by Paul Kane
While some of them picked over the remains, others fanned out to search the desert for any potential troopers who’d made it out alive. For all they knew, there could be at least a dozen marching their way back to report all this, to call down an air strike on the region. It’s what Henry would do if he could walk. If he had access to a radio, he’d call them up anyway and just get them to do it right here and now. Bomb them all to crap and be done with it; wasn’t as if he had any family to speak of, his mother and father dead, and Catherine...
The voices were growing closer. Henry moved back around the rock, shifting position. He risked a look, seeing two Iraqi foot soldiers heading in his direction, before forking off – only one coming over to check where he was hiding. Henry swallowed dryly. He had only a knife to hand as a weapon, so he drew it, then waited for the man to round the corner. When he did, the look of shock and surprise on the soldier’s face was comical. He looked like he was about to raise his rifle and shoot, so Henry rammed the knife into his gut. There hadn’t been time to register his age as Henry did this, only time to react. But, as he fell, Henry saw that the soldier couldn’t have been more than fifteen, perhaps even younger. That gave him pause for thought – could it be that this lad was forced to join Saddam’s forces like so many others? The threat of death hanging over his own family? If Henry had been able-bodied, maybe he could have used his hand-to-hand skills (as he was well versed in many forms of martial arts) to take the kid down without having to kill him.
As it was...
Bullets raked the rocks where Henry was, and he grabbed the discarded rifle – returning fire between the cracks in the boulders. He was outgunned and outnumbered: there must have been about fifteen Iraqis out there. Henry fired again, certain that at any moment his ammo would run out.
Then there was silence. Henry looked out over the rock, his leg throbbing in agony. There was no sign of the enemy troops who’d been firing in his direction. It was as if they’d simply vanished. He had theories, of course: they’d fled because they thought that air strike was already on its way (the coalition did control the skies, after all), or perhaps they thought there was more than just one survivor out there. Or maybe there had been other forces on hand that day. Whatever the case, Henry didn’t question it back then... He was just grateful that they’d buggered off.
And his journey to find help could begin.
He tried again to walk, and failed; without a stick as a crutch it was absolutely hopeless on that injured leg. The shrapnel had also moved during the fight, loosening so much he had no option but to remove it. Sadly, that had been the only thing stopping him from bleeding out, and now he had another problem. Henry tried to stem the bleeding with a bandage, ripped material from his combats, but it was soaked in seconds.
Sighing, he began to crawl again. If he’d made it to the rocks, then he could make it to some kind of aid – or would die in the process.
The more he crawled in the heat, wearing just his vest and trousers, the more he began to think it would be the latter option. He was going to die out here, in the heat, blood pumping from his leg.
He began to feel woozy as he crested a hill, losing sight of the original skirmish. Henry rolled down the sand, tumbling over and over until he reached the bottom of the dune. It took great effort, but he looked up over the horizon – seeing nothing but ochre in the distance.
His mouth was dry, lips cracking as he attempted to crawl on. Henry clawed at the sand, pulling himself further and further along, a millimetre at a time. Until he had absolutely no more strength.
It was as he lay there that he became frightened. As the certainty that he was going to die really took hold. And it was then that he thought back to all those Sunday school lessons he’d been taught, his parents so staunchly religious it had made him hate every single syllable of the Bible.
He recalled the story about Jesus being tested in the desert and wondered if this was his test? And what he might get if he passed it. What he’d have to do in return for more life?
It was then, after years of turning his back on religion, that he finally prayed. Henry asked that God heard him, that he might spare him... and in return, he’d be a better man. He wouldn’t swear, he wouldn’t (kill young boys anymore; wouldn’t leave fallen comrades to their certain death)... wouldn’t do anything that the Lord didn’t want him to do.
Henry was very surprised to hear an answer.
To hear the words of God, so sharp the Almighty could have been standing next to him and speaking in his ear. He told Henry that yes, he would be saved. But in return one day he would be called upon. There would be a battle at some point, and Henry must stand as His representative on Earth against the forces of darkness. One of God’s warriors. Would he agree?
“Ye-yess...” mouthed Henry, spluttering grains of sand.
He was shown then a vision of what he would be up against. Marching over the sand, heading in his direction were men... At first, through his half-closed eyes, he thought they were Iraqis. But as they drew closer he saw they were all wearing strange kind of robes. They were all hooded, the cowls that same maroon colour, swinging some kind of swords as they came. Henry shivered, in spite of the heat.
He knew who these forces belonged to. If he was now believing in God again, then it stood to reason that he had to believe in the other side... His vision was fading, loss of blood and exhaustion finally catching up with him. If the army was real, then he could do nothing about it now – couldn’t move, let alone fight.
But as he slipped into unconsciousness again, he heard the voice in his ear tell him that he’d also be called on one day to do something that would go against everything he believed in. That he would know what this was when the time came... And that it might just save the world.
Then there was silence.
The next voice Henry heard was a female one: “Lieutenant Tate? Lieutenant Tate... Can you hear me? Are you still with us...” The woman laughed faintly when he opened his eyes. “Oh, thank God...You’ve lost a lot of blood, so just try to relax. Let the morphine do its job.”
He was in a field hospital back at the camp – eventually to be transferred out of the war zone altogether because of his injuries. He’d been spotted by the aircraft investigating the loss of contact with his convoy (the logical part of his mind said that maybe those Iraqi troops had caught wind of this and that’s why they’d scarpered). He’d been evac-ed to safety and was safe now... or as safe as it got around here.
When he returned home, they operated on his leg several times and although they did the best they could, they told him he’d always need a stick and would walk with a limp for the rest of his days. Determined, though, he’d pushed that leg to its limits: exercising, getting stuck back into his martial arts – and he actually found that the more adrenaline that pumped through him (say, in a fight situation) the less his leg hurt. The more he actually could use it.
He only remembered flashes of what had happened to him before they found him, but Henry Tate did remember making some kind of deal. It didn’t strictly involve him becoming a Reverend after he was honourably discharged from the army, but all those months recuperating had left him with lots of free time to read: to brush up on those Bible stories he’d once hated. And what fascinating reading they made... What a great deal of sense, especially in these troubling times. Not to mention those to come.
As he prayed now, Tate remembered seeing the hooded men from his...what, hallucination? This time for real, after Robert had come to New Hope asking for his help against them.
Reverend Tate knew the dangerous times that voice – the one he knew belonged to the Lord his God – had told him about were almost upon them.
He had been and would continue to be the warrior priest.
And he would wait, patiently, for the sign that told him it was time to save the world.
HE WAS RUNNING through the forest, but not on human legs.
And the further he ran, the stronger those legs becam
e. He looked down and saw they were a browny colour with white specks. Rain still fell from the leaves and he skidded to a standstill, watching one droplet land in a puddle nearby. Trotting over, he waited for the ripples to subside, for the surface to reflect his features. He was a young fawn, slightly older than Bambi from the Disney movie (Jack would have been proud at that filmic reference). Not yet fully grown, but not really a baby either.
He could live with that – and so he ran again, enjoying the freedom this form gave him. That and the freedom of the forest. He passed through more unfamiliar territory yet to be shown to him in the real world, but which he recognised instinctively here. His trek brought him to the huge lake near Rufford; where, once again, he could trot to the edge and look at his reflection in the water.
This time, however, he noted the stumps on his head – the beginnings of what would soon be antlers. Then, in the water, as if to show him what he would look like eventually, he saw another reflection. That of a fully grown stag. It was upside down, though, and it was also quite a distance away – yet he could see it perfectly. Perhaps it had skated over the vast expanse of the lake, perhaps it was just a trick of this place: being able to see everything from every angle simultaneously. If so, then it was another skill he needed to master.
For now, he was content to look at the reflection – tracing it upwards to the thing itself. The stag standing on the other side of the lake: staring at him. It opened its mouth, crying out a warning. But it should have been the other way around, should have been him calling out to the older stag... because there was a figure stepping out of the trees behind it.
Initially it looked like the man – dressed all in red – was holding a blade in his hand. But the closer he looked (zooming in, if that was possible in this place) the more he saw that the curving thing was a replacement ‘hand’. And as the man approached, he held it out in front of him, readying to use it on the stag – who was so focussed on its younger counterpart it hadn’t noticed its attacker.
But the same could be said for his own perception, because it was only now that he noticed the great shadow falling across the lake. Someone was behind him as well – was this some kind of mirror, events of the future? Or were they being attacked at the same time, by two different people?
That wouldn’t be revealed today, because he snapped out of his dream at that point, waking in a cold sweat and seeing the skin of the lean-to above him. Mark shook his head, rubbing his eyes. He was still getting used to the intensity of these dreams, especially when they were in Sherwood.
As he emerged from the make-shift tent, he saw Robert doing the same on the other side of the clearing. It was dawn, and they would be eating breakfast soon: a meal the forest had provided, even though they’d hunted the small animals that would provide them with sustenance.
Neither of them spoke much over breakfast, but each could tell the other had spent time in that dreamscape – and were trying to work out the significance of the warnings.
Those signs and portents.
So it was with a mixture of relief and frustration that Mark helped Robert pack up their stuff, following him out, back up to the visitor’s centre in Sherwood where they’d tethered the horses. Relief that the dreams wouldn’t be so vivid that night, sleeping in his own bed back at the castle (even if they did now carry a part of Sherwood with them at all times).
But frustration because he hadn’t had a chance to see what happened next, to try and work out what it all meant. They’d be back here soon enough, though, and he’d see more of it then he was sure...
In the meantime, he’d ride with the Hooded man.
Content that in the fullness of time, all would be revealed to them...
For Richard Carpenter, as much of an inspiration now as he was back then.
“Then Robin Hood bent a very good bow,
To shoot, and that he would fain;
The stranger he bent a very good bow,
To shoot at bold Robin again.
“‘O hold thy hand, hold thy hand,’ quoth Robin Hood,
‘To shoot it would be in vain;
For if we should shoot the one at the other,
The one of us may be slain.’”
– Robin Hood Newly Revived
(Traditional Ballad)
CHAPTER ONE
THE FIRST SIGN they were in trouble was when a crater the size of a garden pond appeared ahead of them.
There had been very little sound until that moment – then an almighty bang which hurt the ears. The vehicles they were directing up the road rocked with the noise.
Mick Jamison, in charge of the lead truck – or, as he called her, ‘Stacey’ – pulled on the steering wheel to avoid the smoking hole, then glanced in his mirrors to see his companions doing the same. Those using horses and carts, however, had to calm their animals first – not an easy task when none of the animals were used to loud noises. A couple reared, kicking back at the carts and riders.
Mick snatched up his radio, but it hissed static. “Jesus,” he said, looking through the windscreen and spotting the tail of another mortar winding its way down to earth. This one struck the side of the road, but had just as much impact. Even with all his years of experience – before and after the nightmare known as the Cull – he struggled to control the tons of metal and cargo.
This hadn’t been part of the deal. Actually, there hadn’t even been a deal. Unlike his jobs before the virus, when he’d been employed by large haulage companies to transport goods, there was no paperwork for this gig. Back then it had been a nice, relatively safe job – the only danger being from other, less careful drivers on the motorways. People who took chances, nipping in and out of traffic at ridiculous speeds, driving all night without taking stops when they felt tired. But in all his years in the delivery trade, Mick himself had never been in a single accident. He’d certainly never been fired upon.
These were different times.
He’d realised that when the people in his neighbourhood had started dropping in the streets, bleeding from every orifice, coughing their guts up onto the pavement. He’d realised it when he’d reached his girlfriend’s house and found her –
That seemed such a long time ago now, years beginning to feel like decades.
If he’d been left in any doubt that things were different, the gangs and cults roaming the streets had soon changed that. At first only disorganised handfuls, then in greater numbers as they’d banded together for a common cause: mayhem and destruction, making the most of the lack of authorities.
Some had even come from overseas to wreak havoc, like that insane Frenchman they’d heard about – De Falaise. In pre-virus times, he would have been locked up for doing what he did, attempting to take on the mantle of Sheriff of Nottingham. As if that hadn’t been bad enough, there had been that Russian, the self-styled Tsar, a year or so later. Mick had lost friends to him and his forces when they invaded Britain, cutting a swathe through towns and villages.
Yes, he had friends – even in these bleak times. Especially in these times. Because just as there were those who gathered together to cause chaos, there were others intent on bringing some semblance of normality back to these shores. It was how the markets had started, how he’d become involved in them – stumbling on one outfit not far from Wickham. He was impressed that communities had pulled themselves together enough to produce their own food, replacing what had been taken for granted before. Impressed that they were cultivating links with their neighbours, bartering now that money was obsolete.
The markets and trading system had been steadily growing, so when Mick got wind of the fact that folk were also delivering these goods, picking up the traded items in the process, he offered his services – and his truck. He’d felt like a bit of a spare part all this time, on the road, hiding out in Stacey’s cab and living on whatever he could find in out of the way places, scavenging whatever fuel he could from abandoned vehicles; some days even wishing he’d caught that virus along with the
rest of ’em. At least now he could make himself useful, doing the only thing he’d ever really been good at. He was working for – and with – good people; helping to make a difference, perhaps even helping turn things around.
Then came reports of convoys being attacked by armed raiders. These weren’t like earlier encounters, small parties chancing their arm in the hopes of coming away with a vanload of fresh beef or eggs; easily driven off by the weapons they carried to protect themselves. No, these guys were well organised and extremely well armed.
Up until now, they’d been lucky. Mick and his mates hadn’t come face-to-face with them. He could fool himself into thinking it was just like old times on the open road again. If you ignored the fact that, thanks to the scarcity of diesel, some of the transportation had to be of the old fashioned live variety.
That luck had just run out. On their way up through Corbridge, towards the Scottish border, they’d suddenly become the target of one of the raiding parties. He remembered the reported pattern: first creating confusion from a distance, an attempt to cut off the route ahead; next cutting off radio communications, probably with some kind of jamming equipment.
Then they would attack.
And if the stories were to be believed, not many of Mick’s group would survive.
Another mortar fell to the right of Mick’s truck and he grappled with the wheel again, almost tipping the vehicle over – clipping the edge of the second crater but not falling into it. Some of the others were not as fortunate, or as skilled. One truck, being driven by a guy Mick had known only a few months called Jed Elliott, tipped into the first of the holes head-on. It was now stuck there, looking like a mole burrowing into the ground. Mick thought about stopping, but saw something in his mirrors which made him press down on his accelerator instead.