CHAPTER TWO

 

 

IT HAD WAITED a long time to become the rightful seat of power once more.

Constructed to house the parliament of the German Empire, the Reichstag Building was formerly opened in the late nineteenth century. It existed solely for that purpose until 1933, when a fire – supposedly part of a Communist plot, though some suspect otherwise – ravaged the place, paving the way for new masters to seize control. After the Second World War, the parliament of the Federal Republic of Germany decided to meet in the Bundeshaus in Bonn, but it wasn’t long before the Reichstag Building was made safe again and partially refurbished in the 1960s.

It would take the reunification of this country, though, before the building was itself fully renovated, at last becoming the meeting place of the modern German parliament, the Bundestag.

Then the virus struck.

The parliament itself had been just as helpless as the rest of the world’s politicians. Nations blamed other nations back then, arguments raging while the clever few got themselves to safety and hid away. No-one really knew what happened to them, but they’d never been seen again. By the time any kind of plan had been agreed on, it was too late. The virus was killing anyone who didn’t have O-Negative blood, and what few safeguards were put in place to try and halt the infection proved ineffectual.

Inevitably, the survivors ran amok. Months, years of anarchy followed – of gangs on the streets of all sizes and allegiances, from small youth groups to much larger and more organised armies. Several attempts were made to take over the entire country, of course: those with lofty ideas looking to Russia for their inspiration, and tales of an all-powerful Tsar – now rumoured to be dead, but quickly replaced to prevent the fall of the system.

There had even been an attempt by a Frenchman called De Falaise, who had, in the end, travelled to England to try his hand there – with just as much success.

Failed; every one of them.

Until he came along.

Loewe patted back his slicked-down hair, taking in the scene from one of the levels of the huge glass dome that sat atop the Reichstag Building. He’d had any cracked glass replaced a long time ago, so it wouldn’t spoil his enjoyment of the 360-degree view of Berlin. Or his enjoyment in watching the troops that he’d amassed outside, along with the many tanks, jeeps, Tiger and NHI NH90 helicopters, Tornado fighter planes, Skorpion minelayers and so on. Not a bad little defensive force from which to move outwards – and upwards.

Not bad, especially for a monumental conman like him.

Loewe began his walk back to the command centre he’d established. “With me!” he snapped, and the two magnificent Alsatians that went everywhere with him dutifully came to heel and trotted alongside. As he walked, Loewe came across various members of his staff, soldiers and military brains alike, nodding to each in turn. All wore the muted grey uniform of his legion, the Army of the New Order: its emblem a variation of the Mursunsydän symbol, overlapping squares in a very familiar shape.

God, not even he’d thought he could pull the trick off, managing to convince those few who still believed in the old doctrines that he was the guiding light of a new force – one which looked simultaneously to the past and the future – when in actuality he didn’t give a shit about their dogma. He wasn’t a neo-Nazi and never would be. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t use them to get what he wanted. After all, hadn’t his whole life been a tissue of lies and deception?

From an early age he’d discovered that you could get more by hiding things than coming right out with the truth.

(“Was that you who trailed that mud into the house, Achim?” “No Mütti, I swear. It was the dog.” His mother thrashed that animal to within an inch of its life, while it looked at him accusingly.)

In his teens Loewe found that the more he lied, the more women would fall at his feet. He dumped them when he’d had his fun, usually after he’d taken them for their money. That fun soon ended when he was drafted into the armed forces, though he’d pulled a fast one to make sure he was given light duties; the doctor at his medical taken in by his protestations about his bad back. He had to admit he’d learned a lot during his time in the military, however, like where the real money was. When he eventually left – without permission, naturally – he took a stash of weapons with him and sold them all on the black market. It was enough to fund his escape from Germany, and further operations in Belgium, Switzerland, Hungary and further afield. His reputation, under an assumed name, as an international thief spread throughout the criminal underworld.

He’d stumbled into the world of terrorism quite by accident, after getting involved with a woman called Letty who’d introduced him to her cell: fighters against the injustices of the world.

“So what do you believe in?” he was asked, and he’d told them exactly what they wanted to hear. There was money to be made here, he could smell it. To prove himself, Loewe had to plant a device in the lobby of a certain office building with links to slave labour in the third world. He’d tried to convince them to blackmail the company, but they’d gone ahead and detonated the bomb instead. What a waste. Not of human life, but of an opportunity. And he really hated that.

Once he’d ingratiated himself with the people really pulling the strings, and had got bored with Letty in the bedroom, Loewe planted another device which took out the cell. Then he convinced the organisation that expansion was the key to taking over the world, and to do that they’d need money. “For the cause, you understand,” Loewe insisted – embarking on his schemes to blackmail other businesses, banks; even holding entire towns and cities to ransom. Sometimes he was paid, other times he wasn’t; then, he’d had to follow through, or the next time he’d have no leverage. It didn’t bother him.

Loewe amassed a small fortune in that time. He would have lived comfortably off the profits of his extortion for the rest of his life, had it not been for the small matter of that damned disease. What use was money then? You couldn’t buy yourself out of a bullet in the head, not when the monetary system had collapsed. He didn’t even count himself lucky that he was immune, just cursed whatever gods were up there for taking away his luxuries.

Once again, he’d had to think fast, and talk faster. Because he knew the place better than anywhere else, Loewe had returned home. And it was as he observed the situation there that a plan formed in his mind. It was obvious – and should have been all along – who the most organised groups belonged to in his country. They’d been biding their time, waiting for something like this to occur. But they’d also been waiting for a leader to emerge, someone to bring them all together under one flag, and finally under one roof. Someone like General Loewe, military hero – just check his (forged) records – and bringer of terror to the Motherland’s enemies.

He told his faithful followers, who’d soaked up his fake promises like sponges, that they should take up residence in the place that once raised Hitler to power. It had waited, just as they had, to be put to use again. Not as the home of a democratic parliament, but as their home, their headquarters from which to plan their next move. Indeed, hadn’t Hitler promised there would be a special place for the building in his Welthauptstadt Germania renovation of Berlin after his ‘assured’ victory in World War II: a key structure in his vision of a World Capital, a reward for services rendered? Now they would make good on that promise.

His growing legions had lapped it up, helping him to take the place from those who were already in residence – hopelessly outmatched amateurs playing at being soldiers. The skirmish had lasted less than five hours.

Now his forces owned not only the building, but most of Berlin. And he was working on the rest of Germany; already they had stretched into Hamburg, Magdeburg, Leipzig and Dresden. He might not be as big as the Tsar yet, but it was a start. As with the terrorism, it was all about expansion, which kept not only his troops occupied but also ensured a comfortable standard of living for him. It might not be about money anymore, but he had people at his beck and call. What’s more, he was safe, in a world where that word no longer had much meaning for most people. Loewe knew that any number of his men would willingly give their lives for him; were already doing so out there.

He descended the levels with his dogs, hands behind his back, heading towards the main control centre. Striding inside, he noted the maps on walls with dots on them, the table with a miniature landscape built on top: models of tanks, jeeps and soldiers covering it – everything Loewe imagined a command centre should look like, in fact. He, of all people, knew how important it was to look the part. Men in uniform were busying themselves, some on radios, others looking at the charts and discussing how their plans to take over the country and beyond were going. Because they weren’t a force the size of Russia’s, they couldn’t just invade a country outright. No, they had to play things a bit more subtly. At the moment his Army of the New Order had its fingers in a lot of pies, covert agents in every country you could think of. But Loewe wasn’t doing this to take over the world; rather to take out any other opposition before they came looking for him. It was all about security again. He’d made himself a target over here, and it was only a matter of time before the Tsar or another warlord came to challenge him. The only thing that had put them off so far was that Loewe talked a good battle, spreading rumours that they were much better armed and equipped then they actually were. That and the fact they were committed fanatics. Nobody would be stupid enough to go after the Nazis unless they absolutely had to, or were completely assured of a victory.

The men all stood to attention when they saw him, and he told them to be at ease. He walked through the area, pretending to be interested, peering at a few maps and nodding. Really, he just wanted to get to his office on the other side. It amused him when the men parted to let his dogs through, standing well back so that they wouldn’t even brush against the dangerous-looking creatures.

Loewe’s spacious office had been furnished to his specifications – lined on one side with books he would never read, on the other with a well stocked bar. A huge oak table had been positioned near the window, with a reclining leather chair behind it and an antique globe of the world not far away, which he would spin whenever he got bored. He had been inside only a few minutes, having just had time to sit down – the dogs taking up positions on either side of the desk – when there was a knock at the door. Loewe spread out papers in front of him and picked one up to study it, before shouting, “Enter!”

It was his second, young Schaefer, who dealt with the day-to-day running of the New Order. Behind those eyes, shielded by thick-rimmed glasses, was a frighteningly large intellect. Loewe was more than happy to let the man deal with organisational matters and supervise military operations, just as long as he was kept in the loop every step of the way. Which was what Schaefer was doing here now.

“I was just about to send for you,” Loewe lied. “I wanted an update on the situation in –”

“Sir, I come with grave news about –”

“Schaefer!” screamed Loewe, sitting bolt upright in his chair. He may only have been pretending to be their leader – and wasn’t really interested in an update on anything at the moment – but if there was one thing Loewe couldn’t stand it was being interrupted. “Never speak before I have finished, is that understood?”

Schaefer remained silent, until he realised Loewe was waiting for him to give his answer. “Yes, of course, sir. But I bring bad news about the campaign in England.”

Loewe raised an eyebrow. England: one of their oldest enemies. That is, Loewe didn’t give a shit about the country either way, but his men felt especially passionate about taking control of the isle, which was why they didn’t complain – not that they dared anyway – about his use of so many resources over there, when they still had much of Germany to secure. This was potentially serious.

“You bring bad news?” asked Loewe.

“Er, actually...” Schaefer dragged in a second man, this one not familiar to Loewe; after a while all the uniformed people blurred into one. “Mayer here was the messenger who brought the news.” Schafer pushed the other man into the room, closing the door behind them. “Tell the General what you told me,” he ordered.

“Sir, I...”

Loewe rose, and his dogs raised their heads. “What is it, man? Spit it out, for God’s sake!”

Mayer was looking nervously from Loewe to the Alsatians.

“I said spit it out!” Loewe snapped. The dogs began to growl.

“I-it’s about the Widow’s venture.”

“The venture we have been funding, sir,” clarified Schaefer, adjusting his glasses. That word took on a different meaning in this day and age, from the one Loewe had been used to at any rate, but it amounted to the same thing. They’d been supplying the woman with vehicles and equipment in order to cause the maximum amount of trouble. Something had obviously gone very wrong, though, by the look of Mayer. He’s practically shitting himself, thought Loewe.

“The venture you convinced us to fund, Schaefer,” Loewe reminded him, then addressed Mayer again. “Go on.”

“T-there was an attack yesterday,” Mayer informed him.

“The Widow lost a number of men,” Schaefer added, “but also, regrettably, several jeeps and motorcycles, not to mention guns, ammunition –”

“Our jeeps, motorcycles, guns and ammunition,” Loewe reminded him. “Who was responsible for this attack?”

Schaefer prodded Mayer in the back to get him to answer. “Hood,” said the man, his voice breaking. “It was Hood, sir.”

Hood. Yes, Loewe had heard the tales just like everyone else, about a man who dressed like a folk take and fought using a bow and arrow. Loewe almost had to admire the conman’s audacity; it would be like him donning a toothbrush moustache and insisting they all called him the Führer. But that man had also, it was said, depleted the Tsar’s forces – another reason why they hadn’t attacked the New Order yet. In any event, if this Hood character was tackling the Widow, then reports were correct and he was doing just as they were, spreading out across his own country. It was a dangerous thing, because it meant that at some point their paths would cross. Someone like Hood, who had managed to convince his followers he was on some kind of damned crusade against evil, might get the bright idea of coming after them in Germany.

“How did it happen?” Loewe asked through gritted teeth.

“He and his Rangers were lying in wait, hidden in a convoy the Widow’s men were raiding.”

Loewe slammed his fist down on the desk, which hurt, making him madder. “The silly bitch! We give her all those weapons and she loses them to a bunch of fucking comic book characters.” He walked round the front of the desk and his dogs rose again. Loewe tapped his lips for a moment, trying to look thoughtful. He already knew what had to be done. Picking up a large silver letter opener that had been resting on the wood, he touched the tip, testing its sharpness. “Mayer, have you ever heard the saying about messengers and bad news?”

“Please, sir.” Mayer held up his shaking hands.

“You’re a member of the Army of the New Order, man! For Heaven’s sake act like it!”

Mayer attempted to show a little backbone, but there was still a quiver in his voice when he said, “It wasn’t my fault. I was not even there, sir. Please don’t –”

“Don’t what?”

Mayer looked at Schaefer, then back again at Loewe. “Don’t kill me.”

Loewe laughed; it was all part of the act. “Oh, I’m not going to kill you. Why would I do that? I wish you to deliver a message to the Widow.”

Mayer let out a relieved breath.

“However, I would like the message to be of a very specific nature. Do you think you can manage that?”

Mayer nodded, almost smiling.

“Good.” He clicked his fingers. The Alsatians bared their teeth, and Mayer’s eyes widened.

“But you said –”

“I said I’m not going to kill you. And I’m not,” replied Loewe. He snapped his fingers a second time and the dogs were across the room in seconds, leaping at Mayer. The first jumped up on its back legs, slamming Mayer in the chest with its paws and causing him to stumble backwards. The second took hold of his arm, clamping its teeth around the wrist and shaking it violently. Mayer’s scream was loud and piercing.

Loewe watched Schaefer’s reaction; it was largely for his benefit that he was doing this. There was no real reason to set the dogs on Mayer. The man was right, it wasn’t his fault. If anything, it was Schaefer’s, but Loewe needed him. Sadly, for Mayer, if Loewe was to play the part of their General without drawing any kind of suspicion, he had to make it look convincing. Failure should not be tolerated by someone in his position. His men expected this kind of behaviour, so that’s what he gave them. Schaefer would be his witness and word would travel fast through the ranks.

The tearing sounds drew Loewe’s attention back to Mayer, who had managed to turn but was on his knees. To his credit, and quite unlike what Loewe had expected, he was showing signs of being a true fighter. This soldier was someone who actually deserved to be in the New Order. Loewe couldn’t believe what he was thinking; he didn’t even believe in the fucking New Order himself! But this was starting to be quite entertaining, and would relieve some of the boredom for a little while.

Schaefer, pulling a face, stepped out of the way as Mayer – now with both dogs attached to him – crawled towards the door. His hand was shaking for an entirely different reason now, as it reached for the handle, then managed to turn it. In a last ditch effort to be free, Mayer flung it open and collapsed in the doorway – both dogs biting and clawing at his body; one ripping off an ear and eating it as blood poured from the wound.

This was good – now there would be more witnesses. As Mayer’s screams faded, some of the soldiers from the room beyond came to see what was happening. They gaped at the Alsatians savaging the man’s prone body, then up through the open doorway at Loewe.

“I trust you will see that the Widow is sent the remains,” he said to Schaefer, loud enough for those watching to hear as well.

Schaefer nodded.

“This Hood problem: I think we need to look into it further,” he told his second.

Another nod.

“I would hate for it to interfere with some of the other projects we’re involved with over there,” Loewe continued, and almost added ‘projects you also initiated, Schaefer,’ but felt his point had been made. “Perhaps we need to find someone to deal with him.” He knew Schaefer understood what he meant and would leave him to it, the example of Mayer spurring him on to succeed. But if he failed, would Loewe be able to go through with the punishment, as he’d done when blackmailing his targets back in his ‘terrorist’ days? He needed Schaefer too much. Maybe another pawn could be sacrificed. After all, Schaefer was too damned clever to put himself directly in the firing line: he’d always have a fall guy standing by.

Loewe clicked his fingers and the dogs returned to him immediately, Schaefer mirroring the men from the command centre, standing well out of their way. The dogs’ mouths were covered in gore as they took their places flanking Loewe. He gestured for Schaefer to clear the corpse away, then shut the door.

Loewe returned to his seat, tossing down the letter opener and adjusting the position of the chair. As he lay back, he thought again of Hood and what he’d done, and hoped the man could be stopped before he really did become a threat.

 

 

THE PLANE REMAINED high, circling the area like a carrion crow.

When it finally descended, the small craft came in fast and low, making good use of the fading April light. Like its pilot, it was more at home in the shadows than the glare of daylight.

He’d managed to find a patch of grassland some distance from his chosen goal, near to a place called Creswell Crags. Deftly, he manipulated the sombrely-painted Cessna into position for a landing. He hardly felt the ground as the wheels touched down and carried him under the trees. The man opened up his door and climbed out, bringing his bow and arrows with him.

His dark clothes and long black hair, tied back in a ponytail, made him resemble that which he loved so much; his weathered skin completing the picture. It was the reason he had taken that name, the one he went by these days.

Shadow.

He began to camouflage his transportation, bending thin branches and layering foliage over the wings and main body of the plane. Before leaving her, he patted her cooling side. She had served him well during his long trip, admittedly punctuated by stops to replenish her fuel. Fuel supplied by those who’d employed him.

Shadow made his way stealthily through the Crags themselves. When he broke into the rundown visitor centre there, to search for a local map of the area, he noted that one of the caves not far away was named after his quarry – the original version, at any rate. According to books he found, under all the cobwebs – those that hadn’t been destroyed by vandals – it had been called this because it was rumoured to have been used as one of his storage holes. But for thousands of years before that, it had been used by hunters just like Shadow’s own ancestors. There was evidence of stone weapons and tools fashioned from animal teeth.

He dug out a map that showed him his destination within walking distance. So, quiver on his back, along with a handmade rucksack – knife and hawk axe already at his hip – he set off for the place where his ‘mark’ had once made his home. Nowadays, of course, the man spent most of his time in the city.

Shadow knew a great many things about him, simply from communing with higher forces, listening to his spirit guides. Even before he had set off, visions had revealed much about the Hooded Man and his forest. Prepared him for the task ahead.

Shadow contemplated the events that had led him here, the bargain he had struck. It had been necessary, like most things in his life. Part of him respected the hunter this Hood was. In another time, another world, they might even have been blood brothers. But, here and now, fate had forced them to cross paths as opposite numbers: Hood the person he must ‘deal with’ – isn’t that how they’d put it? – in order to receive his reward.

Did he feel any guilt? Some, perhaps. Though they looked alike, it was not Hood’s people who had murdered his brethren, taken their land and left them a minority in their country. Or was it? Hadn’t it been that man’s own ancestors who’d crossed the ocean and begun to colonise, begun the war that had lasted so long? His blood was their blood, wasn’t it? So how could they ever be brothers? Though the natives of this country were worlds apart from those across the Atlantic, they were still cousins. They still had the same ways.

Many of Shadow’s kind had banded together, forming a United Tribal Nation in order to take back what was theirs from the white man. They judged these post-virus times to be the perfect catalyst; thought the Great Spirit had granted them this opportunity. Shadow had always gone his own way, though, and used his own methods. He felt certain that they would achieve better results than the entire UTN affair.

It was why he was on his way to Sherwood, running at a pace that would see him reach the outskirts within the hour. Even though Hood appeared to have turned his back on it for now, in favour of building his army to police this land, the forest was still his seat of power – and it had waited so long for the rightful heir to come along.

Now Shadow intended to take that power away from the Hooded Man.

It was the only way to defeat him.

The only way to win.

 

 

HE COULDN’T SLEEP.

The aching in what had once been his hand was keeping him awake again. Not that he slept soundly anyway; the nightmares of the battlefield saw to that. Bohuslav understood it wasn’t possible for the hand itself to be aching, because it wasn’t there anymore. He understood it was just the nerve endings from the stump of a wrist, extending out into nothingness – perhaps even missing the lost appendage? Was that it; was the wrist, like him, still in mourning? None of which stopped it feeling real. He felt the pain, just as surely as he felt hatred for those who had done this to him.

He was grateful for the fact that the weather was starting to turn slightly warmer; you could never truly call it warm during these months. The ‘hand’ ached more than ever in wintertime, and the winters in Russia were invariably brutal.

Bohuslav pushed himself up on the enormous bed. One of the benefits of his position was occupancy of the Presidential Suite of the Marriott Grand; the only occupied room in the whole hotel. Back before the virus, he would have had the full five star experience. Even today there was a team of staff dedicated to giving him everything he could possibly desire. That included bringing him certain luxuries he craved. Certain ‘items’: living items. Male or female, it didn’t matter which. Not for sex, or anything like that. Bohuslav’s desires ran much deeper. It was a way of taking him back to the days before all this, when he would hunt his prey on the streets.

At first they’d just brought them to him, knocking on the door and leaving the meat standing there quivering. Where was the sport in that? He’d soon grown bored when there was no chase, no excitement. Then he’d struck upon the notion of letting them loose in the hotel. If they could escape him, they went free. If not...

None had ever escaped.

He closed his eyes and could imagine the weight of his sickle – once handheld but now attached to his stump – as it slashed and gutted. A smile played across his face. The memories of all that bloodshed, before – when he had been one of the most wanted serial killers in this country – and after the virus, came back to him all at once. It made him want to grab the sickle right now and slide it in place. Go out hunting and –

Bohuslav sighed. He should really try and rest. He had responsibilities beyond the ending of individual lives at his... hand. Inherited responsibilities from the man who had once been Tsar, who now rotted away in a distant land – killed by Hood.

It was no use. Bohuslav flicked on his bedside light, powered – like so many things these days – by generator. He padded across the room, yawning. When he reached the door that would take him into the spacious living area, he paused, remembering a meeting here more than a year ago.

Remembering the huge, olive-skinned bastard who’d got them into all this, persuading The Tsar to mount an offensive against Robert Stokes. Tanek. The name brought bile to his throat. If De Falaise’s former Second had never come here, things would have continued as they were. They would still be at full capacity with their troops and armament – instead of building forces back up again – and would now be thinking about a strategy of moving against other, more important enemies. It was what other countries were now doing, like Germany, from what Bohuslav was hearing.

Hood may have dealt the blow, but Tanek brought them all together. And, while it was true being the new Tsar of Russia did have its benefits, Bohuslav would still prefer to have been more behind the scenes.

Pulling on a robe, he walked over to the bar and poured himself a generous measure of Smirnoff; he preferred this to drugs when his stump was aching. By the second glass, the pain had dulled considerably.

Even after the alcohol, he heard, and felt, the person outside his room before they knocked. The sickle attachment was back in the bedroom, but Bohuslav never answered a door unarmed, even if there were guards out in the hall. He settled for a nearby ice-pick, concealing it behind his back as he looked through the spyhole.

It was a member of his staff – Klopov – but still Bohuslav kept the pick hidden as he opened the door.

Klopov smiled inanely as the new Tsar bid him enter. It’s obviously good news, thought Bohuslav. If it wasn’t, the man might have been more reticent. Bad news ran the risk of enraging him. And very bad news meant the same for the messenger. It was how any military dictator would act.

“Sorry to call at such a late hour,” Klopov said.

“Yes, yes,” said Bohuslav. “What is it?”

For a second an image of stalking Klopov through the corridors of the hotel flashed through Bohuslav’s mind, the pulse at the man’s neck exciting him. No, concentrate. Listen to what he has to say.

“I thought you’d like to know that he’s there.”

“Who is where, exactly?”

“The arrow,” replied Klopov, then added for good measure. “The arrow has landed, sir.”

Now it was Bohuslav’s turn to smile. The first part of his plan had been put into effect. The Native American was on British shores. “Excellent!” If all went well, he would soon be celebrating his revenge, or at least part of it. There would be more to come eventually.

It would be perfect. Bohuslav looked down at his stump for the millionth time since losing the hand fighting Hood and his men. “Would you care for a drink, Klopov?” He nodded towards the bar.

Klopov smiled again, then nodded.

Bohuslav was happy now, and ordinarily that meant he would leave the messenger be. It had indeed been good news; the best news in fact. But as Klopov moved towards the bar, once again the new Tsar’s mind was filled with things he’d like to do to him. The way he might wish to celebrate.

The blood. The flesh. The ineffectual pleading of the victim.

Bohuslav smiled and followed him, pick still behind his back, having yet to decide whether the messenger would leave this room alive.