CHAPTER THIRTEEN

 

 

TODAY HAD BEGUN much the same as every other day since the world ended.

Though, to be honest, things hadn’t really changed on the farm much anyway; work-wise, at any rate. She still got up at sunrise, still fed the pigs and chickens at the same time, tended to the fields, saw to the bees. Life was pretty much how it had been for as long as she could remember. Apart from the fact that her brother and father were gone.

Mary Louise Foster looked out over the tracts of land that formed the backdrop of her house. It was an inherited property, which strangely enough she never thought would be hers – and certainly didn’t want to come by in the way that she had. Her mother left when Mary was only small, unable to cope with the lot of a farmer’s wife, and the two kids the farmer had given her. In many ways Mary resented the fact she’d disappeared like that, leaving her father to cope on his own. In some ways, though, she totally understood. At any rate, it had meant that Mary and her sibling, David, had to grow up fast. They’d been set to work on the farm, David taking to it like one of their pigs to muck, while she always felt oddly out of place. And always scrutinised. In their eyes she could never lift as much as David or her father, could never work quite as hard as they did. So the older she became the more she was expected to do what they called the ‘woman’s work’: cleaning the house, making the meals.

Then one day Mary decided enough was enough. She’d told them out and out that they had to do their fair share of work around the home.

“Only if you do your fair share out there, Moo-Moo,” David had replied.

“Fair enough, then, Diddy,” Mary responded, folding her arms.

So she’d rolled up her sleeves and joined them again out on the farm, resolving to work not just as hard as them, but harder. She hadn’t given up, not even when her limbs ached and her feet were sore. Mary lugged bales of hay, learned how to drive the tractor, got stuck in with the pitchfork and, in return, demanded that David and her father get in the kitchen from time to time and learn exactly how a Hoover operated. Her father refused, no matter how hard Mary toiled. Bernhard Donald Foster was stuck in the past, and not just because he liked to collect his precious historical memorabilia. He came from a different generation, who had buried their heads in the sand when it came to treating women the same as men. He had taken his lead from his own father, and his grandfather before that, who thought their wives were put on this Earth just to serve them. Which was probably why Bernhard had spent so many nights alone in that big double bed. Sometimes she’d hear him tossing and turning in the small hours and her heart would go out to him. Then he’d get up the next morning and ask her what was for breakfast, when he could expect it, and all that sympathy would vanish.

David, on the other hand, had admired his little sister’s tenacity: so much so that he began to help out with the cooking, did the dusting on a Saturday and even – shock, horror – gave a hand with the washing-up from time to time. Her father looked on with great disdain but said nothing.

Before Bernard died of a massive stroke at the age of fifty-five, David and Mary had developed an extremely close bond. David had just turned twenty, so he took on the legal guardianship of Mary. Both agreed they didn’t want to look for their estranged mother – who’d already been written out of the will. They’d be okay, here, together. They didn’t need anyone else.

Like David before her, Mary attended the local school, only she excelled in the arts. When the time came to choose, though, between moving away to attend college and remaining on the farm, Mary stayed with David. He hadn’t pressured her, but she’d felt it was her duty nonetheless. There was a big part of her that really didn’t want to leave him, anyway. Every year that went by, however, it grew tougher and tougher for farmers. For them. She continued to draw and often wondered what it would have been like if she’d made it to college. Would she have had a successful career in graphic design, met the man of her dreams that she’d been saving herself for?

But then, looking back, none of that had mattered in the end. Because of the Cull.

The first they’d heard about the virus, living all the way out here, was when David had returned from trying to sell the pigs at auction.

“They’re all talking about it. They’re saying maybe it’s come from the animals. Like foot and mouth, only worse, spreading to humans.... People are getting real sick, Moo-Moo.”

“There’s nothing wrong with our animals!” Mary said defensively.

“I know that! I’m just telling you what they said.”

But nobody knew where the virus had come from. The television threw back images of cities in chaos, of throngs of people desperate to get somewhere, but not knowing where. Mary and David locked themselves away from the outside world, pretending it didn’t exist.

Then, one morning, David began to cough.

“Look, I’m bleeding, Moo-Moo.” She could see that for herself. The blood was all over the towels in the bathroom, all over the floor. Mary had cleaned him up as best she could, helping him back to bed. She had no formal training in nursing, but had done a few courses in first aid and learned what she could from books. She was also used to looking after two grown men who insisted they were dying every time they came down with something. The only difference this time being David actually was.

They had all kinds of medicines in the house – the Fosters were very self-sufficient – and she tried him on antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, whatever she thought might help. Nothing did the trick.

The phone lines were all busy, the emergency services non-responsive. Mary thought about running David into the nearest town, but by that time he’d deteriorated rapidly. He probably wouldn’t have lasted the journey. All she could do was sit with him and hope he made it through the night.

He did, but only just. Delirious, he kept asking for their father in the final moments, wanted to tell him he was sorry for abandoning the farm. “It’s down to you now. There’s only you left. You have to promise me, Moo-Moo. As long as it’s still... still standing.”

“I promise, Diddy,” Mary had said, tears streaming down her face.

Then she realised he was already gone.

Mary buried David out by one of his favourite trees, where he used to read on summer days when they’d take picnics into the top field.

It still made her sad that she’d never gone off and started a family somewhere, but Mary had made her peace with the life she’d chosen – wouldn’t have missed spending those final few years with her brother for anything. Besides which, in retrospect, what might have happened to that family even if she’d started it? She’d probably have had to say goodbye to a husband she loved, to children. She couldn’t even begin to imagine what that must be like; what it could do to you.

Mary never really questioned why she didn’t get sick. She just assumed there was something inside her stronger than David. In the end she’d been proved stronger than both him and her father, had been bequeathed the entire farm and its lands.

And today had begun just like any other day: she’d done quite a few of her chores and was now looking forward to a nice bacon sandwich.

No sooner had she put the pan on the range, standing with her long, dark hair tied back in a ponytail, than she heard the sound of approaching engines. Apart from the tractors, which she’d used sparingly since David passed away – conserving the fuel they kept out in the adjourning garage – she hadn’t heard a car engine in longer than she could remember. It sounded strange to her; not just the noise, but the connotations of it. That people were, in fact, out there in the world.

That they were heading her way.

Mary rushed to the kitchen window, craning her head to try and see up the dirt track leading to her farm.

They were dots to begin with, no bigger than the bees. But they were growing larger with each metre of road they devoured. Mary hadn’t encountered another human being in all this time, and now she was about to meet several, all at once. She counted two jeeps, three or four motorcycles and a truck.

What do I do? she thought to herself, realising her hands were shaking. Hide? Pretend I’m not here and hope that they’ll just go away? But she’d done enough of that already. It didn’t sit right anymore. This was her farm now, and she should see what they wanted. After all, they looked sort of official. Perhaps civilisation was piecing itself back together? Perhaps they were here to help?

It wasn’t long before the vehicles were in the yard: the chickens in the run protesting, the pigs in the sty oinking for all they were worth. Mary hung back at the window, crouching and peering out through the netting. The men wore uniforms, but they weren’t like any she’d seen before. They looked as if they’d been standing in an Army & Navy store when a hurricane hit: each soldier sporting items from different branches of the forces. The man stepping down from the driver’s side of the truck was wearing a peaked cap – obviously the guy in charge.

He reached into the truck and pulled out a megaphone, as more of the soldiers came to join him. Each one was heavily armed, she noted, holding machine guns close to their chests.

“If there is anyone at home here, please come out with your hands where we can see them,” the man shouted. His accent betrayed him; definitely not from England, though Mary couldn’t place where it had originated.

They don’t sound very friendly, Moo-Moo... came the voice of her brother in her head. It didn’t freak her out at all, because she knew – hoped – she wasn’t crazy, just imagining what he might say if he were here. No, I definitely don’t like the looks of this.

Neither did she.

“If you don’t come out, we will be coming in. We are here under the authority of the new High Sheriff of Nottingham.”

The what? said David in her head. He’s got to be kidding, right? Have we just gone through a time warp or something?

Mary watched as the men spread out, investigating the chicken run, the sty. They reported back to the fellow with the peaked cap. She watched, horrified, as one of the soldiers stepped into the run, grabbing a chicken and snapping its neck. Mary had just about got over that when she heard gunfire coming from the pigsty, a rat-ta-ta-tat noise as someone massacred the helpless creatures. Her hand shot to her mouth.

They’re going to do that to me, too, aren’t they?

Probably, Moo-Moo. I don’t think you should hang around to find out, do you?

Mary came away from the window and noticed the smoke; the bacon had burnt to a crisp. Then the smoke alarm went off, proving that even if everything else in this world had gone to crap, then at least one thing could be relied on. The incessant beep-beep-beep gave her away, and she knew she didn’t have long before they stormed the house.

Mary ran from the kitchen into the hall, passing the crossed broadswords that hung there, on her way to the combined study and living room. She hurried to the desk at the back, her father’s antique desk. On her way, something caught her eye through the window – figures rounding the back of the house, ensuring any escape route would be cut off. Mary yanked open the drawer nearest to her. There they were, lying in the bottom, shiny and fully loaded, with packs of bullets next to them. When they’d been little, her father had kept them safely locked away, only bringing them out to admire and clean when they were in bed. As they grew, he’d been less bothered about safety, even letting them hold the pistols when they were unloaded. David had always looked at them like he was handling live snakes, but Mary had felt the weight in her hand comforting. Whereas most farmers might have a shotgun to protect their land, Bernhard Foster had two replica Smith & Wesson Peacemakers, and he knew how to use them. Mary had watched him out in the field sometimes, able to knock nine out of ten tin cans from their perch on top of a wooden crate at thirty paces or more.

She’d watched and she’d remembered.

When the handgun ban had come into effect in the UK, David had wanted to take them in. But she argued against it, saying that it was one of the few things they had left of their father, but really just wanting to keep them around the place. She felt safer with them in the drawer. There was a reason she’d looked after them and kept them loaded ever since David had gone. A reason she’d practised with the tins just like her father had when she was young. This was the reason, she understood that now.

Taking them out, her fingers curled around the handles, and it gave her confidence. Mary felt like she could do anything now, anything at –

There was a banging on the front door – which she had a clear view of from her position. Placing one pistol down on the desk momentarily, she stuffed bullets into the pockets of her jeans, as many as she could cram in there. Skirting back around the desk, she used the living room door jamb for cover and risked a glance out. Heavy boots were stamping against the wood of the front door, but it was holding for now. It wouldn’t for long.

Just like Custer, eh? Dad would’ve been proud, said David.

Great, thanks...

The door was splintering at the lock and Mary knew in seconds they’d be through. She slid down the wall, breathing heavily, waiting to act until she heard the door give completely. She heard it smash open, and turned to fire upwards – assessing the situation quickly before pulling the trigger.

The soldiers burst in and she let them have it. At the awkward angle, her aim was a little wide, ricocheting off the stone wall above the door. Nevertheless it was enough to force a retreat.

She smiled to herself – that wasn’t so hard. But then a hail of bullets filled the hallway; Mary only just managed to roll back into the living room and avoid them.

“Tin cans don’t do that,” she muttered to herself.

Luckily they were aiming high, the soldiers either not that well trained or hampered by the smoke wafting out of the kitchen and filling the hall, masking her from sight.

Mary looked around for an easy exit. The enormous back windows were probably her best option, but even now she saw shadows there as more men ran around the back of the house, trapping her.

She heard the shattering of windows elsewhere too, possibly the dining room on the other side of the hall. The stairs were between there and here, so a dash for the landing or bedrooms was out of the question. Mary shuffled up against the living room wall.

First order of business was to defend the front door – they’d be coming through there again any moment. Mary rose and peered around the jamb. Sure enough she spotted figures there – responding to orders given by their commanding officer outside – and she fired blindly through the smoke. She dived as the muzzles of their machine guns flashed again, rolling as she did to the other side of the jamb.

There was gunfire at the back of the house as well, raking the stone, shattering the glass of the living room window. Mary fired a couple of shots in that direction to try and ward off any soldiers entering that way.

She risked another glance into the hall, and it was at this point she saw something rolling towards her. It was small and black, ball-like but metallic; it rattled along the wooden floor as it went.

Move, Sis! Get out of there, right now!

“Oh, shit!” she cried, scrambling to her feet. Mary was about halfway across the room, already diving for the shelter of the desk, when the grenade exploded in the hallway. The force of it flung her the rest of the way, bouncing her off the top of the desk and pitching her against the far wall, as most of the room appeared to follow behind her.

Mary landed on the other side of the desk, protected from the resultant blast but barely conscious.

Moo-Moo... Wake up! You’ve got to wake up... Those men are in the house and they’re going to hurt you! Please, Moo-Moo!

So, her mind was still working then, still keeping up the imaginary dialogue with her dead brother? She drifted in and out of wakefulness, desperate to keep her eyes open. Mary could hear sounds, men calling out to each other. A creaking from above, someone walking on the floorboards upstairs. They were searching the house from top to bottom.

“All clear,” someone called.

She blacked out for a few moments, then another voice not far away was shouting, “In here... Look.”

“Careful, she’s still alive.”

“Call Colonel Rudakas, quickly.”

Mary was aware of hands on her, of being lifted up – but she couldn’t do a blessed thing about it. Again, a few more seconds of blackness, then she felt her face being slapped.

“Hey! Wake up!”

Another slap, followed by a shake – rough hands holding her on either side were pushing her backwards and forwards in quick succession. Mary screwed her hazel eyes up tight, then opened them. The figure in front of her was blurry, but she could tell by the peaked cap it was the man in charge, this Rudakas guy.

She was shaken again. “I’m awake,” Mary burbled. “Stop shaking me.”

“Good.” He smiled. “This is quite a place you have here...” He waited for her name, but when Mary didn’t offer one, he proceeded. “Hidden away, miles from civilisation. We almost missed you on our spree today.”

Mary struggled against the men holding her, but they had a firm grip.

“You’re headstrong, I’ll give you that – but it will fade soon enough. You’re also very beautiful.” Rudakas looked her up and down. It made Mary feel sick to her stomach. “My Lord De Falaise grows weary of the companion he has at present. He is in need of some fresh company.”

“Who... who are you people?”

“Us? Have you not heard? No, I do not imagine you have. We are the new order, we are your new masters.”

“You’re not my anything.” Mary scowled.

Rudakas toured around the room, approaching the desk that had shielded Mary after the grenade went off. When Rudakas turned back to her, he had both the Peacemakers in his hands.

“Collector’s items, I believe. Where did you come by such magnificent pistols?”

“They were my father’s,” Mary told him reluctantly.

“Ah, a family heirloom, then... Like all of this, I presume.” He gestured at the room, the house. “I must apologise for the untidiness, but you left us little choice. Had you made your presence known, surrendered earlier, then...Well, things might have worked out a little differently. I am not an unreasonable man; nor is the Sheriff.”

“Sheriff? I don’t understand.”

“It’s quite simple, really. My Lord has taken over these lands and appointed himself their keeper. Which, put simply, means that everything found on said lands belongs to him. These” – he lifted the pistols – “your property, such as it is... Your animals, which we have already begun slaughtering for meat. Your crops and, finally, you, my sweet.”

Mary stiffened.

“I take it you do have a name?”

She clamped her mouth shut.

“Tell me, for that too belongs to him.”

When Mary defied the man, he stuffed one of the pistols into his belt and then punched her hard in the stomach. The breath exploded from her, but she wasn’t allowed the luxury of doubling over – the men holding her on either side saw to that.

“Now, I ask again, what your name might be?”

Tell him, Moo-Moo. Tell him or he might do something worse.

“Ma... Ma...” was all she could manage, but it wasn’t just the effort of speaking when winded; it was the principle that was sticking in her throat.

The man grabbed her just under the chin. “We have all the time in the world, but it would go easier on you if you just told me right now.”

Mary spat in his face.

Rudakas recoiled. “You fucking bitch! I will teach you some manners before dragging you to the castle.” He pulled back his fist again, and was about to strike Mary when there came a noise from outside.

It was the sound of gunfire.

“What is that? Are there more of you here?” When he got no answer, he said to the men, “Hold her until I return.” Rudakas strode off up the hallway.

Mary’s face stung and her stomach was killing her. But she recognised an opportunity when she saw one. Feigning weakness, she lolled forward, forcing the men holding her to yank her back again. As soon as they did, she made her move. Mary stamped on the foot of the soldier to her right. He was wearing boots, but then so was she, and Mary dug the edge of her heel in hard for maximum effect. The man let go and, as soon as he did, she swung her newly-freed arm around and smashed a fist into the face of her other warder, giving a satisfying grunt as his nose shattered.

Without anyone to hold him, the man did double over – so she punched him again, this time at the temple. He toppled over sideways and didn’t get up.

Mary suddenly felt arms around her. The first guard, who’d got over her treading on his toes, had wrapped himself around her, clasping his hands together over her chest. Mary dropped, letting go and turning into a dead weight, slipping out from under his grasp. On her back, and on the floor, she brought up her left leg and swung it over her head, kicking the man squarely in the crotch.

He fell backwards with a loud yelp. Mary ran to the smashed window at the back of the living room. More of Rudakas’s people were standing guard there but, as she watched, something very strange happened. Out of nowhere came an object, a spinning thing flying through the air. It hit one man at speed, wrapping itself around his neck, the twine whipping round until the stones attached to each end came together. He reached up for this throat, unable to call out, choking as other newcomers approached.

One of them was a huge bear of a man wearing a baseball cap. He came up behind a soldier and swung what appeared to be a staff, knocking him into a beehive.

What’s going on, Diddy?

I’m not sure, but I think they’re here to help, Moo-Moo.

Then she heard the second explosion of that day, and the house rocked with its intensity.

 

 

RUDAKAS HATED HAVING to leave the girl, especially at such a crucial point.

He knew De Falaise would not want a woman who would spit and fight back – he preferred them to be docile. If he could tame this one, he’d be in his Lord’s good books for weeks, or at least until he grew bored of her too. Not that it was always a good thing to be among De Falaise’s most favoured, mused Rudakas. Just look at Javier. He’d brought their leader the last girl, and in return had been rewarded with a very ‘special task.’

Rudakas wondered absently how well he might have fared in the forest against the Hooded Man. Surely he would have done better? He pushed such thoughts aside, concentrating on the here and now, on the fact that the woman back there was not as alone as she seemed. He looked down at the pistol he held in his hand. “They were my father’s,” she’d said, and he’d assumed the man was dead, just like most of the population. But what if she’d meant him to think that? What if her father had seen them approach and hid, maybe in one of the barns? Maybe in that rickety old garage joined on to the house? Or perhaps a brother or cousin, if the father was no more? Anything was possible and someone was certainly causing a ruckus outside.

The door had swung to again, so Rudakas pulled on the handle to see what was happening. Once more he heard gunfire. He looked outside and couldn’t believe what his eyes were telling him.

His unit was under attack, but not just from one man – or even a couple. Gunfire emanated from the bushes ringing the fields, from behind the barns, even from behind their own vehicles. They were being hit by an organised and motivated group. One of his own soldiers dropped, falling from a shoulder wound. Another was hit by something much cruder – a stone, flung with force.

“Pick your targets,” shouted Rudakas. “Watch for muzzle flashes and –”

Something embedded itself in the wood of the door jamb, inches away from his head. He examined the arrow, obviously handmade, but lovingly fashioned and extremely deadly. Then he traced its trajectory back to the person who’d fired it. He was standing on top of their truck, head down, a hood covering much of his face. The bow he was holding – a strong wooden longbow – was still reverberating from the shot.

Be careful what you wish for. You wanted to know how you’d fare against the Hooded Man? Well, now you will find out.

The figure on the truck, set apart from the rest of the battle, and barely seeming to take notice of the bullets flying back and forth, raised his head. From beneath the cowl Rudakas saw two of the most penetrating eyes he’d ever had the misfortune to gaze into. It was as if the man had fixed on him, and him alone, for his prey.

Rudakas was suddenly conscious that the only guns he had on him were the Peacemakers he’d taken from the woman. With one in his hand already, he snatched the other from his belt and raised them, moving forward at the same time.

The Hooded Man smiled, a grin only just visible beneath his beard. And like a blur, he was reaching for another arrow from his quiver, jumping down onto the hood of the truck, hitting the ground running.

Like gunfighters from an old western movie – quite appropriate, considering the weapons Rudakas held – they faced off against each other. The colonel fired, expertly aiming and yet somehow missing the target every time. The Hooded Man let off a couple more arrows, one of which scraped Rudakas’s thigh, the other only just missing his head.

“Fuck!”

Rudakas fired again, the Hooded Man mirroring his actions. This time a bullet nicked the latter’s shoulder: a flesh wound, but enough to ensure the man’s aim was off.

Rudakas grabbed his chance. Raising both the Peacekeepers, he fired directly at his enemy’s head. Both pistols clicked empty. He’d become so used to automatic weaponry, easy to reload and discharge, that he’d forgotten he was holding revolvers – and that the woman had already fired off a number of bullets at them as they broke into her home.

The Hooded Man, however, still had one arrow left in his quiver. Rudakas swallowed dryly as he watched the man reach for the projectile. The arrowhead was aimed right between Rudakas’s eyes. But he refused to close them; he’d always told himself he would meet death with his eyes wide open and, if need be, his arms too.

The Hooded Man’s fingers twitched on the bowstring.

Rudakas waited for the end – and if time had slowed before, then it practically ground to a halt now.

But when it lurched forward again, the colonel was surprised to see the Hooded Man’s aim shifting, the bow and arrow pointing several metres to Rudakas’s right. He looked over, saw that one of his men had a grenade and was about to toss it into the middle of the fight; not the most sensible thing to do, as that would cause the Colonel just as many problems as the arrow, but in the end it proved a satisfactory diversion.

The arrow caught the soldier just below the collarbone, with such force that it went right through to the other side, pinning him against the wooden doors of the garage. The grenade slipped from his fingers and rolled underneath the gap at the bottom of the garage doors. Both Rudakas and the Hooded Man looked on as the man struggled to free himself, understandably not wanting to be anywhere near the grenade when it went off.

The soldier frantically tugged away at the arrow, an expression of pure horror on his face, then finally he pulled it out of the wood, bringing his shoulder with it. He had little time to celebrate, though, because at that point an inferno was unleashed behind him. The explosion blew the doors off their hinges, lifting the man, and some of the ground, into the sky. He cooked instantly in the blaze.

Rudakas wondered what exactly had been stored in that garage. Explosives? Hardly likely. And it was too strong for just a vehicle’s petrol tank. Then what? Reserves of fuel?

There was no more time to think about it, as the wave of heat came their way. The Hooded Man stood planted to the spot, mouth open, as if he’d seen the Devil himself in those flames. Rudakas, saved from certain death by the arrow, wasn’t about to waste the gift of life. He dived back into the house, into the hallway, just as the shockwave hit. The house, as he was to discover not long afterwards, wasn’t that much safer, connected as it was to the garage, but it would provide temporary shelter. While his enemy out there was still gawping at the mini-Armageddon.

Rudakas covered his head and laughed.

 

 

ROBERT COULDN’T MOVE.

He was back again outside his house so long ago, as the men in the yellow suits burnt everything he ever cared about. He screwed up his eyes, waiting for the blast to hit him...

NO!

Maybe before, when he was on his own, hiding away from the rest of the human race. Hiding away from his destiny. But not now. There were people relying on him, just as they had when he was in the police. Whereas before he’d hated his survival instincts for keeping him alive when all he wanted to do was curl up and join Joanne and Stevie, now Robert willed them to kick in – to save him from the explosion that was about to tear through him.

He opened his eyes, turning to run at the same time. It was too late. The blast scooped him up, then slammed him down on the hood of the armoured truck. He rolled over onto the ground at the other side, hitting it hard. If the petrol tank hadn’t been shielded, that would have gone up as well, but as it was it at least provided some cover from the explosion.

Robert ached everywhere, drifting in and out of consciousness, his mind replaying the events that had led him here...

The noise of gunfire had attracted them initially, forcing them to break off from the delivery of more stolen goods back to the people.

 

 

“SOUNDS LIKE TROUBLE,” Jack Finlayson had said.

“And where there’s trouble these days, you can probably count on the Frenchman’s involvement,” Robert had answered.

They’d ditched the truck and spread out, approaching the farmhouse via the fields: Jack taking a few men round the back, Robert leading the rest in an assault on the soldiers scattered about the yard. There was no way they’d even have known the house was here if they hadn’t been attracted by the noise. It was completely cut off, a place where he himself would gladly have lived out his remaining years up until recently.

Robert had been proud of the way his men had fought, doing just as he’d taught them in the short time they’d been with him – using their environment to conceal themselves, never showing their hand too quickly. Some he’d even begun to train with the bow and bolas. For his part, he’d picked off choice targets, hoping to draw a more worthy prize out of its own hiding place.

Then he’d seen him: the man wearing the peaked cap emerging from the farmhouse. Robert delighted in letting him know just who was behind it all.

The first arrow was a message, the next few intended only to slow the man down. Though Robert hadn’t had time to study them closely, he saw that the man’s firearms were quite unusual: old-fashioned, but still in perfect working order. Enough to wing him and throw his aim, anyway.

Then, when his enemy had run out of bullets and Robert had just one arrow left, he knew it was his lucky day. Except for the fact that out of the corner of his eye he saw the soldier with the grenade. It had been pure instinct to fire at him instead, a case of dealing with the most severe crisis first. That was when his luck had run out.

He tried to raise himself, failed, and slumped back down. Robert could see more of the soldiers – he couldn’t tell whether they were De Falaise’s or his – lying face down not far away from him. With a shaky hand he reached out and grabbed the dirt, attempting to pull himself along and back round the front of the armoured truck.

He made slow progress, desperate to get a better view of the scene – to find out who was still standing, who had fallen. Who had won the battle.

“Going somewhere?” The voice had a nasal quality, instantly dislikeable, and Robert wasn’t at all surprised to see De Falaise’s minion standing over him. “You do not look like a legend now, my hooded friend. You look like the worm you are,” the man continued. He had his hands behind his back and Robert assumed he was holding the pistols, reloaded and ready to fill him full of holes.

However, when the man brought his hands back round, Robert saw he was hiding a broadsword instead. Different era, different weapon, but no less deadly. Where was he getting this stuff from?

“After all I had been told, I was expecting some kind of indestructible super-being. You are nothing of the kind. It will be my pleasure to put you out of your misery. There’s a saying in my country, a curse: Let the earth swallow you!”

The man hefted the sword, preparing to bring it down, to embed it in Robert’s cranium.

I can’t fight it anymore. Finally I’m going to join them.

The man juddered, then stopped, like a robot that had rusted stiff.

Come on, if you’re going to do it just get on with it!

Slowly the man looked down at his chest, where a crimson stain was blooming on the material of his uniform. Then the fabric split as something very sharp, and very long, was pushed through his torso.

That sword fell out of his hands and dropped with a clatter to the ground. Robert flinched as it landed just inches away. The impaled Colonel dropped his weapon, managing only a thick wheeze as his eyes rolled back and he collapsed sideways – the foreign object pulled wetly from him as he dropped.

A woman with dark hair, her cheek bruised but with a determined look on her face, stood looking down at the corpse, a dripping sword in her own hand. She looked at Robert and gave him a brief nod as if to say, ‘That’s another job done.’

“Are... are you all right?” he managed, then groaned loudly.

“I think I should probably be asking you that question. You look terrible.”

With shaky fingers, Robert reached for the sword the man had dropped, wrapping his fingers around the handle, struggling to get it beneath him.

“Here,” said the woman coming over to him. “Let me help.”

She steadied him as he used the sword as a crutch, and he almost fell again. “This... this is your place?” he asked, every word hurting him.

“It is...” She looked back at the remains of the garage, the fire spreading to the farmhouse, spreading through it, smoke billowing out of shattered windows. The alarm had given up the ghost long ago. “It was,” she said sadly.

“I’m sorry.” His breathing was uneven, his chest hurt when he spoke. “I know what it’s like to lose your home.”

She looked at him, and gave the faintest of smiles. “I made a promise a long time ago that I’d stay here, alone, run the place while it was still standing. Something tells me it won’t be for much longer.”

Behind them Robert’s men were coming closer, including Jack Finlayson.

“You came here to help me, didn’t you?” she asked, looking at the men clearing up.

Robert could barely nod, all his strength leaving him.

“That’s what you do, isn’t it, help people? Hey, easy, take it easy,” said the woman, bearing more of his weight. “So I guess you know all about this Sheriff? And that would make you –”

“It’s all pretty much over,” Jack interrupted. “De Falaise’s remaining men have been rounded up... Robert?”

“Give me a hand, would you.”

“Who’re you, little lady?” asked Jack.

She nodded towards the dead man. “I’m the ‘little lady’ who did that. Now stop asking stupid questions and help me – he’s been pretty badly injured.”

Jack did as he was told, then said, “We’d better get him back to Sherwood.”

“Sherwood, right, of course...” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, hold on, could you take him a second?”

“Sure,” said Jack, puzzled, watching as she rushed back into the house. She emerged a couple of seconds later, tucking one of the Peacekeeper pistols into her jeans, and holding the other.

“There might still be some wheat and corn left in the barns if you want to tell your men, and we can load up the animals those scumbags slaughtered. No sense in wasting the meat, we might as well salvage what we can.”

“Wait a second,” said Jack. “You’re coming with us?”

“Yeah, well... you have someone who can look after him?”

“Can you?”

“I’ve done my fair share of tending to the sick,” she answered.

As they began to carry Robert away, he turned to the woman and asked weakly, “What’s...what’s your name?”

The woman gave him a worried smile. “Mary. My name is Mary.”