by Terry Tyler
"Dad, what's going on?"
"Van load of them." I grab his jacket and shove it at him. "I'm getting you hidden; don't argue."
"You're joking! I'm going to fight."
"No, you're not. This isn't a game, they've already shot Stef and Ash; I want you out of here."
I drag him down the stairs, grab Vicky by the arm, too. "You're not going out there." Why hasn't Dex got her to safety, before anything else? I look around, wildly. "Someone give me the keys to a car. Now!"
Phil chucks some. "The Audi. Outside."
"Heath, take Vicky and the kids to the castle," Dex says. Like I need his instruction. "Vick's got keys. I've got to make sure Naomi and Phoenix are safe."
I nod. "You go."
"Lottie, stay here!" Vicky cries out, as she follows Kara and Phil.
"Mum, no! I'm helping!"
I grab her arm. "Don't argue."
"But I can do this, I'm a good shot—"
I explode. "Lottie, I don't have time for this teenage crap. Get in the car with your mum and Jax. Now!" She looks at me like I've hit her. "Do it!"
We head outside, and all at once I'm blinded by headlights, a big, dark shape moving closer, and I think my heart is going to leap out of my chest because I'm sure it must be the transit van, but it isn't, it's the twelve-seater they use for the farm. The door opens.
It's Travis.
"I'll take people to the castle." I can see others in there already; the Lincolns, Zoe and Clay, a new woman and girl whose names I don't know.
For one moment our eyes meet.
"Thank you." I turn around to Vicky and my son. "Go with Travis." I grab her arm, more roughly than I intend, and shove her towards Travis. "Jax, Lottie, get in."
We hear gunshots in the distance and Jax follows Vicky, but, quick as a flash, Lottie darts off.
"Lottie!" Vicky screams at her to come back, but she hurtles down the road, whipping round just before disappearing around the corner.
"I'm okay! I promise I'll be careful, but I've got to help!" Then she disappears up Markyate Road, towards the sound of gunfire.
"No!" Vicky goes to run after her, but I hold her back. I put my arms around her and hold her close.
"I'll look after her, I promise," I say. "I promise."
She looks up at me, gripping my arms. "You'll find her? You'll make sure she's safe?"
I look into her beautiful, watery, terrified eyes, and I can't help it, I kiss her mouth, I hold her head against my chest, I kiss her hair.
I love her.
"I promise," I whisper, then I push her towards Travis, who waits patiently at the wheel. He's staring at me, expressionless.
"You'll look after Aria." It's not a question.
"Of course." I hand him my rifle. "Take this." I'll make do with my handgun; can't leave them up there with no weapons. Paul must have one, but I don't trust him to use it.
They head for the castle.
I turn back, get on my bike and zoom off up Markyate Road, but I can't see Lottie. What do I do, what do I do? Tear around the island looking for her, or check on Aria?
I've got to keep my promise to Vicky.
I find her with Kara and Phil, out on the green behind the Pilgrim and Staff. She's fine. Just as I knew she would be. I can't order her into hiding; she's an adult, and I know she'll be okay with Kara.
I find Aria sitting on the bed in our cottage, smoking.
She gave up before the outbreak, but she's started again since I've lived with her.
"I thought you were never going to get here!" She hurls herself at me, and the smell of wine nearly knocks me out. She's not even dressed; she's wearing her fluffy dressing gown, underwear and bootee slippers. "What's going on? Where are we going to hide?"
Oh hell, she's pissed. She didn't come to Jax's birthday dinner, because she says my friends don't like her. I knew she was waiting for me to reassure her, coax her into coming, but I couldn't be bothered, so she went into sulk mode. She must have been sitting there all night, drinking away her paranoia.
"Sweetheart, get dressed," I say, as gently as I can, gritting my teeth. "Come on."
She's shoving on jeans and boots, stumbling over as she does so. I don't need this now. I can hear shots being fired; I need to be down there.
"Where shall we go?" she asks. "We can head over towards the dunes, we'll be safe over there."
"Aria, no. I've got to help protect this place."
"Well, protect me!" She's screeching. "They've got all those roughy-toughy bikers to help them, they don't need you. I do!"
I can't be doing with this. I drag her downstairs and out onto the street; I see Ian and Nish rushing past.
"Where you off to?"
Ian turns. "The church."
I push Aria towards them. "Will you take Aria with you? Please?"
I don't even wait for their reply.
The transit van is parked on the corner of Crossways and Markyate; I shine my torch in the back; they've already filled it with booty. Large containers of water. Two rifles. Cans of our precious fuel. What looks like a bag full of meds. A box of tins, bottles, packets.
I think about Scott suggesting to those pricks back in Elmfield that they just ask us for help, instead of breaking in. Stefan and Ash could be dead, for this?
Scott.
He went out on one of his night walks, when I left for my shift. He walks the perimeter of the island, when the tide's out, listening to music; I'll just have to hope he's found somewhere to hide.
I slide into the archway that leads to the coffee shop, but all is quiet. Over the wall I see Cleary, Parks, Dex, and I run back round. Immediately, I realise I should have shot the van’s tyres out; I curse myself for not having the gumption to do something so bloody obvious, but it’s too late; a door slams and I hear it move off.
I turn to the others.
"Where are they all?"
"Scattered," Dex says. "Where's your rifle?"
I hold up my gun.
"Ammo?"
"Not enough."
He chucks me a clip.
"We've taken two out," Parks says.
"How many are there?"
"Twelve, fourteen. Think they're going house to house."
"Oh, Jesus." How are we going to defend everyone? "We need to get people to the castle."
"First priority is getting rid of these arseholes." Dex peers round the corner. "If we hide, they'll take all they can now, and come back. If they think we're not strong."
I see his point. "Where's Naomi and your boy?"
"In the church. They're barricading the door."
As we creep down the streets, dart into doorways, crouch behind fences, the adrenalin kicks in and there is nothing apart from us and the enemy. I'm scared I'll shoot one of our people by mistake; I tell Dex to roll up his balaclava so I can see his face. Can't stand the guy, but I don't want to put a bullet into him.
Well, I kind of do, but—
Two scoot past, up Priory Lane. Parks chases after them, Dex follows.
I hear shots, a cry; I can only hope it's them, not us.
"Who the fuck are these bastards?" Cleary hisses. We nip into the old village shop just in time, as two of the invaders storm past and charge into the mead shop where we hold our meetings.
"Fuck knows. Just randoms who've heard about the easy pickings." I nod towards the mead shop. "We'd best go and take them out."
"Wait. Easier to get them on the way out when they're carrying stuff."
"Nothing much in there now, though, is there?" I think about Scott again. "I don't get it. Why didn't they just ask if we could take them in?"
"'Cause they want it all for themselves," Cleary says. "Times are getting harder, man. Could be part of a larger group, feeling the place out." He peers out. "Wedge has gone to y' hotel. They won't get past him. Too many of us hiding, though. That's how places get turned over."
He's right, but we're not fighters.
There's not a person amongst us with
military or even police experience.
Movement, noises, not far away.
"Get down." Cleary pushes my shoulder and we crouch, peering out into the black, and then there's a big whooosh as the sky lights up; the mead shop and winery go up in flames. "Shee-it!"
I see two people creeping down the road; it's them. I inch the door open and am just about to move out when I hear shots, and they fall.
Parks and Dex are on them, relieving them of their weapons.
Cleary's grinning; his face looks shiny in the dim light, his teeth broken and mangy. "Wonder if that blaze was just to show us who's boss. Wrong, though, weren't they?"
"Come on, we need to be out there. Hope you're right about the hotel."
"Relax." He pulls a bent fag out of a crumpled packet. "Wedge took three of ours an' some o' your lot down. He won't let owt happen to w' bait, don't worry aboot that, man."
He's just lighting the cigarette when Luke from the pub comes flying past, one of the invaders in hot pursuit.
"That's us," says Cleary; we charge out.
The invader catches up with Luke, throwing him up against the rails of the memorial; Luke's doing a good job of holding him off but the guy's got a knife; I see its glint in the moonlight. I'm shaking so hard I can hardly take aim, but I do it, I shoot, I get him in the thigh, he lurches against the rails, screaming, and Luke's frozen in fear; Cleary drags him out of the way and the next minute the guy is pulling himself up by the railings, his knife poised to go straight into Cleary's gut, and I only mean to shoot his arm to stop him stabbing Cleary, but something in my head says kill him, or Cleary could die, or Luke, or you, and I do it, I really do it, I take aim and I shoot him in the head.
He falls.
He's still.
I've just killed a man.
I spring over, kneel down, pull off his ski mask and shine my torch. He's just a kid. Can't be more than twenty. He's got freckles and a pierced nose, and I just robbed him of his life.
I didn't have to kill him.
The blood's pouring out of his leg.
"Hit the femoral artery, I think, mate," Cleary says. "He'd 've died anyway. And so would I, if you hadn't done it."
He shoves a cigarette into Luke's mouth and gives the dead kid a kick in the ribs, just for good measure.
We hear a ripple of gunfire, and a vehicle start up and screech off, and next minute I see Kara run towards us.
"It's over!" she calls. She stops, leaning over, hands on thighs as she gasps for breath. "We got them all except two, and they've gone. We don't know what they've taken yet, but—"
I don't care what they took. "Lottie? Where's Lottie?"
"She's with Phil, she's okay."
I feel lightheaded, like I'm really hungry. I put my arms around Kara and we hold each other tight, burying our faces in each other's shoulders.
"It isn't really over," says Cleary, drawing on his cigarette, "'cause more will come. I'm betting this was just a recce, to see how strong we are."
"Shut it, Cleary." Kara wipes her eyes; I could feel her crying as I held her. Kara doesn't cry.
"I was just sayin'—"
"Well, don't. And we don't want that talk in front of anyone else, either."
Cleary shrugs, and pulls on his cigarette. "Burying y' heads in the sand won't do no good."
"The fact that there's only two of them left will send a pretty strong message," I say.
"Exactly," says Kara. "They're not going to say, hey, let's go back and see if we can get ten more of us killed for a few tins of beans, are they?"
Luke stumbles forward; he gives the dead lad a kick, too. "I need a drink."
So do I. As the smoke clears we stop to draw breath, come out of hiding and assess the damage. Dex goes off to the church to check on everyone there, and I go to find a car to bring Jax and Vicky home.
It's so quiet up by the castle; the ripple of the water on the shore is soothing, and I stand for a moment and look out into the night. Then the castle door creaks open, and it's Jax.
"Is it over? Have they gone?"
I dash up the cobbled slope and grab him in a bear hug until he tells me he can't breathe, and he leads me inside, into Dex's kitchen, where they're sitting round the table in the dark.
"It's over. They've gone," I say, and all at once the room is lit up with candles and lanterns, and people are laughing in relief and hugging each other. I don't mention Stef and Ash. I don't want to bring the mood down.
Paul Lincoln shakes my hand and thanks me.
"Sorry I shat myself out there, mate," he says. "I was just thinking about my family, you know?"
And I do. I understand.
Vicky's smiling in the soft light; she gets up from her chair and puts her arms around me. "Thank you," she whispers, and holds me to her, so close. I fold my arms around her back, and it feels wonderful. I kiss her hair and her cheek, but we don't speak.
I love her.
Before tonight I didn't know if I did or not, if I was just hankering after something that couldn't be, but now I know. Next to Jax, she and her daughter were the first people I thought of saving.
She came before my friends, before Aria, before myself, even.
I love her.
We take stock, drive around, taking the wounded to Rowan's hotel, the only place where we have something approaching running water. We call for a head count and find out the worst.
And it's worse than we realised.
We have eight dead. Eight. Stefan and Ash did not survive their bullet wounds, and then there is Lewis, who we didn't even get to know. He was found lying in the street, with a gunshot to the stomach, his little daughter Rosie sitting by his body, crying.
"Daddy tried to stop the men taking our food," Rosie sobs. Jesus, that poor little girl. Suzanne takes her, and Rosie curls up on her lap as if she's her child.
We lay out the dead and dying in the lounge.
One of the original residents, Rachael, got herself shot running up to the castle. Sean dies of knife injuries, and Kara finds poor Mrs Woolley with a gunshot to her forehead, on her living room floor, in her nightie and dressing gown, her house ransacked. Adam, the young man who came here only a couple of weeks before, was stabbed in his cottage; his girlfriend, Flora, hid in the wardrobe.
"He was trying to protect me." She's shaking like crazy. "But I would have been alright anyway, because one of the men, he said to the other one to leave me, because it wasn't right to kill women. He died for nothing." Lottie is trying to comfort her, but she looks about to collapse. Mentally, I mean.
And then there's Marcus.
Dex found him lying on his kitchen floor, stabbed several times in the torso. Audrey is in a trance-like state and cannot tell us anything, though perhaps there is nothing else we need to know. When Dex walked into her house, she was sitting in an armchair, humming a tune and looking through a photograph album.
Rowan takes her into the lounge and gives her brandy. She is calm, but won't speak.
For a while we're scared there is a ninth; we can't find Scott, and are just about to launch a search party when he turns up; he was down by the water when the horn sounded.
"Substance had just finished, and I heard the horn. If it'd been five seconds earlier, I might not have." His glazed expression and sticky-up hair makes us smile, for the first time in hours.
He hid in one of the upturned boats that were used for storage, plugged his music back in, and fell asleep.
Tomorrow, we will bury the eight in the churchyard, and plant eight trees to honour their lives.
Aria is sleeping, under the watchful eye of Ian and Nish, so I take the opportunity to depart.
The difference in noise level as I shut the front door behind me is like switching off a television. As my body's adrenalin levels return to normal I become aware of the freezing cold December morning, its icy fingers curling down my collar, nipping me on the nose.
I don't want to go back to Duck Cottage, although I know I must, event
ually. Instead, I go to the house I shared with Ozzy and Scott; all at once I feel drained of energy, and lurch back into my old room.
I fling myself onto my bed, face down.
A few minutes later, Jax appears at the door.
"Dad. I saw you come back. Can I get you anything?"
I turn over. "No. No, thanks. Are you okay?"
"Yeah. I heard about Stefan, and Ash—"
I hold my hand up. "Can we talk later?"
"You want me to leave you alone?"
"If you would. I just want to sleep."
"No worries." He hesitates. "You'll come see me when you wake up?"
"Sure." I know there's something else I need to be doing, but I can't face it. "Just one thing. If Aria comes round, say I'm fine but you don't know where I am. Say anything. Just don't let her in here."
"Will do. I'll make something up."
"Thanks, mate."
He gets it. I knew he would.
I sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Wedge
"You gotta go. Show willing. It's fucking terrible, all them poor people. And our Ash."
Bette sits on a stool in front of her dressing table, brushing her greasy hair with a large, flat brush. The mirror is thick with dust; Wedge thinks it's probably better that way. When she brushes her hair it looks worse, flattening the black roots to her head, while the length hangs in straw coloured hanks, individual hairs flying out with static. She's not been drinking yet—nine in the morning is a bit early, even for her—but she's still drunk from the night before. He's not sure she ever sobers up, these days.
As she leans forward, shaky hand applying mascara, the light hits her face; the remnants of yesterday's make-up seep into the pores of her pouchy, dough-coloured face, accentuating the lines.