CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

 

 

WE'D LEFT A radio with each of the groups of survivors we'd found. Each morning, Parkes hailed them to check their status.

That morning, the survivors at Roughlee didn't reply.

Hendry, Parkes, Mleczko and Joyce flew over in the Chinook. Doors stood open. There was only silence. No-one came out to greet them.

They made a landing, Parkes handling the Gimpy while Mleczko and Joyce searched the houses.

All empty. Blood on the walls. Torn flesh. Fragments of bone.

They'd hit, and hit hard. No warning, no alarm raised. And everybody gone.

No defence is total.

And for all the advantages of technology, training and equipment give you, numbers always win in the end.

 

 

IN THE EVENING, just before the light failed, Parkes got a transmission from the survivors at Blacko, nearby. The nightmares were gathering in the waters around the village - dozens, scores, finally hundreds. Standing in silence, with their glowing green eyes.

They were massing, but had made no hostile move. Yet. If I sent the Chinook for them, would that trigger an attack? Unknown. But if we waited till they did attack, we'd never reach them in time.

I sent the Chinook, with Mleczko and Parkes. Just them. We weren't there to fight. It was an evacuation, pure and simple.

The Chinook returned just before dawn. The villagers disembarked, pale and shaken and out of place; people with nowhere to go, reliant on the kindness of strangers. The shell-shocked look of people who'd had what security, what stability, what home they'd had, snatched away. I'd done some peacekeeping duties in the former Yugoslavia; I knew that look. Refugees.

No violence. None of the nightmares had emerged from the water or attacked.

Mleczko stepped off the Chinook and came over; he looked grim. "They were in the water," he muttered.

"We know that."

"Not around Blacko. As we flew back here. Sarge, I think they were on the move."

 

 

AS DAWN CAME and light stole across the landscape, Parkes' radio came to life again.

Hendry flew out to the other communities. As before, it was an evacuation, not a fight. Any food, fuel or weapons available were cleared out and brought back.

As Hendry flew in, the Chinook wobbled in its flight, the engine sounded an irregular, coughing and spluttering note. The rotors were skipping beats.

He brought it down in the meadow near the Hill, where Stiles' caravan stood. He came out to meet me as Parkes and Mleczko shepherded the evacuees clear, the rotors winding down.

His face was pale, lips moving without sound.

I said it for him. "It's fucked, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"Can you fix it?"

"I don't know."

"Shit!"

"I can try, Sergeant. That's all I can say. We'd never be able to move everyone, anyway."

"We could at least get some of them clear."

"Where to?"

"Right now, anywhere but here would probably be good." We looked at each other. "Just do whatever you can, Sir."

A few minutes later, my PC crackled; the first of the nightmares had been sighted in the waters round Pendle.

 

 

IN THE FARMHOUSE, we held a brief council of war.

Joyce was in charge of the men while we talked. Jo was working with him to co-ordinate with the villagers. Katja, meanwhile, I'd put in charge of the refugees - we had close on a hundred of them. She was finding places for them to stay - hunting up tents or anything that could be used to jerry-rig them, spare rooms in farmhouses, abandoned buildings - while at the same time trying to pick out potential fighters. We needed to mobilise everybody capable of using a gun.

Round the table: me, Chas, Ged and Hendry. Parkes was on the Chinook's radio, trying desperately to hail Windhoven.

Hassan was clearing space in the abandoned barn, a couple of local women as impromptu nurses. Not much he could do for anyone bitten, but there was still the risk of injury from shrapnel, stray bullets, falls.

The sky was darkening. A thin, mizzling rain had started to fall.

"Focusing," I said.

"What?" asked Hendry.

"What Stiles said. Imagine having a billion eyes, all working independently. You couldn't keep track of it all. Drive anybody mad." An insane controlling intelligence? Fucking hell, it just kept getting better. "But as it becomes aware of survivors, it focuses on them, one by one. And it gathers its forces... and marches."

"And keeps attacking till they're all gone," said Chas.

"I think so."

"Lovely. Got a cig?"

I threw him my packet. "The attack this morning... testing its strength. Seeing how we'd respond."

"Are you trying to say they're using tactics?" Hendry looked at me as if I'd just dribbled on my shirt.

"I know how it sounds, Sir. But according to Stiles, there's a controlling intelligence. Primitive, only recently conscious. But if it's aware, it can learn."

Hendry leant back in his chair.

"But now we've pulled back, Sir" said Chas. "We're not gonna be trying to defend scattered, isolated positions, just one. And we've got high ground, a lot of warm bodies on the deck, weapons and raw materials to build defences. And we've had a lot more combat experience than it has."

"Question is," said Ged, "how does that help us in long run?"

"Well," I said, "that's the big question, isn't it?"

"Fair enough." Ged toyed with an empty glass; probably wishing there was something strong in it, but resisting the call. Getting blootered now helped nobody. "What the hell can we do?"

"One, Parkes is on the radio, trying to hail Windhoven -"

"Done us bugger-all good so far."

"She's also hailing on all other frequencies. If there's anyone else out there, they might be able to help."

"Or they might be as stuffed as we are."

Christ, I didn't need Ged cracking on me. "We're not dead yet. Any progress with the Chinook, Sir?"

"Not as yet. Engineering's not my area. I think I might know what the problem is, but fixing it -"

"Understood, Sir. Just do whatever you can, requisition whatever you need. What I'm thinking is this. We set up defences fast. Pull everyone who's not actually going to be fighting those things to the most central location we can."

"The Hill, most likely," said Ged.

"Aye. So we block all approaches to that location with anything spare - any barbed wire left over?"

"Might be a roll or two."

"Break it out. We've got the Landrovers and their armaments. We've also got farming vehicles - tractors, mechanical diggers. We can use them to run over the bastards."

"What if Parkes can't raise anybody?" Chas spoke quietly. I looked at him. His eyes were wide. He was thinking of Jo.

"We're not dead till we're dead, Chas. The important thing is to get the Chinook airborne again. If we can do that, some of us can hold the ground here while we fly the rest out, then it can come back for us."

"Fly out? Where to?"

"Any stretch of land that's not occupied or surrounded. It's taken them time to get here. They've got to march like any other army. So, we put distance between us. It buys us breathing space."

Chas nodded. After a moment, so did Ged. I was relieved to see he looked a little more energised.

"We build concentric lines of defence. They break through one, we fall back behind the next. The longer we can hold out, the better chance we've got."

Hopelessness folded round me, like pressure at depth. But I wouldn't, couldn't, must not give way. Don't think about the long game, Robbie, cos we all lose that in the end. Just think about the next problem. Except, like the nightmares, they just kept coming. No matter how many of them you dealt with there were always more, and bit by bit they wore you down. By sheer weight of numbers.

Because numbers always win in the end.

"If we can do them a lot of damage in that first engagement," I said, "From what we've seen, they'll pull back to regroup and reinforce. So the harder we hit them, the more time that buys us till the next attack. We need to show this Deep Brain it's got a fight on its hands, and we will not go down easily."

"Sounds great," said Chas. "How?"

"Simple. We invite them in."

 

 

WE HAD SA80S, Minimis, sniper rifles, several Gimpys and the blooper. Plus some C-4 explosive and personal communicators from the army base. We still had a good supply of ammunition for each weapon, plus each man carried two frag grenades. The exceptions to that were Hassan, who had none, and Chas and myself, who carried three - frags, smoke, white phosphorous.

There were also shotguns, rifles and ratting carbines - .22 revolvers with ridiculously long barrels and wire-framed stocks. Not in the same league as what we had, but all it took to turn a nightmare's lights out was an accurate headshot.

Those who couldn't fight were put to work erecting defences. Barbed wire; furniture; farm machinery; unneeded cars. Anything that could block a path was dragged across it.

We had stocks of Molotov cocktails. Torn bits of fabric, old bottles - add something flammable and Bob's your uncle. Fuel siphoned from vehicles, bottles of spirits. Any spare reserves were now pressed into service to make more; I saved the last of the Inn's Isle of Jura for myself.

Katja was on lookout on top of the Hill. The Dinkies were back at the farmhouse, to be deployed where they were needed.

On the higher slopes, we'd set up fougasses for when - if - we were pushed back. A kind of improvised mine. Take one fifty-five gallon steel drum, readily available on any farm. Pack explosive at the bottom - C-4, fertiliser mixed with petrol - and pack the rest with pieces of metal, stone chips. Anything that would do damage. Bury in the earth with the open end sticking out, and then you just had to set it off and watch your enemies blown to shreds.

Chas was on Pendle Row, Jo round the opposite side of the Hill.

As well as guns, everyone carried a hand weapon of some kind. I had a hatchet tucked into my belt; others carried old police truncheons, baseball bats and pick-axe handles and spades and shovels, axes and hatchets, pitchforks. Even knives lashed to broom handles as crude spears. No-one was completely defenceless.

God help us if it got to that stage. We weren't special forces, knew nothing about hand-to-hand fighting. If a position was overran, you fell back and fired again. Hopefully driving them back.

But there were so many of them.

And we could only fall back so far.

 

 

JUST NORTH OF the Hill the road leading towards Downham vanished into the sea; beside it lay a stretch of flat ground containing the two pools where the nightmares had attacked the night Tidyman died. The space was wide open, up to the encircling drystone walls, and below a wooded slope. From the water, all they'd see were two men with rifles - Mleczko and me. Not even a Minimi in sight. Short of putting up a sign saying picnic area, there wasn't a clearer invitation.

Behind the wall, however, Ged crouched with his shotgun beside me, and Billy with his beside Mleczko, gazing up adoringly. Mleczko did his best to pretend he wasn't there. Beyond them was a long line of villagers and soldiers with rifles and crateloads of Molotov cocktails.

The rain intensified. A slow, low hissing from the blackening sky. A white fork of lightning left floaters in my vision - red, gold and green.

"Brace yourselves," I said. "Any minute now."

"How do you know, Sarge?"

"Storm's coming in, Mleczko. Heavy rain'll cut visibility and give them a better chance."

I could see the question in his eyes: You really think they're smart enough to plan like that?

Maybe not, but the Deep Brain is.

Stiles was in his caravan. Katja said he'd been brooding, silent. She didn't say she thought he might have an idea to save us, but I read the hope in her eyes. She was afraid to think about it, let alone give it voice.

The lightning flashed again, dazzling me. Mleczko sucked in a breath; in the murky distance dark, shadowy figures stood in ranks at the water's edge.

The thunder rolled in. The rain was driving down now with merciless force, pounding and hammering on my skull. Water danced on the ground, in puddles and on any hard surface. Splashing into my eyes. Hard to see through it. Visibility thinned down by the driving haze of it. The thunderheads were almost directly above.

Then a sound.

Like a huge breath, let out through a phlegmy throat.

Like a thousand hissing snarls, unleashed as one.

And the nightmares came for us.

Hundreds of the bastards. Closely packed. No room to manoeuvre.

"Hold on," I said to the men around me. "Hold on," I said into the communicator.

The nightmares staggered forward, forward, forward. Mleczko and I began firing. Some fell. But the army came on. Closer. Closer. So close I could see their faces.

"Sarge?" Joyce's voice crackled out of the communicator.

"Wait for it."

The front row of nightmares erupted into a run.

"Now!"

The men hidden behind the wall stood and fired, fast volleys. Two GPMGs laid down sweeping arcs of fire further down the wall, tearing into the nightmares still swarming out of the water. The nightmares were falling. But there were so many more.

Aim and fire.

Got one in my sights. God, that face.

The empty sockets of the eyes, round and pale and glowing.

I pulled the trigger. Its head snapped back, spraying dark matter. It fell.

Another in my sights.

Aim.

Fire.

Gunfire all around now, almost lost in the roar and the drum of the rain.

The panic burning, gnawing at your control. The urge to fire wildly, pray you hit something, anything to hold back the tide. So many of them, and for each one you dropped, ten more still surging forward.

Bodies jerking under the bullets that hadn't hit the mark, then carrying on. Bullets hit chests, stomachs, legs, arms - hit and changed nothing.

But other shots hit home. Retain control. Panic is a choice. I remembered Katja saying that. Her father had said it. He'd been a soldier too. "I think you would have liked him," she'd said.

I wondered if he'd have liked me.

Heads snapped back; brains flew; glowing eyes went out. Bodies toppled and crashed to the ground. The ones behind trampling over them.

Firing. Firing. A SA80 rifle holds a thirty round magazine. The bolt locked back. Empty.

Pulling out the magazine. Steam floating up from the barrel and breech as the rain hit it.

Ram the fresh clip in. Lightning flashed. Thunder rolling in and down.

And on they came, in rags of clothing, rotten and torn. Some naked. Maybe they'd died that way; maybe the clothes had rotted off. Irrelevant now. Some male, some female. Some showed signs of their former youth or age, under the green moss. But you hardly noticed now. Death the leveller.

A poem I'd read once - Great Death hath made all his for evermore.

If he hadn't yet, he was bloody well working on it.

Bodies piled on bodies like sandbags.

So many soldiers, expendable, uncomplaining, to be flung into the meatgrinder, again and again and again. I'd once seen a film about Stalingrad. The Germans kept on driving into the fray, the Russians too. Each more afraid of their own leaders than the enemy. Or drunk on their own propaganda.

But the living tire. Even the most professional soldier, or the most fanatical, runs out of steam. But not these. A General's wet dream. They'd never complain about inadequate equipment, never crack under the constant threat of destruction or seeing their comrades fall, never question the morality of their task.

Like I had.

After the desert road.

Baba. Baba.

Another face in the sights. Aim. Fire.

Now.

"Wall of fire!"

The Molotovs started flying. Two-person teams - one lit the cocktail, the other threw. The Molotovs hit the nightmares' front rank and erupted into sheets of flame.

Nightmares blundered through, aflame head to foot. No pain, but blinded. And the flame eating through soft tissues. A skull burst in the heat.

But there were always more.

They thought - the Deep Brain thought - there were still the numbers to push through our weak spot.

Which was the whole point.

I grabbed the communicator. "Joyce. Now."

From the wooded slope above came the roar of engines.

Rotting heads turned.

They surged down the slope towards the nightmares. Tractors and mechanical diggers, scoops and ploughs extended. They drove into the nightmares' left flank.

The mechanical diggers' scoops scythed bodies in two, shattered skulls. Caterpillar treads rolled over what remained, leaving lifeless pulp.

The tractors smashing nightmares aside; the heavy wheels crushing, flattening.

They went down in droves. Severed limbs flew free. Survivors writhed and thrashed on the ground, still 'alive' but helpless.

Each driver had at least one armed man in the cab, who picked off any undamaged nightmares trying to attack. And from behind the drystone walls, still we fired.

Because there were plenty left.

The farm vehicles roaring in towards us. The men stumbling back from the walls. Me yelling to Mleczko to move a dozen men further down, towards the water, and hammer any still emerging or trying to retreat. Hitting the ground as a tractor grates to a halt inches from my position. Joyce looking sheepish behind the wheel. "Sorry, Sarge."

The bodies, piled up across the once-green field. Well, it's still green, I suppose. Except where the nightmares had been burned black. Not the same kind of green, not the kind I wanted to see.

Scattered shots and bursts. Twenty nightmares left now. A dozen. Dropping like flies. Heads exploded as high velocity bullets smashed into them. Blood and brains, spilling over the grass and the dead in the rain.

A last one standing, weaving, twisting this way and that from threat to threat.

Half a dozen guns fired as one, and it toppled.

And then there was only the guns' fading echo, the thunder's distant rumble, the rain's relentless sound as it rinsed the clotted slurry of blood and brains into the clogged quagmire of the ground.

The ground was empty. Forty or fifty still stood in the water, silent, watching, but made no move towards the land.

I aimed. We waited. The gun's barrel hissed, steam rising; the rain beat down so hard I could only see the glow of their eyes.

Then, as one, they turned and walked back into the water.

"Yeee-hooo!" whooped Billy, in what he doubtless thought was a rebel yell. He leapt over the wall, danced a clumsy jig. Mleczko, jogging back from the water's edge, shook his head, grinning wearily. "All fucked off, Sarge."

"Good work."

A ragged cheer went up. Rifles and shotguns shaken in the air. From the distance came firing, scattered shots, but they died away.

"Chas? Jo? What's your status? Report. Over."

"Clear, Sarge. Over."

"Clear," said Jo. "Over."

"Good work."

The farm vehicles were parked up. Joyce climbed down, staring out over the torn, broken corpses.

Ged glanced over, smiled slightly, and began reloading the SPAS-12.

I could still hear cheering, through the whining in my ears, as Joyce's men waded in, finishing off the crippled nightmares with blows from rifle butts. A couple of shots rang out; Joyce's sandpaper voice, berating whoever wasted the ammo.

"Yee-haa!" Billy skipped and gambolled round the still-flaming patches of ground, in among the bodies, kicking at a torso here, a severed head there, waving his over-and-under shotgun in the air. "Got them! Got the smelly fuckers! Ha-haaa! All fucking dead! Got them!" He whirled back towards us, waving the gun in the air. "Got them, Danny! We got them all!"

"Billy!" I heard Mleczko scream.

On the ground lay a nightmare; everything gone from the waist down, guts trailing in the dirt, an arm and half its face torn away. But one eye still glowed, and one arm remained.

And jaws. It still had jaws.

The nightmares could move incredibly fast when they wanted, even in a state like that. Only in short bursts, but that was all it needed to grab Billy's ankle, yank itself forward, and bite into the meat of his calf.

Billy screamed, first in panic, then in pain. Mleczko yelled something and ran past me, dropping to one knee as the nightmare's head reared away from Billy's leg, torn meat hanging from its mouth. Blood spurted from the wound. Mleczko fired, and the nightmare collapsed.

Mleczko ran towards Billy. I followed; Ged too.

Billy was wailing, clutching his wounded leg with both hands. Blood streamed through his fingers.

"Ow, fuck! Fuck!" Fright stole over his face as it dawned. "Fuck!"

He looked up at Mleczko. "Help me. Please, Danny, help me!"

"Alright, mate," Mleczko said in an older, wearier voice than I'd ever thought to hear him use. "Alright."

Billy was crying. "You can make it better, can't you?"

No-one spoke. Like I said, he was simple. Not the full shilling. What Mleczko later told me they called a 'not-right' where he'd grown up in Salford.

"You can, can't you?" His wide, wet eyes darted from face to face. "You can make it better." Poor bastard was blubbering openly, now. "Make it better, Danny, please. I don't want to die."

"You're not gonna, mate." Mleczko crouched beside him, squeezing his shoulder. "We'll get you right again, no worries. Not getting out of twatting those fuckers that easy."

I opened my mouth to speak, but Ged put his hand on my arm.

Billy was grinning, however tightly, through the tears. "You're gonna be fine," said Mleczko. "I hadn't shot the fucking thing, it'd've died from biting you. Fucking hell, I've been there when you've let one rip. Poison fucking cities, you could."

Billy was laughing, even as he cried. Mleczko patted his shoulder again. "You'll be right, pal. Just hang on. I'll go get Saddam to take a look at you."

"Saddam," giggled Billy, as Mleczko walked away from him. "Saddam. That's fu-"

The three-round burst blew most of his head apart on impact; the rest flew clear of the body.

I leapt back from the blood; with his head gone, it hosed and splattered the ground. The body dropped forward onto the churned, blackened turf.

Mleczko stood over him for a moment, as if computing whether he'd need to shoot again, then lowered his rifle.

Ged went to him, reaching out a hand; Mleczko twisted away with a warding-off gesture, and walked off, brushing by Joyce like he wasn't there.

 

 

BODIES CHOKED PENDLE Row.

The nightmares lay on tarmac and pavements, draped over the cars dragged across the road, crumpled against the walls where they'd fallen. Others lay scattered down Barley Road. Empty bullet cases crunched underfoot.

The bay's surface looked flat and innocent.

Chas came towards me, face furrowed and sombre.

"We lost four," he said. "All locals."

"Shit."

"Could've been a lot worse."

"Aye."

The rain hissed down between us. "Want me to clear this lot away?"

I shook my head. "They could be back any minute."

"Thought you said we'd keep them away longer like this."

"That's the plan, but they might have a different one."

Chas nodded. "Well, best get ready for them then, hadn't we?"

"Besides, we leave their bodies where they are, it'll slow them down. More to climb over."

"Every little helps. So what do we do about the next one, Sarge?"

"See if we can get 'em again."

"Same trick?"

"Aye."

"Think they'll fall for that twice?"

"We'll see."

"Same place?"

I shook my head. "Thought you could give it a try."

Chas looked dubiously up and down the Row. "Where'm I supposed to put a bunch of tractors?"

"The Newchurch Road. They can sweep down and hit them here at the junction."

"Try anything once. Stiles said anything?"

"He's out for the count. Checked before. Drank himself stupid."

"Maybe he's got the right idea."

"Fucksake, Chas."

"Sorry, Sarge."

"I need you of all people with your head screwed on right."

"Yeah, I know. Sorry." He grinned. "Fucking hell, Jock, I thought I was supposed to keep you on the straight and narrow."

"Sergeant Jock to you, grotbag."

 

 

THE RAIN KEPT driving down, harder than ever before.

Still was two hours later, when they attacked again.

The second try...

God, just thinking about it...

The Deep fucking Brain.

It's learning fast.

They threw a big load at the Row, or so it looked.

Chas and his men did as we had, hid the main force and left a skeleton crew visible, then hit them hard with heavy fire and Molotovs before whistling the vehicles down. The nightmares falling back.

And then the second wave came out of the water.

They hit the farm vehicles. Overran them. Jamming the wheels and tracks with sheer weight of numbers - pushing, rocking - a tractor keeled over, a mechanical digger seemed to rear up and crash to the ground like some weird beast in its death throes. Most of the drivers got clear. Not all.

And then they overran the Row. Andrews, about twenty other defenders - all killed.

They fell back, laid down heavy fire. But they kept coming.

And next I knew, the call was coming out.

"Robbie! Robbie!"

Rapid, muffled explosions in the distance. "Chas?"

"They've taken Pendle Row. We couldn't hold them off. They've broken though onto the lower slopes behind it. Need help now."

"On its way."

 

 

JO GOT THE Landrover with the Mk19 onto the open ground behind Pendle Row. The nightmares staggered through in droves, but Chas scrambled aboard and opened up on them with the launcher, hitting them hard.

I brought Joyce, Mleczko, a good thirty defenders with me, all with SA80s, and it didn't look anywhere near enough.

The survivors of Chas's team were running back to us. Just him and Jo left on the Dinky covering their retreat, Chas firing the blooper into the nightmares' ranks, blasting fragments of them skywards, until -

It stopped firing. Chas grappling with the blooper. A jam.

And that was when the nightmares, milling closer, broke into a run.

Jo gunning the engine, trying to turn.

The nightmares smashing into the vehicle, tipping it over.

Jo on the ground rolling, scrambling to her feet with rifle raised as I screamed for covering fire.

Chas landing under its shadow as it toppled towards him.

Scrambling clear - almost made it - almost -

Almost.

The Landrover crashed down, belly-up to the sky, the full weight of it coming down on his right leg, just above the knee.

Chas bellowing, scrabbling at the earth, tearing his nails to bloody pulp. Jo beside him, firing this way, then that. A nightmare fell, then another - but never enough. There were always more.

Blood seeping out from under the Landrover. Chas yelling at Jo. Jo shouting back, shaking her head. He yelled again. She ignored him.

Leave me. Save yourself.

No.

Almost automatically, as if my hands were moving of their own volition, I found myself sighting on Jo. Her first, then Chas? Or the other way around? If she was going to stand her ground till they got her too, it'd be a mercy.

Chas tearing the WP grenade from its harness, pulling out the pin.

Jo staring back at him.

Click. I couldn't've heard it over the gunfire, the screams, the explosions, the dying, but I'd swear I did.

Click.

As he released the handle, it fell away and the fuse began to smoke.

Jo screaming.

Chas shouting at her to go, go, go.

Jo running - nightmares barring her path. Mleczko firing, me too, cutting them down.

But I didn't sight on Chas as he lay there, the grenade smoking as the nightmares rushed in on him and -

Mleczko pulling me down. A vivid sheet of flame, then the explosion followed by several others as the remaining grenades in the Landrover, the Dinky's fuel tanks, all went up.

I scrambled up. Flames. A gouged, blackened crater. The Landrover's wreckage crashed back down into it. Of Chas Nixon, nothing remained.

Jo lay on the ground, unmoving.

The nightmares pouring through. Mleczko yelling in my ear, wanting orders.

Joyce running forward, shooting. Nightmares leaping up at him, pulling him down.

Focus, Robbie.

The voice sounded almost like Chas. Except that he'd've said Jock, and - no. Don't think of that now. I aimed on one of Joyce's attackers and fired. Mleczko too. Joyce scrambling free, slinging Jo over his shoulder, staggering back, a wound gaping in the side of his face - half his cheek torn away. But he kept going, till other hands took the woman from him and carried her away, and then he turned and walked out to meet the nightmares, firing on them till the gun was empty and they pulled him down.

But before they could finish him, I did. I did what I'd been going to do for Chas, what I should've done for Billy. I sighted on his head and fired a burst that tore through his skull and that of one of his attackers. They both went down and the others swarmed all over Joyce, biting, tearing, chewing...

Aim and fire. Aim and fire.

I glanced left at Mleczko. His SA80's barrel moved this way, then that, shellcases jumping from the breech. Too fast, it seemed. He was firing wild. But when I looked, I saw a nightmare go down each time.

Fucking hell, he's good.

Aim and fire. Aim and fire.

The bolt locked back. The nightmares, yards away, wading in, jaws yawning open.

"Fall back. Fall back."

I heard myself screaming the words, but felt oddly calm. Everything moved slick and easy. The SA80's empty magazine sliding free as I ran. The replacement clip sliding neatly into place.

Turn to face them. Two nightmares closing in. I dropped the first, tracked right, fired again. The second one fell too.

But still they came.

"Grenades!"

I was already overarming the first one. Mleczko sent another sailing in. Then everyone dived to the ground and tried to burrow into it.

The two explosions sounded so close together it was like a single blast. I felt an intense wave of heat and could see the explosion even through squeezed-shut eyes.

"Fall back! Fall back!"

 

 

AND SO WE did. We fell back up to the next line of defence and dug in.

And we waited.

But for now, they didn't come.

For now.

 

 

JO SAT IN a corner of the farmhouse living room, blank-faced, rocking to and fro.

She'd dived for the ground before the blast went off. Knocked unconscious, but barely scratched. Hassan said she should be fine. But she hadn't spoken a word.

I crouched beside her. "Jo?"

No answer. Just rocking.

"Jo?"

Rocking.

"Joanne."

Endlessly rocking.

"Fuck you then."

A blink, a reaction; reddened eyes focussing on me.

"That all you're gonna do for Chas? Sit in a corner crying? That what he died for? Him and Joyce? What a fucking waste of two good men."

Her whole face flared, and her hand flew out. I caught it at the wrist - just. The fury, vibrating in her muscles, trying to tear free to try again.

"Better," I said.

Her voice was thick. "Bastard."

"Aye. I'm a bastard." I knew I was. But this had to be done. "I need you, Jo. I need your help. You'd've made one fucking hell of a good soldier. I can't afford to let that go to waste."

Eyes wet and bright; a shuddering breath. Then a sob and she pitched forward. I gripped her tight.

"I loved him," she whispered.

"Me too."

"I would've died with him. I wanted to."

"My best mate."

"I should've stayed. When he took the grenade out. I should've died with him."

"He gave his life."

"That's what you do if you love someone."

"That's what soldiers do."

"I should've stayed, but I ran."

"That's what he wanted. Jo, hen, I'm gonna need you to stay alive a wee bit longer."

I let her go. She sat back, looking at me. "What do you want?"

"I need someone to take care of the other survivors. The ones who can't fight."

"Katja -"

"I've other plans for her." She looked at me. I lit her a cigarette. "You're to keep them alive long as you can, if those things break through."

"When."

"If." I felt like the prize fool of all time for not just owning up and admitting the truth, but if I didn't act like we'd make it, who bloody would?

She opened her mouth to argue, then shrugged.

"If there's no hope left, it's your judgement what you do."

She nodded. A silence. "That everything?"

"Pretty much."

A knock at the door. "Who is it?"

"Mleczko, Sarge."

"One minute." I turned to Jo. "You up for it?"

"Alright."

"Get going." She nodded and stood. "Can you tell Katja I'd like to see her?" She nodded again. "Come in, Mleczko."

He stood to attention as the door closed behind her.

"You wanted to see me, Sarge?"

"Aye. At ease."

"She OK?"

"What do you think? Take a seat."

I uncapped the bottle, poured two Isle of Juras.

He grimaced, but choked it down. Strictly a lager man, Mleczko. Not like Chas. I almost smiled. Almost.

"Sarge?"

Focus, Robbie. Focus.

"I need a new Section Leader, Mleczko."

"Sarge?" Then it dawned. "Serious?"

"Seriously. Consider yourself promoted. Assuming you want it."

His face lit up. "Yeah, Sarge. Won't let you down."

"I know. You'll need a 2IC."

"Got anyone in mind, Sarge?"

"I was thinking of Katja." His eyebrows rose. "Any problem there for you?"

"No Sarge. She's good. I'd've gone for her myself."

"I'll bet." He was still young, after all. "Just keep your mind on the job, OK?"

"Course Sarge."

I nodded. "Get your head down, Corporal. Dismissed."

He got up, saluted, went out.

"What do you reckon, Chas?"

No answer; he was dead.

"You reckon he'll do?"

No answer; he was dead.

"I reckon he'll do."

No answer; he was dead.

"Fuck, Chas. What the fuck am I gonna do without you?"

No answer; he was dead.

"Fuck."