Hooded Man

by Paul Kane

  His house burning to the ground, torched by the people in power trying to contain the virus. Robert’s family, dead inside.

  The lake he’d dreamed of at Rufford, ablaze and then –

  The market square where he’d confronted De Falaise finally, their crashed vehicles catching light; the fire spreading out across their battlefield.

  In spite of what Tate might think, Robert did like him. More than that, he respected him. They might never agree about their chosen professions – Tate would say callings – but the man talked a lot of sense. Depending on how you looked at it, Robert either owed him for making him face up to his responsibilities, or was the catalyst for everything that had happened since: leaving Sherwood, being put in charge of the Rangers, becoming a figurehead for something much greater than he could ever be.

  Robert pushed all this to the back of his mind as they approached the hotel entrance, its glass doors cracked but still in place – the steps stained a faded red with blood that had long since dried.

  The guard there – Robert searched for his name, it was getting much harder these days, the more his team grew... Kershaw, that was it – stood to attention. Robert thought he was going to salute and he’d have to go through that whole business of reminding them they weren’t in the army. He wasn’t their general.

  “You just don’t see it, do you? I’m no better than De Falaise.”

  Robert swung down off his mount, then helped Tate from the saddle. The holy man was stiff, and it took him a moment to regain the feeling in his legs. Robert tethered his horse to a nearby handrail.

  “I’m here to see the prisoners, Kershaw,” he told the guard, pulling down his hood at the same time.

  The guard swallowed hard. “We... we thought it best to tell you when you got here. There’s been a problem.”

  “Problem?”

  “The men watching them tried to stop it, but... Well, I think it’s probably best you see for yourself, sir.” Kershaw waved a hand for Robert and Tate to enter. They were met inside by another of Robert’s men – and this one he did recognise. Geoff Baker, the man he’d left in charge of this improvised jail, having been a warder in a real prison for years until the virus struck.

  Geoff ran a hand through his thinning hair before offering his apologies. “It all happened so quickly, there was very little we could do.”

  “What did?”

  “Go easy,” Tate said. “Give the man a chance to explain.”

  “They did it all at once. We managed to get to one of them, but...”

  “Geoff, talk to me.”

  Instead of saying anything else, Geoff took them to a storage room just to the right of the lobby, past a huge wall-length mirror, and unlocked the door. Inside were several bodies, stacked on top of each other, all wearing the robes of the Morningstar cult. Robert looked at Geoff, confused. “They committed suicide, Rob.”

  “What? How? You had them secured, right?”

  “Two or three swallowed their own tongues, another one managed to get one hand free of the ropes and tear his own throat out.”

  “Dear Lord,” whispered Tate.

  “One tipped the chair over that he was tied to, angling it so he struck his temple on the side of a nearby table. Another actually lifted up the chair and ran at a wall, hard enough to smash his own skull in.”

  Robert was having difficulty understanding. He’d never had to deal with these kinds of prisoners before, people who would gladly end their own lives rather than divulge any information.

  “But why weren’t you lot keeping an eye on them?” There was more frustration than anger in his voice, but Geoff reacted as if chastised.

  “We were doing our best. I don’t exactly have a full staff here,” Geoff reminded him, his tone hardening. “And when a crisis crops up out there, a few of my men always seem to be called away even though they’re vital for guarding this place.”

  Robert nodded. “Point taken. You say you managed to get to one of them, though?”

  “Yeah. We’ve been keeping him dosed up to try and stop him from doing anything similar.” Geoff gestured for them to follow him.

  “Just one moment,” Reverend Tate said. He made the sign of the cross at the door and closed his eyes.

  “Why are you wasting your time with that?” said Robert. “They don’t want your help, and they definitely don’t want to go to your Heaven.”

  “We’re all God’s children, whether we’ve strayed from the path or not. They deserve the chance of forgiveness. Of mercy.”

  Robert could see he wouldn’t be argued with.

  They left the room behind and headed for the stairs. Tate had trouble with these, but refused both Geoff and Robert’s help, intent on climbing the two flights himself. Finally, they made it to what had been the bar area, an expanse of carpeted floor that once contained comfy chairs for residents, but now only boasted tables running into the restaurant section. On either side was a long glass window – the left one cracked in places – and the bar at the back was smashed to pieces, graffiti sprayed across the walls, probably during or after the Cull by someone looking for booze.

  At each corner of the room stood a Ranger with a bow and arrow primed, keeping an eye on what was taking place. It was lunchtime, Geoff explained, and as they didn’t have the time and resources to feed each prisoner individually, they had to do it en masse, bringing out vats of stew from the reclaimed kitchens beyond the restaurant. Robert had to admit, it didn’t look very appetising, but it was all they could manage under the circumstances.

  There was a shout as one of the inmates spotted Robert and Tate. Then a figure broke away from the rest of the prisoners, making a dash for Robert. Immediately, bows and arrows were raised and the man stopped before he could reach his target. They needn’t have worried, as Robert had his bow readied too, an arrow snatched from his quiver the second he sensed trouble.

  “This is bullshit. I keep telling ’em, I shouldn’t be here!” shouted the prisoner.

  “Really?” said Robert, approaching, his weapon trained on the man. “How so?” The man’s face looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it. It was certainly distinctive, the way that scar ran the length of his jaw-line.

  “You let some of the others that worked for him go. Fucking ’ell, some of ’em are even working for you, while I’m stuck in this bastard place with them lot.”

  “Come on, Jason – back in line,” said Geoff, moving forwards and signalling to a couple of the guards.

  “Fuck off, screw. I’m talking to the organ grinder now.”

  That was it. Jason... Jace. When it had come time to sort out who might be retrained from the remnants of De Falaise’s army, several of Robert’s people had warned him about Jace. Mark, Sophie and Gwen especially, detailing how he’d all kidnapped Hood’s ward, and how he behaved when Gwen ‘seduced’ him so she could knock him out and steal his uniform. A nasty piece of work, by all accounts.

  “You’re talking to the wrong person,” Robert told Jace. “He’s the one who deals in forgiveness for scum like you.” He nodded at Tate, who pursed his lips. “How about it, Reverend? Think we should let him go? Is there a place for him in God’s plan? How would Gwen or Sophie feel about that? He would have raped them both, given half a chance.”

  “That Gwen was up for it,” sneered Jace. “She enjoyed being with De Falaise – told me as much.”

  It was the holy man who moved this time, whacking the youth in the stomach with his stick. He would have done more had Robert not pulled him back. Then the guards were dragging Jace across the room.

  “Put him in solitary for a day,” Geoff ordered. “That should cool him down a bit.” Solitary was a locked storage room with no windows. It might seem barbaric, but for Jace and his kind it was better than some of the justice that was being meted out in other parts of the country. At least here, Robert was more or less sticking to the legal system of old. It was the only way they could build the tentative beginnings of a new civilisation.


  When Tate had calmed down, Robert looked at him, perhaps expecting some kind of apology or explanation. Tate gave him neither.

  He might represent a higher power, but he’s still a man – with a man’s emotions, Robert reminded himself. And in spite of everything he’s said, Tate’s still a fighter.

  They were taken up to the next floor – to conference rooms that had once hosted presentations and lectures, but were now being used as holding bays for the more dangerous prisoners. In one of the smaller ones, they found a table with a woman and another guard standing next to it. There was a mirror to their left as they walked in. Strapped down with what looked like belts, buckled across the chest, stomach and legs – and ropes tied around the wrists – was the member of the Morningstar cult Geoff had referred to. It took Robert a second or so, but he placed the Ranger as a man called Lewis, the woman with features that looked too small for her face as a nurse Mary had trained called Lucy Hill. Lucy had her scrubs on, her hair tied back in a pony tail. She was flitting about around the prisoner, around the patient.

  “How’s it going?” asked Geoff.

  “He’s stable. Still pretty out of it, mind,” Lucy replied. “I gave him some Chlorpromazine to calm him down.”

  “Is he up to us asking some questions?” Robert inquired.

  “You can ask, but I can’t vouch for any of the answers you’ll get.”

  Robert approached the table. Tate hesitated, and only when Robert looked back over his shoulder did the Reverend join him. Robert could see the cultist much more clearly now. It was the one who’d snapped at Adele, attempting to bite her like the animal he surely was. The white paint he’d used to mask his identity had rubbed off in places, run in others, giving him – if anything – a more nightmarish appearance than before. The only thing that remained was the tattoo on his forehead. The man’s eyes – a steely blue – stared up at Robert, and he had no idea whether his presence had registered. He looked completely stoned, like so many of the druggies Robert had come across in his former life, but he had the feeling this guy’s eyes had looked like that even before Lucy had come near him with a needle.

  “Can you hear me?” asked Robert.

  “Mmmnnnfff,” was the reply he got.

  Robert looked up at Lucy. “At least he’s not trying to top himself,” she offered.

  “Let me try,” said Tate, tapping Robert on the shoulder for him to move aside.

  Robert watched as the bald man studied the cult member’s features. “I know you’re in there,” said Tate. The words seemed normal, but Robert had seen the Reverend do this before, draw things out of a person, force them to answer, force them to think. He’d done it with him once, persuaded Robert to communicate. “Speak, my son.”

  The cult member’s eyes locked on Tate’s. Robert found himself holding his breath as the man spoke again. “I... I hear you,” mumbled the prisoner, the words barely audible.

  “What is your name?”

  He continued to stare, as if he didn’t understand the question – either that or didn’t know how to answer. Tate repeated it and the man simply whispered: “Servitor. I serve.”

  “No, not your purpose. Your name. Your Christian name.” The man shook his head slowly. “Who were you before?”

  “No before,” the man breathed. “We have always been here.”

  “Since before the virus, you mean?”

  There was the slightest hint of a nod.

  “All right then, tell me why your fellow... Servitors all killed themselves.”

  “S-s-sacrifice.”

  So it wasn’t just other people they were out to kill; when they were taken captive, they were happy enough to kill themselves.

  “A sacrifice? To whom?”

  “Our master. The one true Lord.”

  “I beg to differ. You worship a false deity, can’t you see that?” From the man’s blank expression it was pretty obvious he didn’t.

  “He will come. It is written.”

  “Through your sacrifices?” Tate asked, and the man nodded.

  “Looks like you were right,” Robert chipped in, but Tate took no notice.

  “You believe you will find him here, in this world?”

  “He will... he will rise again...”

  Geoff whistled. “See? What a loon.”

  Tate whirled around and shot the warder a look that would have given Medusa a run for her money. Geoff kept quiet.

  “You will see him,” the Servitor promised. “Feel... feel his power...” Tate’s face was almost as white at the make-up the cult member wore. The holy man was clearly terrified. “You know, don’t you? You feel it.”

  This was going horribly wrong. Instead of Tate’s words having an impact on the Servitor, the reverse was happening. And his voice was growing stronger by the second.

  “He’s coming... He who is... who is... blood red... from head to.... to toe...” The man’s mouth was foaming, and he was straining against his bonds.

  Robert went over to hold him down. “Lucy,” he called out. She already had the needle prepared, and was attempting to stick it into a bottle to draw more Chlorpromazine. Her hands were shaking; she almost dropped the bottle twice.

  Then everything happened at once. Robert looked down to see that the Servitor had snatched the knife he always kept at his hip. With another wrench, the man broke free of the ropes holding that wrist, and was in the process of cutting through the leather strap across his chest. Robert made a grab for the forearm, but the man tugged it free. His strength was incredible, as if he was channelling something.

  “Lucy, stick him – right now!” shouted Robert.

  The nurse brought the syringe across, but when she bent to administer the drug, the Servitor brought the knife up and sideways, slashing her across the arm. She stepped back, mouth wide, dropping the needle and clutching at the gash.

  “Tate, I could use some help,” Robert growled over his shoulder, struggling with the man. The Reverend was standing there, gaping.

  Geoff and Lewis were racing to assist, but somehow the Servitor had managed to worm one leg free. He kicked the Ranger in the face, sending Lewis crashing backwards into the wall.

  Robert took one hand off the prisoner to punch him, but the man took the blow without even flinching. Absently, he wondered what Eric Meadows would have done in this situation: would even he have been able to secure this charge? The next thing Robert knew, the strap across the Servitor’s chest was in two halves and he was rising, yanking free to attack the other bonds with the knife. When Geoff tried to stop him, he broke off to plant the knife in him up to the hilt, then pull it out again. Geoff looked down to see a bloom of crimson stain his top, then his feet buckled and he fell.

  Robert was on his own.

  This shouldn’t be so difficult. I took a handful of them down back in York. But something was different. Whether it was the confines of the room, or the Servitor’s inexhaustible strength, he couldn’t decide. One thing was for sure, if the cultist got free of the table –

  And then it was done. The Servitor was standing. He was still staring at Tate, however, still had him in that hypnotic trance. Lewis was spark out, Lucy had retreated to the corner of the room – what Robert wouldn’t have given for it to be Mary here instead now, or even Gwen! – and he didn’t even know if Geoff was still alive.

  Robert kept the table between them. It was too small a space to use the bow and arrow, and the same went for his sword – one swing and he might end up hurting one of his own. No, this fight was going to be a nasty one: scrappy, clumsy. He hated that.

  “I can’t let you leave,” Robert told him. “You know that.”

  The Servitor cocked his head, turning finally to face Robert – but in the process caught sight of himself in the mirror just beyond. He paused, frozen just as Tate had been moments before. Then he took the knife and drew it over his own throat. The blood sprayed across the table, across the room, and Robert held up his arm to shield his eyes. Remarkably
, when he took it down again, Robert saw the man was still standing, thick gouts of red spurting from the wound at his throat, those cold, dead eyes now fixed on him.

  Then he dropped face forward onto the table, almost upending it. Robert gaped at the scene. His mind couldn’t quite take in what had happened. Why had this man struggled so hard to get free, only to take his own life? He remembered the other bodies down in the room on the ground floor, remembered what the Servitor had said about sacrificing themselves to their master.

  Robert looked over at Tate, who seemed to be snapping out of his daze. “Evil faced itself,” the Reverend whispered.

  There was a groan from the floor. Geoff! Robert skirted round the table to see him laying there, blood welling from the wound in his chest. He applied pressure to it, then shouted again for Lucy. This time she came, tentatively and still holding her own arm, one eye on the man sprawled across the table, as if expecting him to rise at any moment. “Lucy, for Christ’s sake!” snapped Robert. Blinking at the wounded man on the floor, she too snapped out of her daze, immediately crouching to help stem the flow of blood.

  Robert shouted at Lewis to go fetch help – other personnel who had medical training. “And Mary...” he said. “Send for Mary. Quickly!”

  MARY COULDN’T QUITE believe what she was seeing.

  That cow was wearing her coat! It was such a small thing, and there were admittedly few items of female clothing in the castle so it made sense that she should have borrowed it – but it was precisely because of this that Mary was angry. There were precious few things that were hers, only hers. Worst of all, Adele had taken it without even asking.

  Though she hated herself for it, Mary wondered what else the woman was intent on taking from her.

  What do you want her to do, Moo-Moo, freeze to death out there?

  She was tempted to come back with: “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  Now, that’s really not nice... her brother told her. She’d completely forgotten that whatever she thought, he instantly knew as well. Because he was her, wasn’t he? The voice of her conscience, her reason.