The Last Sunset (3 page)

“Right, that’s enough,” snapped the corporal.
“Sergeant O’Brien’s a top instructor.”

“Aye, and them that cannae do, teach,” Rae
grumbled mutinously.

“What Ah don’t understand,” said Ferguson, “is
why we have tae do this in the back-end of beyond.”

“Glen Laragain is ideal training ground. The
M.O.D. bought up the place over a year ago. Nobody had lived in the glen for
ages.”

“What happened tae the punters that used tae live
here?”

It was Macsorley who answered: “21st of April,
1746; Redcoats from Fort William gave this place a helluva goin’ over. It was
reckoned more people died here than in the Glencoe massacre. None of the locals
would ever live here again after that.”

The others looked at him in surprise.

“Where the hell did that newsflash come from?”
said Rae.

“Ma granddad was born near the mouth of this
glen. Place called
Muirshearlach
. Before ma old man and old lady split
up, they used tae bring us up here for our summer holidays. We were never
allowed up Glen Laragain, though.”

“Why would none of the locals live on in the
glen?” the corporal wondered. “It’s good, arable land.”

Macsorley used his beret to wipe the rain from
his face. “Because it’s haunted.”

“Haunted?”

“Ye’re having a laugh, right?”

“Naw, Ah’m serious,” said Macsorley. “Nobody
knows how many were killed in the massacre and how many just drifted away in
the months after. But within a couple of years there was only one house in the
glen still inhabited. Nobody could bear tae live up here anymore…”

“Because it’s supposed tae be haunted?”

Macsorley shrugged his shoulders. “So the story
goes.”

“Ah’ve heard it all now!” announced Ferguson.

“What d’ye expect? They’re all inbred half-wits
up this way,” Rae explained.

“Lowland peasants.” Macsorley retorted. “Ah’m
telling ye, nobody from Lochaber would ever be found up here in the mist…”

“Why the mist?”

“The mist came down just before the massacre
began. It helped tae conceal the redcoats as they worked their way up the glen.
Animals raped the women; slaughtered every man they could lay their hands on.
Some of them even killed lassies and weans. They say anyone caught here in the
mist becomes swept up in the massacre; like it’s all being replayed over and
over.”

“D’ye get tae see all the juicy bits?” asked
Rae.

“Ye can take the mickey all ye like, but Ah’m
telling ye this place is bad news. ’Way back in 1916 an old guy was found dead
up here, frightened tae death, apparently. A week later his two sons vanished
in the mist…” Macsorley realised everyone was looking at him as though he was
the village idiot. “Ye’ll no’ be so cocky if that mist comes down,” he ended
defiantly.

Rae winked at Ferguson. “Ye mean like that mist
coming down now?”

“Aye, very funny.”

“Naw, it’s dead gen,” grinned Ferguson. “Look
behind ye.”

“Get lost.”

“They’re not joking,” said the corporal.

Macsorley looked over his shoulder to the west,
where a mass of low cloud was rolling down the glen like a tsunami.

“Aw shit.”

“Oooo they’re comin’ tae get ye, Macsorley…”

“Look, sod off, eh?”

“All thae red bogey-men coming outtae the mist…”

“Look, just give it a break, eh?” grumbled
Macsorley as the grey wall slowly drew closer, engulfing everything in its
path.

In the glen below, the offending recruit had scuttled
back to his comrades. All were now being punished for his mistake, their aching
limbs being put through a circuit of brutal exercises.

As the little tableau disappeared into the mist,
Macsorley’s torment finally ended. All were enveloped in a blanket of cold air,
which silenced the birdsong and the busy hum of the insects. Even the bellowing
of the sergeant fell away to a series of low growls.

When Macsorley eventually broke the silence it
was as if he’d been the first to blink in an unspoken battle of wills.

“Have ye ever seen it like this up here before,
Corp?”

“This is the first time we’ve taken a squad over
this course. Ah don’t know how common this is, but it makes our job a helluva
lot harder than it should be.”

“So we’re the first group that’s operated in
this glen?”

“As far as Ah know.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” announced Ferguson, “Ah’ve
just thought; today’s the 21st of April; the anniversary of yon massacre…”

“God Almighty, this just keeps getting better
and better…” breathed Macsorley.

“This bitch shouldnae give us any more trouble
now.” Rae manoeuvred the heavy machine gun back into its firing position. “Ah
cannae say the same about Fergie’s ammo.”

“Ah told ye, there’s damn all wrong with the
ammo!” Fergie cried.

Something like normality had also resumed in the
glen below. Once again O’Brien lined up his troops in a semi-circle around him.
All were clearly tired and demoralised, and for the first time that day his
orders weren’t accompanied by a stream of threats.

~*~

The mist was beginning to thicken now. The
firing party could still identify individual shapes in the gloom, but they were
like strange irregularities in a monotone landscape.

Macsorley was the first to notice the tang of
smoke. He held his tongue, afraid of further ridicule.

“Is something on fire?” Rae asked.

“Have you been smelling it too?” Ferguson
replied. “It’s like somebody’s burning the heather.”

“It’s peat smoke,” said Macsorley quietly.

“Don’t talk rubbish, Mac, the peat’ll be too wet
tae burn…”

“It’s no’ that kindae peat fire.”

“Don’t start that rubbish again,” Rae growled.

“Mac’s right,” said Macmillan, “it’s peat smoke
from a house fire. Ah remember the smell from a croft house Ah used tae visit
on Skye.”

“There’s something else Ah can smell,” said
Macsorley. “It’s like dung. Ye know? Cow dung…”

“Your nose is too near yer backside, wee man,”
muttered Rae.

Ferguson suddenly pointed, wide-eyed, into the
murk. He made faint gurgling sounds.

Macsorley let out a low moan of anguish. “Aw in
the name of holy God, what the hell is happening here?”

Sixty yards in front of them, between their
position and the assault course, a number of indistinct forms had begun to materialize,
the mist appearing to be in the throes of giving birth. At first they were
little more than shapes in the murk, but the shapes quickly began to take human
form.

“What the hell is going on here, Mac?” breathed
Rae.

“It’s just like Ah told ye,” Macsorley whispered
accusingly, “ye wouldnae listen. But it’s just like Ah said. Ah tried tae warn
ye, but ye just took the mickey…”

The progeny of the mist had now materialised
into a group of figures that seemed to be moving past their position, making
their way towards the upper reaches of the glen. As some of the figures drew
closer the shock of recognition hit them like a bombshell.

“They’re Hanoverian soldiers,” Macsorley
groaned.

“Cumberland’s army…” Macmillan breathed the
words like an ancient curse.

The apparitions remained soundless and
colourless, as if they truly were the children of the mist. The images,
however, had now taken on a frightening clarity. The uniform, the musket and
bayonet of each individual spectre, could be clearly seen.

“It’s the massacre,” Macsorley hissed. “We’re
watching the massacre of Glen Laragain…”

More apparitions were now appearing from the
mist on their left, all moving westwards. None of the watching troops dared to
breathe, terrified the slightest sound would attract attention.

The ringing of the field telephone broke the
silence. The telephone rang again before Macmillan could grab the handset. The
grey figures continued to stare ahead as they drifted past.

“Are you seeing this, Sarge?” the non-commissioned
officer whispered hoarsely.

“Bravo two three?” the radio crackled in reply.
“This is bravo one zero. Respond, over.”

“Bravo… Can ye no’ see them…? They’re right in
front of ye.”

“Corporal Macmillan, what are you babbling
about?”

“They’re not seeing this,” Macmillan hissed at
the others. “Whatever’s happening is only happening tae us!”

“Bravo two three. Get your head out of your
backside and respond. Over.”

As the corporal tried desperately to compose
himself a number of spectral soldiers began to move directly towards Macmillan
and his squad.

“They’re heading this way! What do we do, Corp?”

Before Macmillan could respond the problem was
taken out of his hands by Private Rae. The machine-gunner reacted in the way he
was trained… The burst of tracer passed through the grey figures and crashed
into Sergeant O’Brien and two of his recruits, standing directly behind. Even
through the mist Macmillan could see the three soldiers collapse onto the moor,
where a red tarn began to form around them.

He heard someone screaming; “
noooo
!”
without realising it was his own voice.

The apparitions continued towards them,
oblivious to everything else. They were now little more than twenty yards away.
Rae squeezed the trigger again, but with no loader to feed the ammunition belt
the weapon jammed. Now that they could see the faces of the spectres, they
looked less like abominations and more like creatures of flesh and blood. They
clearly had no sense of Macmillan and his group. Their attention was focused on
something else. At that moment a number of shapes leapt from a point close to
the firing position and began to run nimbly into the mist behind them.

At once the apparitions took up the chase.

“Where did they come from?” began Macsorley,
before everything was lit up by a blinding flash to the east. It was as if the
sun had erupted in a supernova explosion. At once the mist vanished, to be
replaced by a cauldron of fire.

For a millisecond the four soldiers were caught
like flies in a furnace.

Glen Laragain — 2026

The automobile rattled its way along the
old cattle track, its passage marked by a cloud of dust that hung in the still
morning air. The track finally petered out beside a ruined cottage, bringing
the car to an untidy halt.

The building had long ago lost its doors and
windows to the passage of time, and it gaped in blank astonishment at the young
couple who emerged from the car.

The man stretched to ease the stiffness in his
muscles, a derisive smile on his face. “So, Shawnee, this is the old ancestral
pile, huh? This is what y’brought us halfway round the world to see?”

“Oh, give it a rest, Sam,” said Shawnee wearily.
“Y’haven’t stopped complaining since we landed in Scotland.”

Sam laughed as he opened the boot of the car and
began to fill two backpacks with food and water. Both were dressed in shorts,
sweatshirts and walking boots. Although Sam was six inches taller than Shawnee,
his skin bronzed, his long hair bleached by the sun, the apparel looked more
natural on her than it did on him.

“Oh yes, I’m a direct descendent of the Camerons
of Glen Laragain,” he mimicked as he carried the packs over to the ruin. “We,
like, totally have our own castle and everything…”

Shawnee had made her way through the gaping hole
that once supported a front door. “Never said we lived in a castle,” she yelled
from inside the ruin.

Sam peered through one of the rotting window
frames. The interior was choked with weeds and fallen masonry. “What I can’t
figure is why your people woulda wanted to leave all this to emigrate to the
States.”

She scowled as she stepped gingerly over the
debris. “If you’re gonna be such a pain why don’t you just go back to the hotel?”

“Y’mean The Hotel Caledonia?
Mirrors on the
ceiling, pink champagne on ice
…”

She swept her long, auburn hair from her face,
her eyes narrow and threatening. “Being here means everything to me and I am
so
not gonna let you spoil it. Now, you can either be a part of this or you can…
you can go screw yourself.”

Sam took a moment to drink in her fiery beauty.
She had such strength and determination for one so small and finely featured.
He had learned the hard way that he could push Shawnee only so far. He offered
his usual indulgent smile.

“Look, I’m sorry. Okay? I just feel I can’t
reach you when y’get all this… this totem pole stuff in your head. I can’t see
why you wanna carry all these dead guys around with yuh all the time, anyhow.
It’s
gotta
be unhealthy.”

Her brow furrowed, but only for a moment. “You
don’t understand because y’don’t have a single drop of Celtic blood in your
body.”