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Invercharing Community
She lay face down on the crumpled bedclothes, her slender, naked back hiding nothing of her female curves.
Rory kneels on the bed behind her and lays his body on top of hers, their bare skin touching. Her soft warmth contacts the entire length of his body, his firmness hard along her buttock.
She stirs and turns her head to the side.
Running his nose along her right shoulder and up into her fair hair, he inhales her scent.
What was it?
Flowers, he guesses. But what flowers?
He only knows the scent of thistle and heather.
They wouldn’t make perfume out of those.
He pulls her hair away from the side of her face with his left hand, the gold band on his ring finger glints softly in the moonlight from the window.
She sighs.
He presses his lips to the side of her neck and traces her hairline toward the base of her skull.
He leans forward and grabs her earlobe gently between his teeth, avoiding the diamond stud earring she wears.
He gives a breathy laugh as she wriggles beneath him.
“What, again?” Her voice husky with sleep.
“Uh, huh.” He presses his lips to her neck and tastes her fair complexion.
She opens her legs beneath him, and he thrusts himself in.
Rory woke; the sheet tight and damp around his manhood. He disengaged himself from his bed covers, walked to the bathroom, and washed.
He walked naked to the kitchen and opened the laminate cupboard door. From behind the preserves he brought out the bottle of single malt whisky and poured a dram into the glass he kept on the bench. It was more than a dram, but he needed it.
That was no wet dream. It was real.
So real he could still smell her perfume, feel her smooth skin, sense her tightening around him.
He sculled the scotch in one hit, its warmth burning his throat and vaporising up into his nostrils. The lingering creaminess from the hint of sherry cask was comforting as the liquid’s warmth filled his belly.
Rory slammed the glass on the tiled bench; the crack reverberated throughout the empty house. It was once the family home, but now only he lived here since his mother’s death and his father’s permanent return to the past.
“Who was she?” His voice was loud in the room.
The quiet answered.
He’d never experienced it before. Not just the physical connection, nor the overwhelming, all-consuming sense of her...
Was it love?
Shaking his head, he poured another generous dram and drank, then walked to the bedroom. Maybe sleep would come.
***
“SO, WHY AM I NOT GOING?” Brendan led his saddled horse as he walked toward Rory.
“It may be dangerous.” Rory’s gaze flicked around the stable where the rest of his crew were mounting up.
“I’ll stay out of trouble, I promise.” Brendan now stood directly in front of Rory, his eager expression right in Rory’s face.
Rory sighed and slowly shook his head. He recognised the emotion within himself—resignation.
“When we get to Loch Ewe, no before we get there, you will stay back somewhere safe.” His younger brother required the experience, and Rory wasn’t sure of what he would find there, but he needed the manpower. He only had to keep him out of harm’s way. Wherever that was.
The beaming smile from his wee brother brought a reluctant curve to his own lips.
Rory and his team trotted their horses through the misty rain. They set out toward Bhienn Fionn, wearing wet weather gear. The rain so opposite to yesterday’s sun. Mist shrouded the purple heather-covered mountains to either side, and water ran in rivulets along the ground beneath them. The cool wind blew the scent of horse and forest past his nostrils. They had a two-day journey ahead, with an overnight camp.
Rory had no idea if they would cross bandit country or not, but he’d made sure his crew came well armed. Callum cantered his horse to catch up with him.
“Are we going over Bhienn Fionn?” Callum asked.
“No. I’m planning to avoid the well-known paths.” Rory shook his head. “Might be safer that way. We’ll make as much of a beeline as we can over the lower hills. The plan is to camp beside Loch Maree tonight, somewhere near Taagan.”
They rode through the pass at Achnasheen which led them beneath Bhienn Fionn. Their grassy path took them across undulating heather and bracken fern-covered glens, wind-blown and treeless for miles. The rain came over with the gusts of wind and made for a patchy on-off rainy day.
By late afternoon, their path ran beside a brisk flowing grey-pebbled burn which wound its way to the remains of the old road for a short distance before making its way to Loch Maree. Rory became increasingly aware of the triple buttresses of Bhienn Eighe to his left. Its massive presence glowered at them from its heights across the shore of the loch. Clouds of its own making topped its Cambrian quartzite, grey and intimidating. The white, grey and black colouring of the clouds, ever-roiling and changing within themselves, added to the menacing aura surrounding the mountain.
“Lord of the Rings,” Callum spoke beside him.
“Aye. Mount Doom.” Rory nodded, his mouth open, recalling their mother’s choice of bedtime reading material. She’d believed in the classics. “Here’s hoping our mission is nae as difficult.”
Rory led his team across the small delta of Kinlochewe River as it emptied into Loch Maree and headed toward the forest on their right to make their camp in its shelter. So far, they sighted no bandits. Night time would tell.
They set up camp, lit a fire and over it they cooked bannock dough wrapped around a stick.
“I’ll take first watch.” Rory picked up his Glock, slung his rifle over his shoulder and pointed to the trees about fifteen metres away. “I’ll come wake you in four hours,” he said to his twin.
Callum nodded.
“Everyone else get some rest. With one ear open, aye?” Rory ordered as he walked out of their camp.
“Yes, boss.” Kendra saluted, then smiled.
She meant it in a friendly way with no disrespect for him. His crew admired him, but at times Rory wondered why. This could be a dangerous mission. He shivered, and not from the cool night air. They travelled to an unseen danger. He recalled his mother speaking of radiation from atomic bombs dropped on Japan, which had caused cancer years later in the survivors. It was the Second World War, if he remembered correctly. A war in a world so different from now.
Had they ever dropped the later bombs of the nuclear kind, nukes, Murray called them, anywhere else? The Community still listened intently to the CB radio chatter, but they only heard a little of what went on in the world out there. He wished he knew more, and they had some protective gear like he’d seen in pictures in the Encyclopaedia Britannica in the Community’s library.
What was he risking? What danger was he exposing his crew to? But if they didn’t help, there may be a nuke out there, and someone had to deal with it. Unchecked, it could mean annihilation.
What choice did he have?
A crashing through the trees brought his walk to his night watch post to a halt. He stood stock-still. The odour of male red deer assailed his nostrils—like stale cat piss mixed with dead animal. They urinate on themselves to make their personal scent stronger.
Aye, a stag.
It stomped beside him.
Rory turned slowly. A fourteen-pointer stood not five metres from him amongst the trees. Red-brown fur covered rippling muscle; hard as bone solid antler branches arose high above a noble head. Rory daren’t move. It was rutting season, and those tines were sharp.
The old male honked and stomped again. That was two warnings he’d given in a matter of moments. Rory didn’t move an inch. If Rory was lucky, the stag would sense he wouldn’t harm him, if only Rory stood still. He prayed the others hadn’t noticed and wouldn’t startle the stag and cause him to charge.
There were more animal noises behind the stag. His harem of does. That’s why he was so aggressive.
The large male animal honked once more. At the same time a raucous of noise erupted from the camp. A handgun fired, and horses shrieked. Rory flinched as his heart continued rocking in his chest. The stag raised his head and sniffed the air. Then, backtracking away from Rory, he turned and honked at his females behind him, causing a stampede of deer to crash through the forest away from the camp.
Rory sunk to the ground, releasing the breath he’d been holding. His hand trembled around his Glock as his pulse pounded in his ears. No matter how often he’d fought a human, in mock fights or real, it never scared him as much as facing the awesomeness of a protective, wild male animal.
Rory glanced through the forest to ensure the deer had left and turned to find the cause of the commotion in the camp. He raised his Glock. Callum paused, hands in the air on his way toward him.
“Don’t shoot. It’s me, brother. Saving you from a stag who wanted to chop your head off and mount it in his den.” Callum’s smile almost split his face.
Rory lowered his Glock and relaxed his shoulders as he took in the scene behind Callum. Xian and Kendra held the reins of spooked horses and Brendan still pointed his firearm heavenwards.
“I saw what was happening and thought a full-on noise assault would be best to scare him off,” Callum said. “Couldn’t have him impaling our leader. Didn’t want to shoot him and risk hitting you. And I don’t feel like butchering a stag and carryin’ the meat around for days either. They’re too tough anyways.”
Rory shook his head as he stepped forward and hugged his twin. “Thanks, brother.”
“Ahem.” Kendra’s feminine cough floated through the cooling air.
“And everyone else. Now settle those horses back down and get some rest. I’ll look for another spot to keep watch.”
***
WHEN MORNING CAME, they packed up camp, mounted their horses, and Rory led the way along the east bank of Loch Maree. The rocky edge of the mountainside entering the loch interrupted the wide grassy flat on which they travelled. Rory guided his crew, jumping off his horse and picking his way through a rocky path to a level section farther up the hillside. They followed this for a way until the flatter shoreline returned. They mounted their horses once more and rode through a forest of bright purple thigh-high heather, bracken fern and moss-covered boulders shaded by silver birch and Scots pine until they came to grassy shore again.
“There’s your island, Rory.” Kendra pointed to their left, to the last of the three tree and rock covered islands in Loch Maree. “Eilean Ruairidh Mor.”
“Aye, I ken.” Rory turned to Kendra riding by his side. “My name means red king, you know?”
“Aye, I know.”
“Dinnae you forget it.”
Buzzards flew high in the sky on the opposite side of the loch. More argued on the shoreline next to where the road had once been, their raucous calls echoing over the loch toward them.
“Lots of birds over there on the other side. What do you think, your majesty?”
“Buzzards. Maybe ravens too. Feedin’ on something dead.” Ignoring Kendra’s comment on his rank, Rory got out the high-powered binoculars and held them to his eyes. “Och no.” His mouth dried.
“What, Rory?” Callum rode closer.
“I think it’s another body.” Rory swallowed. “Hard to tell from here and ah...with the state it’s in.”
They rode on in silence for a while, past old roads and broken fences, through a windswept narrow valley following a river. Mountains hugged this valley, majestically green and dappled in light-cloud shade. Further along, rock faces edged their way, cracked and scarred by the weather. Here heather grew, grabbing a space in the cracks and holding tight. Before the small village of Poolewe, a slumped figure lay in their path. Rory went to dismount.
“No, Rory. Remember it may be radioactive.” Kendra urged the others to pass by as far away from the body as possible. The horses nickered their displeasure at the odour of dead human as they trotted by. It wasn’t pleasant smelling for the humans either.
Not a scent easily forgotten.
“Oh, wow.” Brendan’s awestruck voice broke through Rory’s thoughts. Preoccupied with the implications of two more dead bodies, one for sure in the same condition as the man they found before they left, Rory hadn’t noticed Loch Ewe coming into view. His younger brother’s exclamations brought Rory’s focus back to his surroundings.
In contrast to yesterday, the afternoon sun shone brightly in a clear blue sky over the water, reflecting off the brilliant deep-blue waters of the sea loch stretching before him, glimmering off its rippling surface. A bright green, grassed island, the Isle of Ewe, sat directly ahead, and behind it, smooth-topped mountains strung themselves in a row around the loch. Through the gap of two headlands at the end of the loch, spread the deeper blue of the ocean.
“We’ll travel beside the road now, instead of beneath the mountains.” Rory decided. “But we could find more dead men,” he whispered to Kendra.
Rory led his crew beside the crumbled, pitted, churned-up bitumen. Years of weathering and lack of road maintenance had eroded its surface from smooth to crumbling gravel.
“These roads are now too dangerous to be usable. Too risky on the horses. Keep ‘em away. Keep to the grass, aye.” Rory manoeuvred his stallion, Boy, past a pile of churned asphalt and over a rutted stream running off the old road. “Do you remember Mum sayin’ roads were once smooth bitumen?” He asked Brendan who was riding beside him. “Roads carved their way through the countryside, over bridges and on long motorways covering the length of Britain and back.”
“Wow. That’s impossible,” Brendan said.
“Aye, that’s what I thought, until I returned to the past and saw it for ma’self. Even in the quiet Highlands, they maintained the roads. None o’ any o’ that now.”
Near to Tournaig, with the smaller inlet called Loch Thurnaig to their left, they came across another khaki-clad figure, lying on the soft grass beneath a mounded concrete structure. As the group approached, the body’s arm moved. Then it rolled slightly.
“He’s still alive!” Rory kicked his horse on.
“No Rory, he’s radioactive!” Kendra’s pleading shout came from behind him.
Rory pulled his horse up short of the man lying in the grass. The man contorted in agony and liquid ran down the side of his mouth. His red, peeling face sported no hair whatsoever. He held out red raw hands.
Xian came beside Rory, his horse joining with his own in a snort of unease. The man on the ground held out his hands in a beseeching manner. Rory’s heart tore. He lifted himself off his saddle.
“No, Rory!” Kendra shouted her warning from a few yards back, stopping him mid-dismount.
From the ground, the man spoke. Rory couldn’t understand a word but could tell it was an Asian tongue. The man ceased speaking and closed his eyes. His breath was a gurgle in his throat, then it stopped.
“What did he say?” Rory twisted to Xian.
“I don’t know. I don’t speak Korean!” Xian’s expression was one of exasperation.
“How do you know it’s Korean then?”
“The badge on his uniform. It’s the North Korean flag.” Xian pointed with his chin.
Kendra rode up to them. “You are both too close. Come back. And nobody goes near him.” Her mouth was tight as she spoke through gritted teeth. “Move!”
They trotted their horses well away from the dead man.
“We need to get to this submarine. According to the old map I checked, Drumchork isn’t far away.” Rory kicked his stallion to a canter. The others followed.
Not far along the road, there was an out-jutting of land. Rory led his crew to it and dismounted. In the near distance, they could see the mottled-white of the pier at Drumchork making a long line out into the loch, its old timbers weathered and missing in places. Beside them on the sea loch, a pale blue boat motored up and slowed to a stop. As the engine cut out, a figure ahoyed them from the cabin.
“Rory Campbell?” A tall older man in faded jeans and a baggy jumper cupped his hands around his mouth.
“Aye,” Rory answered.
“I’ll meet ye, and you only mind, one mile up the road, aye?” The man raised thick eyebrows as he spoke.
“Aye.” Rory then turned to his team. “You heard him. Stay here.”
“No, Rory. You’re not going alone.” Xian’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t know who he is.”
“He kens who I am. He must be the man from the Loch Ewe Community.”
“But he didn’t introduce himself. You’re not going alone.” Xian’s voice was low.
Rory paused. “Aye well, any closer and no one is safe. I’ll take you up on your offer, but only you Xian. The rest of you go back aways and find a good camping place, away from the last body, mind.”
Brendan started walking to his horse, but Kendra stood forward.
“I’ll come with you.”
“No.” Rory shook his head.
Kendra opened her mouth.
“No arguments.” His tone was sharp. She closed her mouth, looking stunned.
“Well, I’m coming, brother.” Callum said.
“You definitely are not. You will be a father soon. Stay here.” Rory exchanged a look with his brother; a private twin look his brother would understand. Callum’s nostrils flared, then he pressed his lips tight, remounted and turned his horse to follow the others.
Further along the road, Rory and Xian found a small floating pier. The man had motored his small boat to it and waited for them.
“Hello and welcome. I’m Murdo MacDonald. Pleasure to meet you.” He was a solidly built man in his sixties, if Rory guessed right. His greying wavy hair, which could have once been a light brown, sat above bushy greying eyebrows which sheltered bright blue eyes. His tanned face was weather-beaten wrinkled. Rory took his gnarled, sun-spotted hand; there was a faint fishy smell.
“Well, I’m Rory Campbell, but you know that already. This is Xian. We are from—”
“The Invercharing Community and thank you for coming so promptly.” Murdo beamed as he stared directly into Rory’s face. His handshake was firm and lingered. Rory flicked his gaze from the man’s face to their clasped hands and back again. Murdo let go.
“Verra well then. Let me take ye to my place and we’ll see what’s to be done.”
Rory and Xian boarded the small motorboat. Murdo revved the inboard motor and steered the boat to the Isle of Ewe sitting in the middle of the loch.
“This wee boat takes me to ma work and back. I’m a fisherman and ma work boat’s moored over there with the others.” Murdo pointed to a pier now coming into view nearer the righthand side of the outlet of the loch into The Minch. Along this pier sat an armada of fishing boats with men milling around or hauling nets, their early morning’s catch on ice. “The fishing has picked up greatly over the years since organised international fishing decreased after The Crash. It’s given the fish time to repopulate. There’s a bounty of food out there the noo’.” Murdo’s amicable chatter continued.
Murdo steered his boat and made a sharp turn, heading for a cottage on the side of the island. In front of it was a small private pier where he docked the motorboat. Rory and Xian got out of the boat and followed him up a track to the small whitewashed cottage with a grey slate roof.
Once inside the stone cottage, a stronger fish aroma greeted Rory’s nostrils, and something else—coffee. Coffee was a rarity in the Community and Rory’s mouth watered.
“Come in, sit doon.” Murdo pointed to the only two chairs in the small one-roomed cottage. An Aga solid fuel stove sat by the far wall radiating the heat which had bathed Rory’s face on entering. A single bed sat against the back wall; paintings in water colours lined the wall behind it. The largest was of a pretty woman with two boys standing in front of her. Another was a fishing boat, a young man with a hand full of nets stood in the foreground.
“Aye, that’s my wife and boys. Morag has gone now, and my boys have grown and run the boat for me when I’m no’ free.” Murdo placed a cup for each of them on the small table.
Rory took one and turned to stare at the view. Directly in front of the window were the faded white posts of the pier and the dark, almost black, submarine sitting high in the water, the top of it level with the pier. Rory swallowed the coffee, ignoring the slight scalding it gave his throat.
“During World War II, this loch was a secret base. Nice and deep for the big ships, aye. They used to send convoys of supplies to the Russians via the Artic. Even had a submarine net across the entrance to this loch, ken. Ye may have passed one of the old concrete gun turrets on your way here.” Murdo’s gravelly voice lilted behind him. “It was way before my time, though. A long way before my time.”
“It’s dangerous.” Not a question. Rory stared at the submarine, his back still to his host.
“Aye. The submariners coming from it show signs of radiation sickness,” Murdo replied from behind him.
“A nuclear sub then?” Rory couldn’t take his eyes off the submarine, now so close.
“No, it’s a Russian 677 Lada with AIP. Diesel fuel cell.”
Rory turned from the window and stared at Murdo.
“I am a mariner. I ken ma’ vessels.” Murdo indicated toward the window with his coffee cup and a nod of his head.
“Russian?” Xian broke the momentary silence.
“They don’t look like Russians.” Rory glanced sideways at Xian. “They are wearing North Korean uniforms and we think it was Korean they spoke.”
“You spoke to them?” Murdo’s hoary brows raised in question.
“Yes, one spoke to us before he died.” Xian lowered his gaze into his almost empty coffee mug.
Rory turned once more to view the submarine just over the water. No one had exited in the brief time he watched.
“Aye well, I vaguely remember there was talk of Russia selling their out-dated subs to rogue states.” Murdo scratched the stubble on his chin. “This one’s definitely no’ your nuclear-powered sub, just run o’ the mill. Diesel fuel, like my boat.”
“It’s carrying a nuclear warhead?” Rory spun from the window.
“It’s the only obvious explanation for the leak.” The old man fixed his gaze on him.
The Aga creaked as it heated, and the wind blew the shabby curtains of the cottage.
Rory’s heart missed a beat, then thumped faster.
“It’s not safe then,” Rory repeated the obvious.
“Well, it’s probably no’ safe here, but I wanted tae keep an eye on it, ken. It’s no’ safe anywhere, to be honest.” Murdo’s shoulders lowered as he let out a slow breath.
Rory took a step toward Murdo. “We’ll shut it down then.”
“How!” Xian stared up at him, mouth open, slowly shaking his head, his dark-brown eyes flicked from Rory to Murdo.
“It’s no’ a matter of shuttin’ it doon.” Murdo placed his cup on the table. “It’s leaking and I dinnae ken how tae fix it.” He pulled at the stretched collar of his baggy jumper.
“We don’t even have the gear they wear.” Rory visualised the pictures in the Encyclopaedia Britannica once more.
Where would we get the equipment from, anyway?
“We don’t know what to do if we did. We could accidentally set it off and wipe out Scotland!” Xian’s mug slammed on the table.
“Aye, sobering thoughts.” Murdo’s voice was low, thoughtful. “Years ago, they knew. And if ye did nae know, ye could find out on the computer. They had a thing called The Internet. People had knowledge about everything right at their fingertips, ken. Don’t think much wisdom came with it, but the knowledge was there certainly. And, I suspect, it’s how we lost a lot of recorded information, well that sort of information, anyways. When the internet crashed and electricity became scarce and...well, all that’s history now.”
Rory turned back to the view of the submarine.
Knowledge from the past.
“If only we could turn back time and ken what they did.” Murdo’s voice lilted behind him in the sing-songy accent of an islander. “We’d ken how to proceed with oor wee problem.”
Rory turned. Murdo stared straight at him. An uncomfortable sensation on the back of Rory’s neck accompanied the old man’s stare. Rory pushed it aside, as how to deal with the nuclear warhead was more important and pressing. Rory stood to his full height, trying to shake the feeling.
“We’ve got to get back to the Community. We have books, magazines and journals from before The Stock Market Crash. We’ll find out what we can. How long do you think we have...until it blows up?”
Murdo frowned and shook his head. “Nae idea, lad. But dinnae stop to smell the flowers on yoor way home, like.”
Rory made for the door, his coffee unfinished. Xian drained the dregs in his mug and followed him out. Rory turned to make sure Murdo was coming too. Murdo’s face creased even further with the smile he wore.
