by Paul Kane
“You have your orders.
The Dutchman picked a spot on his target, the side of Javier’s head. It would take all of his skill and precision; very delicate shooting indeed. Reinhart blew away the Mexican’s right ear. Though neither of the men on the roof could hear his cries from this far away, they almost felt they could. Javier clutched at the red mess the bullet had made, hands shaking.
“No, it is far too late to repent, my friend,” De Falaise said in hushed tones, then he radioed the troops he had on the ground, ordering them to bring the injured Javier to him at the castle..
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT CAME AGAIN, the dream of water and fire.
Of De Falaise and his men.
But something was different this time, something that gave Robert hope. When the soldiers appeared brandishing their weapons, when De Falaise began his walk across the lake, Robert realised he was not alone. Not only was Mark by his side, but Bill was there, as were Tate and Granger, and another man that wasn’t so well defined. Behind them all stood a further line of defence, the new recruits who had chosen Robert over their former master. De Falaise’s face fell when he saw this united front. He was no longer dealing with just one rebel, but a group.
It came to the point in the dream where the Frenchman was about to shoot Max – but Robert was ready for him this time. Hands tried to stop him, but he ran across the lake of flames – towards De Falaise – the burning liquid somehow solid beneath his feet. Max was morphing into the stag once more, but the stag was also transforming. It was like watching one of those old Universal movies where the wolfman changed in dissolves under the influence of the full moon. The stag was taking on human features. De Falaise appeared totally oblivious to this – still intent on shooting the creature.
“Stop!” shouted Robert, notching an arrow. For some reason he felt sure that if the stag-man died, everything would be lost.
De Falaise laughed. Then pulled the trigger.
Robert could see the bullet leaving the chamber, as though it moved in slow motion, but he was powerless to stop it. The stag had changed into a man, though it still wore its antlers. The creature turned just before the bullet struck.
Robert drew in a sharp breath when he recognised the face. The features were his own.
He recoiled in terror, the bow falling from his grasp as he witnessed his death at De Falaise’s hands. But more than that, Robert was now the one facing the bullet, was now in its path, helpless to get out of its way.
Time speeded up and the darkness was deafening.
ROBERT WAS BEING shaken.
“Wake up –”
Robert was awake, and holding his knife blade to someone’s throat. He tried to focus on whoever had interrupted his sleep. It was one of his new ‘guests,’ a member of Granger’s old gang. After seeing what Robert had done to their unit, anyone would have thought he’d take more care. Robert asked him what he wanted, lowering his weapon.
“S-s-someone,” stuttered the lad, eyes still on the knife. “Mark says he saw someone enter the forest, told me to get you quickly.”
Robert let him go, pulling the weapon away. “Tell him I’m coming.” He watched the envoy scramble back and out of the tent, glad that he hadn’t accidentally hurt him. But he still wasn’t used to having people around, even after a week or more and a move deeper into the mature woodland areas of the forest. It would take a while to adjust.
The suggestion had been put forward that they make use of Rufford Abbey or the visitors’ centre at Sherwood itself – at least then there would be a roof over their heads. Robert had reminded them that they would be one of the first places De Falaise’s troops would search, and would be infinitely harder to escape from.
“You want a siege on your hands, that’s the right way to go about it,” he told them. “Here you have cover, roughly four hundred and fifty acres of forest, and you have the element of surprise. It was how I got the jump on you lot, remember?”
In truth that centre held too many memories for him. It was one of the occasional bank holiday haunts he and Stevie would visit: going in the shops and buying souvenirs; taking photos; walking the trail to see the Major Oak, its sagging branches held up by poles now. His son would marvel at the history connected with it, would imagine the outlaws hiding their stolen goods there before tackling the Sheriff’s men.
Robert never thought that he’d be doing it for real.
He grabbed his bow and arrows. Walking through the camp, he saw Granger and some of the others asleep in the army-issue sleeping bags from the trucks, the blackened remains of the fire from the night before now a charred heap. He’d show them how to build their own shelters at some point, along with a few other things, but for now he had other matters to deal with. Like the figure Mark had spotted. The kid was turning into quite the little lookout.
Seeing Mark, Robert went over to him.
“What is it?”
“A bloke, really big. He came into the forest not long ago.”
“Did he see you?”
“Naw, I kept well away. Looked like he meant business by the way he was sneaking through the trees.”
“Was he armed?”
“Couldn’t really tell,” admitted Mark. “What’re you thinking?”
“I’m thinking the Frenchman has sent an assassin. He couldn’t get me by brute force, so he’s switching tactics. All right, take me to the last place you saw him.”
“You’re going up against him alone?”
“Better that way; only myself to worry about.”
“I don’t think you understand how big this guy is. I mean, he’s fu... well, he’s huge.”
Robert didn’t show that the size bothered him, but he was thinking back to what Granger had said about De Falaise’s men – about one man in particular he’d called Tanek. “Just take me there,” he said to Mark. The boy nodded, then led him into the undergrowth.
THEY’D BEEN TRAVELLING ten or fifteen minutes, heads down, moving swiftly and silently, when Robert heard the noise. The snap of wood underfoot. A foot far too heavy to be that of a woodland creature. Robert tapped Mark on the shoulder, then signalled for him to stay and keep low.
Robert nimbly climbed the nearest tree, bow slung over his shoulder. From the upper branches, he surveyed the scene, and didn’t have to look too far to see the trespasser. Mark had been right, the man was gigantic! If anything, the description he’d given had been an understatement. He wasn’t dressed in a uniform like the rest of De Falaise’s men, but instead wore clothes pretty similar to Robert’s, designed to camouflage him. A cap was pulled down low on his head, obscuring his features.
He couldn’t see any weapons, but they could well be concealed about his person. Robert shifted his weight on the branch and nocked an arrow. Best to take this bloke out in one clean shot, he thought.
But before he had time to pull back the string, the man turned and threw something in Robert’s direction. A stone came hurtling towards him.
Robert flung himself out of its way, but in the process lost his footing and tumbled from the tree. He forced himself to relax as he fell and managed to land without breaking anything. When Robert looked up, he discovered he’d rolled right into the big man’s path. He reached for his bow but he appeared to have lost it in the fall.
The behemoth leaned down and hoisted Robert above his head.
Knife. Go for your knife, he thought to himself, but as he reached for his belt he was thrown through the air.
Robert landed awkwardly this time, the air driven from his body by the impact. He shook his head, dazed, but he was given no chance to recover. Something was falling on him. At first his confused mind thought it was one of the trees toppling over; then he realised his attacker was dropping with all his weight behind him. Robert twisted out of the way at the last moment, as the big man flopped heavily onto the ground.
Robert staggered to his feet and adopted a defensive stance. The man suddenly reached out and grabbed his arm, swingin
g him around. He crashed up against the nearest tree. The edges of his vision began to blur, but he managed to shake away the haze in time to see the big man charging with his shoulder raised. He was going to ram Robert. If he wasn’t careful he’d end up being the filling in a very painful sandwich.
Robert twisted away just as the man rammed the trunk. The goliath cried out in agony and Robert could have sworn he heard the wood creaking as though the tree might collapse.
All I’ve done is make him angry, Robert thought as he again went for his knife. But even as he was sliding it out, his opponent was slapping it from his hand, leaving Robert with no way to defend himself... unless....
As the man came at him again, Robert ducked sideways and picked up a fallen branch. It was almost as tall as he was, and strong with it. He hefted it like a staff, jabbing at the bigger man who kept trying to wave it away.
Robert slammed the staff forward with both hands, but the man grabbed it and pulled. Bringing a knee up, he shoved it into Robert’s stomach and flipped him over, losing his cap but gaining the staff. The man grinned.
It was his turn to jab at Robert, who snaked left and right to avoid the blows. Robert dropped and scrabbled around in the foliage. His fingers brushed another branch, not quite as big as the first, but beggars definitely couldn’t be choosers. Robert snatched it up and met the man’s blows, the stick almost splintering with the force. Wood smacked against wood and, suddenly, Robert spotted his chance. He lowered his weapon and struck the man’s knee, causing it to buckle. Then he hooked the bigger staff with his own, flipping it out of his enemy’s hands and catching it. Robert dropped the smaller branch and raised the huge staff. He was about to bring it crashing down on the man’s head when –
“Wait! Hold on, I know him.”
Mark came rushing out of the undergrowth towards them, hands flailing to stop Robert delivering the final blow.
“I told you to stay hidden back there,” Robert said.
“But now I can see his face,” Mark continued. “I’d know him anywhere. And those moves.”
Robert cocked his head, looking from the boy to the giant. “You know him?”
Mark nodded enthusiastically. The man on the ground, nursing his sore knee, looked just as mystified as Robert.
“Of course. Don’t you?”
Robert studied the man’s features – the curly hair, the goatee beard – but couldn’t recall having ever seen them before.
“That’s Jack ‘The Hammer’ Finlayson,” said Mark. “You’re Jack ‘The Hammer’ Finlayson!”
The man looked up at Mark, his eyes warming. “Been a while since anyone called me by that name, kiddo.” There was a US accent, but it was blended with English, as if the man had lived on these shores for some time.
“Who?” asked Robert, genuinely confused.
“What do you mean, ‘who’? The Jack-Hammer – as in ‘he’ll hammer all comers into the floor.’ Only one of the best wrestlers on the circuit!”
“Wrestler...?” But it made sense. The techniques this Finlayson character had been using were very much in keeping.
“I saw tons of your matches, some on the sports channels, but my Dad used to take me to...” Mark let the sentence fall away, his brow furrowing. It was the first time Robert had heard him mention his parents. For some reason it hurt him just as much as it must have done Mark. The boy caught Robert looking at him and carried on, as if nothing had fazed him. “You should have seen him against Bulldog Bramley at the Sheffield Arena, he tore that guy apart!”
“I always thought that stuff was faked,” Robert countered.
The wrestler sneered. “Maybe in some places, but not when I was in the ring. Back then it was about as fake as the little tussle we’ve just had, fella.”
“So you can vouch for him?” Robert asked Mark.
“He signed me an autograph once, on the way back to the dressing rooms. They didn’t all do that.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing these days. Everything’s changed.” But Robert could see now there was a kindness to Finlayson’s face as he smiled at Mark – even though the guy probably didn’t remember giving him that signature. Besides which, Robert was starting to get a feeling about him. It was the sort of judgement call he made all the time back when he was a policeman. The kind of instinct that had told him Granger was okay. Realising this, it made him even angrier to think he’d fought Finlayson. “I could have really hurt you – that was a stupid thing to be doing, walking around in here.”
“Hey, you started it,” Finlayson pointed out. “You were about to ventilate me, pal. Never heard of asking ‘friend or foe’?”
Robert had to concede the point.
“I’m sorry,” said Robert quietly. He stuck out his hand and the big man took it. Robert almost went down again when Finlayson used it to pull himself up.
“Thanks,” the large man said, brushing himself down and picking up his baseball cap. “Hey, you know, you would’ve made a pretty decent go of it on the circuit yourself. I’m a bit out of shape, granted, but no one’s given me a run for my money like that in quite a while.”
Robert was more than flattered by the comment. “If Mark here says you’re all right, that’s good enough for me.” He caught Mark’s chest swelling when he said this. “Let’s hear your story, Finlayson.”
FINLAYSON HAD GROWN up on the rural outskirts of upstate New York. “It was too quiet there for me, man. And the winters were harsh.” His father would make him chop wood for the fire during those snowbound months, something that gave him a taste for exercise and honing his body. “I began weight training before I hit eleven. Not with real weights, you understand – with anything I could get my hands on: engine parts, rocks, the wood I was choppin’. ’Course, I was also growin’ some by then. My old mom, God rest her soul, used to joke that I’d fallen from a beanstalk when I was a baby and her and Pop had adopted me.” It had been his father who’d taught him the basics of wrestling, one of the few pastimes they had out in the sticks. “I remember the first time I beat him as well. The look on his face!” Finlayson laughed.
He’d begun to find rural life too stifling and, when he was old enough, Finlayson went in search of the great American dream. He wanted a taste of the bright city lights, so he got a job in a gym, mopping up at first in exchange for the use of their equipment. “All kinds of people would train in there, footballers, boxers, wrestlers. They were the ones who interested me. I got talkin’ to some of them and they suggested I should try out for some of the local matches, maybe even get a manager. I did all right over there, but I was a small fish in a very big pond.”
It was on a visit to the UK one summer as part of a tour that he fell in love with the country. “Must have seen most of what there is to see of Britain, but I always loved this part especially. So, I decided to stay. Oh, they tried to get me to go back to the States, but over here I could actually be someone – perhaps not on the scale of those WWE big shots, but in my own way I’d be recognised.” Finlayson smiled again at Mark, who grinned back. “I carried on doing the circuits for several years, places like Lincoln, York, Leeds, Doncaster, Manchester, and closer to home in Nottingham and Sheffield, which is I guess where you caught up with me, huh, kiddo?”
Mark nodded.
“Quite a few of those matches were televised, as well. I used to send tapes to my pop. I think he was proud of what I was doing. Towards the end, though, I began to think: what am I getting in there, getting myself all banged up for? Counting the bruises at weekends, visiting the doc more and more. That’s when I began to pull back from it all a bit.”
“So what were you doing when the virus hit?” asked Robert.
“Working in a gym again, believe it or not. I was teaching classes at a Health and Fitness Centre this time – wrestling classes, no less.”
Finlayson told them what had happened when the virus had hit. It was the same old story. The people either clogging the doctors’ surgeries or hospitals, taking to their ho
mes, or dropping in the streets. Robert listened, trying not to let his mind go back to his own experiences, trying not to think of Stevie and Joanne. After the Cull, Finlayson, like so many others, had taken off for a quieter spot. “Guess I finally saw the wisdom of getting away from it all like my folks had done, all those years ago. Things were gettin’ too, I don’t know, out of control in the towns and cities.”
“Didn’t you have anyone... anybody that you left behind?” asked Robert, then immediately said: “Wait, don’t answer that. It’s none of my business.”
Finlayson didn’t seem to mind. “You mean a gal, a family and such? No woman’s ever been able to pin me down, if you’ll pardon the expression. As for family, they were all the way over in the US. Like I say, my mom died before all this, thank the Lord. My dad... he wouldn’t have made it.”
“How do you know?”
“Wrong kinda blood.”
They sat in silence for a while then, before Finlayson broke the quiet.
“I sometimes get to thinkin’ about what happened over there, what it’s like back in the States. You know anything?”
Robert shook his head. “I’ve been a bit out of touch. You never thought about returning, to see for yourself?”
“It’s not my home anymore. This is. Which brings me to why I’m in Sherwood Forest. Word’s spreadin’ about what’s gone on here. Stories about a hooded man helping the communities, about how he took on a bunch of men single-handed at a market and won. About how he gave back food and supplies to those who’ve been robbed by that son of a bitch holed up at the castle, pardon my p’s and q’s. I figure that you’ve got a cause I wouldn’t mind fighting for.”
Mark must have caught the look of shock on Robert’s face, because he added, “You can’t be that surprised they’ve heard of you. There aren’t too many people, too many communities left.”
“Not only have they heard of you,” Finlayson chipped in, “some of ’em want to join you. Not many folk care for a bully. Anyway, I thought to myself, hooded man in Nottingham... in Sherwood... hmm. I’m pretty damned big, maybe I ought to be in the runnin’ for one of the starring roles in that flick.”