She was. She lay down close beside him and whispered: “You are very brave Peter. You are a wonderful person.”
Peter was tongue tied with embarrassment. He grunted and aid: “It is Graham who is the gutsy one.”
“Yes he is, but he enjoys it. He is a natural. You are a much more sensitive and caring person.”
“I’m worried about this midnight meeting,” Peter said.
“It will be alright. Now relax,” Joy said. To Peter’s mixed consternation and delight she snuggled close against him. For an instant he worried about the fact that he had not had a bath for three days, and that he had worn the same dirty, sweaty uniform the whole time. Then he told himself it didn’t matter.
So has she, and I don’t mind!
He put his arm around her and she murmured and snuggled closer. Her touch both excited and relaxed him. The tension seemed to flow quietly out of him and he felt calm and determined.
I won’t let her down, he vowed.
The sleep of utter exhaustion then claimed him.
Chapter 32
MIDNIGHT
During the next few hours Peter woke up several times. Once it was from a nightmare which left him sweating and groaning. The body on the tree was his and the Black Monk was about to cut his throat. Joy was there and she stroked his face and soothed him.
“Shh! Shh! It is alright Peter. I’m here,” she murmured.
Peter woke with his mind in a whirl. He half rolled over and clung to her. Before he realized what was happening they were kissing with a frantic passion which left him gasping. Then they settled in the comfort of each other’s arms and drifted off to sleep again.
The second time he woke it was from cramps. They struck with agonizing sharpness. He sat up and pummelled his knotted calf muscles, then rubbed his sleep-gummed eyes and looked around. Joy was not beside him. She was on sentry and at once moved over to ask if he was alright.
After that he dozed but the cold and fear kept him on the edge of wakefulness. His mind was continually crowded by images of death, mixed with awful possibilities of what might go wrong at the handover. For the first time in his life he also found himself seriously considering religion.
Was there a God? If there is, why would he allow something like the afternoon’s atrocity to occur? His mind told him the answer. He had never thought about it before but now it made sense.
If God truly gave humans free will then he can’t interfere. He doesn’t take sides. We do it all to ourselves.
Movement roused him. It was Sir Miles. “Time to get up,” he whispered.
Peter sat up and regretted the earlier doubts he had harboured about Sir Miles.
He stretched and tried not to groan. It took a real effort to open his eyes. The lids seemed to be glued together and his mouth felt stale and dry. With a stifled moan he sat up and groped for a water bottle. A drink helped. He found he was shivering and that an icy wind was rustling the trees.
After a couple of minutes of careful stretching Peter stood up. Cautiously he made his way off into the darkness at the rear to relieve himself again, then came back shivering and sore to sit with the others at the rock pile. It took ten minutes to get themselves ready. Reluctantly Peter swung on his webbing and picked up the shotgun. It felt icy and made him shiver violently.
Graham joined him. “I’ll take the pistol that Joy has. Pete, you take the M16 and Joy can have the shotgun. Check your torch,” he said.
Peter agreed to this and passed the shotgun to Joy. “It is on safe, that little switch on top,” he said. He then crouched and tested his torch by holding it face down on the ground and turning it on. It worked. Sir Miles sat next to them and checked the revolver he had. Old Ned and Frank muttered to each other nearby.
Graham slid the pistol into his pocket. “You’ve got the Scroll Sir Miles?” he asked.
“Right here,” Sir Miles replied holding up the sack.
Graham suddenly went tense and turned his head slowly to and fro. “Who is that talking?” he asked.
Peter listened, his anxiety level shooting up. A voice was just audible above the sound of the wind in the trees. For a moment the direction had him puzzled. Then he realized it was behind him. Icicles of fear seemed to stick darts up his back. Then the truth came to him and he shuddered with relief. “It is the radio,” he said.
They crouched to listen. An American with a deep nasal twang was talking. As before it was just sets of four numerals. Peter bit his lip and shook his head. “That is bad news,” he said.
“Why?” Sir Miles asked. “Can you tell what he is saying?”
“No, but it means the person sending the message is now on our side of the mountain,” Peter replied.
“Not necessarily,” Graham countered. “It could be just a sky wave reflection.”
“Could be,” Peter conceded, but in his bones he did not believe it. “I think trouble is about to arrive in big lumps.”
“How would they know where to come?” Sir Miles asked.
Graham answered. “From Stephen and Megan if they have captured them,” he said.
“Oh they wouldn’t talk,” Joy defended. Peter thought about that. He was pretty sure Stephen wouldn’t, but Megan?
Frank moved closer. “Surely they wouldn’t be moving in the dark?” he asked.
“Yes they would,” Graham replied. “Soldiers do it all the time as a matter of course. Come on, we don’t have time to worry about them. Let’s get moving.”
But Peter was now feeling a deep sense of dread. “I’d like to know what they are saying,” he said. “It could help us a lot.”
“We can’t take the radio with us and I don’t like the idea of turning on a torch to copy and decode,” Graham replied.
“When we get back,” Joy replied.
Graham shook his head. “I just want to get out of the area as soon as we have Gwen safe,” he replied.
Frank shivered and said: “Christ it’s cold! Have any of you kids got some water you can spare?”
Peter handed him a water bottle. By then Graham was fretting with impatience. “Come on, it is half past.”
After a final check of gear and safety catches they filed off down the hill. Graham led, then Peter, Joy and Sir Miles. As soon as they moved over the edge of the slope they were met by the wind. It now moaned through the trees and made it hard to hear anything. Progress was slow. They could just see the tree trunks in the blackness but not the logs, rocks and hollows. They stumbled and slithered down the slope, continually bumping into things and tripping.
Five minutes later they were at the road junction. Graham made them crouch there for several minutes while he listened. Then he led them on through the bush about a hundred paces back from the edge of the trees. Trampling through the ferns and long grass was also nerve wracking and Peter was ashamed to admit he was glad Graham was in front of him.
By ten to twelve they were crouched behind the logs only twenty metres from the end of the dam. Peter looked out through the trees and received a shock. Everything was just grey.
“Fog!” he whispered.
That put a new complexion on their plans. “Better than moonlight,” Graham replied. “They won’t be able to ambush us at long range. Now, is everyone sure of what they have to do?”
Once again they went quickly over their plans for various contingencies. Now that the event was upon them Peter was gripped by a terrible feeling of foreboding. He was also shaking with cold which did not help.
I won’t be able to hit anything! he thought in dismay.
Sir Miles leaned forward, hand outstretched. “Here is the Scroll,” he said. Peter took the rough Hessian sack as though it had live snakes in it.
Bloody thing! I wish we’d never heard of it!
“Good luck!” Joy whispered. She gripped Peter’s arm. He bent and kissed her, full on the lips. She responded, her cold lips changing to desirable warmth under his.
Graham nudged him. “Later mate. Come on.”
Peter gave Joy a last kiss and a hug, then moved out to follow Graham, leaving her and Sir Miles crouched among the trees. Graham walked to the end of the footbridge with Peter following.
When they got there Graham peered into the fog in all directions. “Let’s just check there is no-one lurking a bit further along,” he said.
It took all of Peter’s courage to make himself walk along the rough track in that fog. But he was not going to leave Graham unsupported so he followed, peering into dark holes behind trees and under logs. The fear got his heart pounding and he began to sweat, the drops of perspiration chilling him as the wind dried them.
They found no-one along the fifty paces of road before it went steeply down into the valley below the dam so they returned to the end of the footbridge. Peter took out his torch and held it ready.
I hope this bloody thing works! he thought. He gripped the sack containing the Scroll so hard his hand began to hurt.
Then there was nothing to do but crouch and wait, shivering with cold and fear. Peter found it a truly terrifying experience: the fog, the darkness, the fear of the lurking Devil Worshippers. For the first time he seriously wondered about what death might be like and found himself recoiling in a bout of terror which left him trembling and panting. This was made worse by the fact that Graham was beside him, apparently calm.
He is depending on me, Peter thought. I mustn’t let him down.
Midnight arrived. The fog remained as a grey veil over the dam. The other end of the footbridge was just visible in the swirling mist. Suddenly Peter’s heart seemed to stop.
There they were: four black shapes ghosting along the top of the dam towards them. He gripped Graham’s arm.
Graham nodded. “I see them,” he whispered.
“There are four. Shouldn’t there only be two Devil Worshipers and Gwen?” Peter whispered, ashamed that his voice was on the edge of quavering.
“Yes, but there isn’t much we can do. Get ready. Turn your torch on now and leave it,” Graham replied. He stood up and walked forward onto the footbridge. As he did Peter saw the last black shape stop and lie down on top of the dam at the bend.
The Sniper. If he has a telescopic sight or night sight he will be able to see me clearly, he thought.
To his mortification his stomach seemed to turn to water and his flesh started to cringe in anticipation of the bullet’s impact.
To divert himself Peter knelt and placed his torch on the end of the dam. He clicked it on so that the beam shone along the footbridge. Then he took the Scroll out of the sack and opened the plastic wrapping. Then he stood up and aimed the rifle at the group at the end of the footbridge. It was hard to see in the dark but he thought one was dressed differently to the other two. Gwen? Peter found his mind was maggots of speculation over whether Gwen had been violated or not.
One person walked forward onto the footbridge. In the ghostly glow provided by his torch Peter saw black robes billow.
It is the Black Monk himself! he thought in astonishment.
Then he realized that he was probably the only Devil Worshipper who could tell whether the Scroll was authentic or not.
With pounding heart Peter watched the Black Monk walk out to Graham, then move past him. As he came towards him Peter was almost paralysed by fear. The Black Monk had the appearance of the ‘Grim Reaper’ at his very worst. What made the picture more terrifying was the way his cowl completely placed his face in shadow so that it appeared as a black hole instead. Peter felt his bowels loosen and he shook with fright.
The Black Monk stepped off the footbridge and stood in front of Peter. For a moment Peter had the eerie feeling he was confronting a ghost. Certainly the apparition in front of him was the very embodiment of evil. Then the Black Monk spoke: “Der Skroll. Ver is it?”
“H.. here,” Peter croaked, mortified that his voice quavered. He held the Scroll out but managed to keep his rifle pointed at the Black Monk. The Black Monk clicked on a torch and bent forward to examine the Scroll. Peter had a vivid image of a lined, skull-like face and black, glittering eyes. There was also a peculiar odour: sweat; mixed with? Was it scent, and garlick? Or incense?
The Black Monk studied the Scroll carefully, grunting several times. He went to turn it over but Peter held on tight. The hooded head swivelled towards him. “I need the back to examine,” the Black Monk hissed.
Peter let go and the Black Monk turned the Scroll over. He noted some marks on the back of the frame and gave a click of satisfaction with his tongue. Then he turned to go, still holding the Scroll. As he did Peter felt a surge of panic. He had to swallow, to get his voice to work.
“N..no! Leave the Scroll! Bring Gwen to the centre of the bridge and I will bring it to you,” he said. Anger helped.
The bastard! He was going to test me! Peter thought.
That caused a prickling down the back and left side of his body and he sensed that the Devil Worshippers would take any opportunity to double cross them. He reached out and gripped the Scroll firmly with his left hand, at the same time pointing the M16 at the Black Monk’s lower body.
The Black Monk gave him a fierce glare, then let go. By then Peter was in the grip of a mix of intense emotions. His major fear was that the Black Monk might suddenly whip out a gun and shoot him and then Graham.
Can I pull the trigger in time? he wondered. His finger tightened and he trembled.
With a swirl of robes the Black Monk turned and went back onto the bridge, leaving Peter shaking. The Black Monk walked quickly back across the bridge, brushing past Graham without a word. At the other side he spoke to the Devil Worshipper there who pushed the other person to move. Peter slipped the Scroll back into its sack and walked out onto the bridge. He felt very exposed and frightened.
As he walked forward Peter heard the Black Monk talking to someone. Then it twigged.
He is speaking on a radio! he thought.
That made Peter stride out to where Graham waited. The prickling sensation down his back increased.
“Graham, I think they are going to double cross us!” he hissed.
Graham nodded, his pistol levelled at the two people approaching. The leading person was a Devil Worshipper wearing a balaclava and he had a sub machine gun which was pointed directly at them. To his relief Peter saw that the person behind was Gwen.
The pair arrived and stopped. Gwen looked very frightened and confused. Then she recognized them and let out a cry: “Graham! Peter! What? What?”
“Shut up!” the Devil Worshipper snapped. All Peter could see were the man’s eyes flicking in the eyeholes of the black balaclava. The man held out his hand. “The Scroll. Give it to me!”
Graham shook his head. “Pass Gwen around you at the same time. Cover him Pete.”
Peter raised the M16 and aimed it at the Devil Worshipper’s head. He saw the man’s eyes flick to it. Then he grunted and pulled Gwen forward. Graham reached back and took the sack off Peter and held it out. The man reached for it and pushed Gwen across as he did. The moment of crisis arrived. Peter tensed, ready to shoot, leaning out to one side so as not to hit Gwen. Graham grabbed her and pulled her behind him, keeping his pistol aimed at the Devil Worshipper as he did.
The man took the sack and began backing off. Peter hissed: “Graham, get Gwen back off the bridge. I’ll cover you. Go!”
Graham didn’t argue and luckily Gwen had the presence of mind not to make a fuss. She allowed herself to be hustled back along the footbridge. Peter leaned over out of their way. As soon as they were past he went into a crouch and began moving backwards, the rifle still aimed at the Devil Worshipper, who was still backing off, his sub machine gun now at the hip.
Into Peter’s consciousness came the sound of a stone clinking on another off to his left rear, and of the Black Monk speaking softly but urgently. A trap! he thought. He called out: “Graham, watch out behind us!”
Graham and Gwen were at the end of the footbridge by then but Peter still had ten paces to go. He now acted on instinc
t, dropping flat and rolling. As he did a shot rang out. It wasn’t by the man with the SMG so must have come from the Sniper. The bullet cracked past with a vicious snap.
Peter had thought about what to do but knew it was now a desperate risk. With one hand he gripped the pipe which was one of the uprights of the handrails. As he did he rolled under the rail and off the walkway on the upstream side. As he did so he heard the SMG start to fire. Bullets whacked into the concrete and ricocheted off the steel railings with terrifying screams.
In a desperate bid to survive Peter swung off the bridge and in under it. Even as he did he felt his left arm twisting and his grip slipping and he knew he had miscalculated. Rather than try to hang on he let go, seeing the narrow top of the concrete spillway a few metres below. He fell, landing awkwardly on it. In the process he missed with one foot, which luckily went into the water on the upstream side. Just in time he was able to throw his weight to stop himself falling into the water. Instead he landed heavily astride the spillway, banging his right knee hard as he did.
During all this he was conscious of a savage outburst of shooting. Some was behind him and some in front. Behind him he heard the shattering bang of a shotgun, followed by a yelp of pain off downstream. Drive by a frantic desire to live Peter scrambled up and ran back along the top of the spillway, slipping on the wet concrete and thankful that the water flowing over it was only a few centimetres deep. On his right was a long drop of ten metres or more down into a concrete baffle. Fear of falling down warred with fear of being shot and he ran in a feat of gymnastics he would never have been capable of in cold blood.
At the end of the spillway was a concrete wall. There was nothing for it but to jump. Peter sprang out on the upstream side, his eyes questing for a landing place. His leap did not make the shore. Instead he landed on stones and mud in knee deep water. He fell heavily, whacking his face on the rocks and almost stunning himself. Somehow he kept his grip on the rifle. Heedless of the bruises and scratches he scrambled up over the rocks onto the bank.
It was very dark and equally confusing. The flash of gunshots greeted him. It took him an instant to work out that they were not directed at him. It was Joy and Sir Miles, firing along the road at people downstream on the same bank.
The Word of God Page 39