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Community Chronicles Book 2
Chapter 1
Scottish Highlands
2056 AD
Scott Campbell rested his finger on the trigger of the L115A3.
Watching. No, he’d give them a chance.
He lifted the telescopic sight of the long range rifle and viewed his quarry from his vantage point above. His Militia silently settled into place behind him. The tips of the Scottish Highland mountains glowed orange as the setting sun dimmed his view of the bandit group—about a dozen of them—setting up camp below him amid the heather and gorse, sheltered by large grey boulders. This was an unfamiliar group of simply dressed, woollen-cloaked campers. Scott repressed a shiver as the mist settled amongst the mountains and the cold from the ground beneath him seeped through his clothes, chilling his skin.
Still watching.
A scraggy-haired youth slipped saddlebags off the back of a mule and placed them next to the growing pile. An older man in torn jeans directed proceedings. A middle-aged woman lit a fire as a scrawny lass brought cooking pots and utensils from a packhorse. So far, the only stolen goods on this group of reprobates were not of the human kind. Not slavers then. Still he watched; he had to be certain. The people in his Community must be safe.
The soft murmurs of Scott’s crew settling-in surrounded him. This reconnaissance should be for nothing. At least it would give the youngsters with him some more experience. Experience never went astray.
Guilt nagged at him, but he pushed it aside. He needed a break from the compound and this exercise was an excuse—the emotions at home were growing too intense.
He glanced up at the darkening peaks ahead. The world’s trauma had barely touched the Highlands. The cities hadn’t been so lucky. It had been a long time since he’d been in Glasgow. Man, that’d been a mess. He’d walked away, past looted buildings and crumbling infrastructure, never to return.
Scott had chosen to take the first watch. His eldest boy, Rory, joined him as others hunkered down for the night behind the rocky outcrop where they had perched. Rory was a quiet lad, and smart.
“So, tell me, if ye loved someone, and one day ye will.” Scott shifted his gaze from the rifle’s sight and now looked at his son. A smile tweaked at the corner of Rory’s mouth. “If ye had a chance to be with them again, once ye’d lost them, would ye?” Scott returned to watching through the sight.
Silence was Rory’s first response. Scott didn’t mind, he would get a considered answer eventually. One worth waiting for. He slid his glance back to the eldest of his twin sons.
“Now that depends on the means of acquiring the chance.” Rory’s deep red hair seemed brown in the fading light. “Would I do anything? Maybe. Would I risk danger to do so?” He pursed his lips and scratched his wispy beard. “I’d weigh up the risk against benefit. If I was sure I would see them again, and I couldn’t imagine life without them...”
Good lad, wise enough to not give advice. A warmth settled in Scott’s chest as he turned his attention again to the camp below. The youths in the group were removing saddles and tack from the horses and mules and tying the animals to a line for the night. The young lads were rowdy and undisciplined. Scott gritted his teeth. He had to be sure these people were just one of the usual groups of desperates trying to survive in this world. Slavery was rife and nowhere was safe. Well, his Community was. And he was determined it would stay that way.
The quiet whisper of static followed by low-voiced conversation floated along to him. The lass in his Militia group on communication-duty, padded up the slope from her position with the portable radio, to their secluded shelf in the hillside, her brown buckskins and dusky-green homespun camouflaging her in the night.
“Sir, you’re wanted at the compound.” There was an urgency in her voice and a frown creased her brow as she dragged a rifle from her shoulder.
“Verra well. I’ll go back.” Scott knew what the problem would be. “You stay here with the others, Rory. If ye and your brothers need to come, I’ll send a message for ye.”
Scott strode down to where they’d tethered the horses and leaped onto his Highland Mountain horse. Scott galloped his stallion to a lather along the trail. He seemed to fly through the Western Highland night, by lochs glistening in bright moonlight, with the silent mountains gleaming as they observed his journey by their feet. The electricity-generating windmills on the hill behind the compound glowed a dull white in the moonlight, spinning like crazy long-limbed ghosts. The sentry called as Scott approached the high walls of the compound and the sturdy iron gate slid open, revealing light spilling onto the main building’s courtyard. It had once been a farmyard but now the farmhouse, animal sheds, and other buildings formed part of the complex that was the Invercharing Community—and home.
Flinging his right leg over, Scott landed beside his stallion and patted the deep-brown neck, warm and smooth under his hand. He loved this animal and would miss him.
A long shadow approached from the doorway. The doctor was quiet; her mouth a straight-line matching those on her forehead. His heart missed a beat.
“Has she gone?”
“Not yet, but soon.” Her voice was soft and full of sympathy, as she would use for those who mourn.
He ran inside.