language he had a handle on.

  “Wir sind aus England,” he shouted back. “Wir sind freundlich!” he added to try and alleviate the obvious fear their presence had caused the man.

  After a pause, the head reappeared at the corner eliciting another growl and a change in stance from Ash. Dan quieted him again.

  “Why are you come here if you are from England?” came a heavily accented question from the head.

  Another revelation hit Dan then. The world over people spoke English, which in turn made most English people fairly ignorant of other languages. Most Brits abroad relied on speaking English slowly and shouting to be understood. He knew his own grasp of German was wholly insufficient to converse with a native speaker, but thankful
ly this stereotypical German spoke better English than most of his group.

  “Come out,” he shouted, “we are not bad people, I swear.”

  Slowly, the head became a torso. The torso became a whole body and that body walked carefully towards him with his arms held high. He was faced with a young man, tall and thin, wearing dirty and torn clothes with a heavy bag on his back. He looked like any homeless person on any city street from before it happened, although the beard and wild hair did little to hide his youth. Dan placed him at maybe sixteen or seventeen and was ashamed to realise that he had been sat on the ground.

  “I’m Dan,” he said, “and this is Ash.”

  At the mention of his name and the lack of any command to attack or look threatening, Ash perked up expecting praise and food. The way the dog switched modes made Dan think he must have a split personality. Not quite Jekyll and Hyde, but something more deliberate.

  “I am Lukas,” he replied, still clearly nervous.

  “Nice to meet you, Lukas. Are you hungry?” he asked.

  The boy’s eyes lit up at the mention of food. He didn’t appear to be prospering much. Dan wanted to ask him a whole raft of questions, but he knew that his ‘enthusiastic’ manner would make that come across as an interrogation and likely scare him.

  “Come on,” Dan said as he turned. “Come and meet the rest of us and get something to eat.”

  Nervously, with a hint of resigned desperation, the boy followed him.

  Leah had seen the meet and greet and relayed this to Marie who was waiting for them when they arrived back at the building.

  “Marie, this is Lukas,” Dan said.

  Almost embarrassed, Lukas’ eyes flashed to hers in acknowledgement before returning to the ground. He shuffled his feet and struggled to find the words.