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Edinburgh
Boy stumbled again crossing the Royal Mile of Edinburgh Old Town, the stallion’s hooves clattering on the street. Buildings, centuries old, passed by Rory in a blur. He had avoided this part of Edinburgh on previous visits, but it was the quickest way to Arthur’s Seat.
Rory pushed Boy on through mountains of rubbish that lined the streets. The reek of human excrement and soured milk wafted from in between rusted car carcasses, litter and rubble strewn before buildings covered in graffiti. Rory snorted at the city that once boasted its place as Scotland’s capital. He turned Boy down Holyrood Road, the main street after the Royal Mile, as Xian had said he should.
A group of people, mostly men, milled around on a street corner, leaning in close conversation. Their heads turned at the ring of Boy’s shod hooves on the cobbled road. Firearms hung at the belts of their ragged trousers, and the stocks of rifles, bows, and the handles of long knives sat above the dull clad shoulders of the group concentrating on Rory’s approach.
They stirred from their positions to bar Rory’s path. He pulled Boy up at the same time taking his Glock from its home at his back and aiming at the man in front of him.
“Please move out of my way.” Rory tightened his grip on his handgun.
A man on the left of the human barrier notched an arrow to the bow he’d slipped off his shoulder. There was a click-clack as a woman to Rory’s right loaded and aimed her semi-automatic rifle. The man in the centre raised his hand, and all activity around him stilled.
“I’m trying to be polite here.” Rory’s brow dripped with sweat where moments before it had only been moist.
“Now, lads, let’s just hear the man oot.” The spokesman’s stare stuck on Rory. “Well, why should we no’ take whatever we want from ye?”
“No reason at all in this world, but I’d like to think even you have some compassion on a man who’s aiming to get to his wife who’s having his baby but,” Rory spoke through a shuddered breath, “with difficulty.”
The man squinted at Rory and lowered his hand.
“I’ll not let her die on me too.” Rory’s voice was as firm as his grip and aim.
“I’ll have that.” The man lifted his chin, indicating the long-range rifle slung over Rory’s shoulder.
His father’s long-range rifle.
The last piece of him.
Rory’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He slowly shook his head. “No,” he said with as much force as he could temper with manners.
The man tilted his head and pursed his lips. “Och, weel. Ye dinnae get tae be with yoor wifey then.” He strode forward and his companions raised their weapons.
“Look, this was my father’s...He died, and this is all I have left of him.”
“We all hae somebody who died on us.” The gazes of those standing before Rory bore into him.
Rory mentally ran through his inventory of the valuable possessions on him, focusing on the most expendable.
“I have food.”
The man paused and tucked his thumb in the rope he used for a belt. “Och, lad, we’ll have that too.” He and his companions remained where they stood.
Rory gritted his teeth at his next suggestion. But it might just be enough.
“You can have anything else except this rifle and ma horse.”
The man stepped forward, laughing. Rory altered his grip on his Glock, his finger tight to the trigger. The man stopped mid-stride and squinted up at him.
“You’ll be dead in seconds if ye shoot me,” he said.
“Aye, but so will you,” Rory growled. “Decide what ye want other than ma faither’s rifle.”
“What’s in the wee baggy slung over your other shoulder?”
“A CB radio—”
“Och, that’ll do nicely.” The man wriggled his fingers, palm up, at Rory and kept them in that position.
Heat rose up Rory’s neck. He lifted the CB’s strap from over his shoulder and handed the portable CB in its bag to the man.
“Can I go now?” Rory ground out. Boy snorted beneath him, ears twitching.
“Och weel, that handgun you’re pointin’ at me is quite a nice piece, is it no’? It’ll be mine tha’ noo.” The man’s expression didn’t waver.
Rory swallowed, only partially succeeding in passing thick saliva down a dry throat. He leaned over and gave up his Glock.
“That saddle ye are sittin’ upon is a fine piece of workmanship. I’ll have that too.”
“What!”
“Ye heard me,” the man growled.
Rory bit his tongue and dismounted. He removed the saddle, keeping his saddlebags slung over Boy’s rump, and surrendered it. He jumped back on a saddle blanket soaked with horse sweat.
The man flicked his head in the direction Rory was travelling. “Aye, go to ye wifey and bairn.” A chorus of protest rose from his companions. “Och, the lad’s genuine.” He raised his hand along with his voice. “Look at the way he’s punished that fine-lookin’ animal.”
His companion beside him murmured.
“Let ’im through,” he shouted, then spat on the road in front of Boy, who gave a tired but irritated whinny.
Rory kicked Boy to a canter and rode through the thin gap in the line-up before him. His shoulders burned and his neck prickled, but they fired no shots, so he nudged Boy on past more boarded houses and derelict shops.
Boy gave a heavy snort and his breath came hard. Rory cantered him on the narrow road that led behind the hill and wound its way up to the solid gates, which were the entry to the Bunker. The sentry on lookout at the top of the gates shouted and waved. The thick metal doors rolled open. Rory dug his heels in, and air rushed out of Boy’s nostrils, his canter slowing to a tired trot. Rory steered him down the concrete driveway deep into the Bunker, barely acknowledging the defence force personnel surrounding him.
Boy’s hooves echoed as he stumbled along to the loading platform where the entry to the stairwell was situated, and he panted hard as Rory slid off.
A young lad, not much older than Murray, exited the stairwell. “Mr Campbell, I’ll show you to the medical centre.”
Behind Rory, Boy gave a breathy-snort then whinnied. An exhausted whinny that bordered on fear. It pierced Rory’s soul.
He spun.
Boy collapsed, his legs folding underneath him, grazing knees and bashing his frothing mouth on the concrete. Blood dribbled from his lips.
“Boy!” The word wrenched from Rory’s heart while he ran and grabbed the reins. He bent over his stallion, chest tightening. His lifelong friend rolled and lay down, his shiny black coat mottled in lathered sweat, his sides heaving.
“Do you have a vet?” Rory screamed. “Please? I must get to Siobhan. Somebody, tend to ma horse, please!” He just got the words out through a tight, dry throat.
“We’ll call someone,” the lad said. “Sir?”
Rory had seen it before, when riders pushed their horses too hard. He dragged his eyes away from his failing stallion.
“Where is she? Is she okay?” Rory rushed toward the young man, forcing himself to leave all thoughts and feelings for his horse in the garage, and concentrate on his wife and child. He followed the lad, picking up his pace, and ran through the door and up the stairs.