The Village King (14 page)

N
ight
arrived. Gary
lowered a rope down the cliff. Dave braced it against the wall. Stephen
positioned the rifle on his back as he leaned over, holding the rope. After
tapping Stephen on the shoulder, Frank placed a pair of night vision goggles
over his head. Previously the property of Colonel Morgan, Frank used them to scan
the narrow gap between the West Warehouse and cliff. None of them spoke.

Underneath the cliff, a narrow
access path behind the warehouses was covered in pebbles dredged from the
beach. It would mean they should hear someone moving about down there, but Frank
was to keep watch all the same. Stephen began to lower himself down. With no
experience of repelling down a rope, he had to walk down and just hold on.

Crumbly and jagged, the cliff
spilled some loose flaked stones to the bottom. Now between the rock face and
the three storey warehouse, Stephen paused. There was no sound from below and
Frank had not cleared his throat, their agreed signal. He was half way down,
sweating badly into his eyes and his hands hurt, but Stephen kept on.

He stepped gently onto the
pebbles, feeling them settle quietly under his boots, and shook the rope to
signal Gary to follow. Stephen crouched down and shrugged off the rifle. He
held it up to his shoulder and looked in both directions. All was quiet and
dark, sheltered between the cliff and building.

The rope twisted and snaked on
the ground as Gary made his way down. In the middle storey of the warehouse, a
light went on and pale illumination leaked out between the bars and onto the
cliff face. The rope stopped moving.

Stephen lifted himself up and
pointed his rifle at the window. Covered in a thick metal grill, the window
could not be opened or seen through from inside, but Stephen took the
precaution anyway. There were voices inside and some light laughter before the
light went out. Stephen breathed out. The rope snaked around again.

Finally, Gary made it to the
ground. He tugged twice on the rope and it slithered up the cliff away from
them. Gary readied his rifle. Stephen tapped him on the shoulder and they crept
along to the corner of the building. Stephen crouched down and stuck one eye
round the corner. There was no movement.

Gary had followed him to this
spot, having moved backwards to cover their position. Stephen tapped him again
and Gary moved passed the corner into a hollow under the cliff, opposite the
warehouse corner.

Gary turned and backed in.
Stephen did the same and the two of them hunkered down, secure in the darkness.
They waited.

Morning was on its way. Gary was chittering beside
Stephen. Stephen looked at his watch. It was nearly time. During the night,
they had been undisturbed in their damp corner. They had seen a few men stagger
back and forth along the road, nice and drunk, while they themselves were
unseen in the dark behind the warehouse.

They readied themselves by
standing and shaking out their feet. Gary shook his head and let his cheek flap
about. Stephen yawned and checked his equipment. Former Colonel Morgan had
bequeathed him two grenades, now attached to his belt, and he wondered if they
would work. Cracks sounded out, breaking the silence. From their cave, they
could not be sure of the direction, but they had been expecting it from the
south; the stairs. Moore and Gibson, they both knew, were taking pot-shots at
the barricade at the bottom of the stairs.

The two soldiers had spent the
night crawling by inches to a position where they could do the most damage.
O’Neill and Mills were in support at their rear, to protect the men, but ready
to storm the barricade if necessary or able. That four-man group was the
beginnings of a diversion and it was working. From their position, Gary and
Stephen saw two men trot past the opening at the road, running south.

Without speaking, Stephen led the
way. They stepped lightly on the gravel with their weapons at their shoulders.
At the end of the warehouse, they kept low while Stephen peered over to the
barricade at the bottom of the access road. Piled high with barrels, two men
remained on guard, but looked away from the road, passed Stephen, towards the
action at the stairs. They were too far to see anything, and it was still dark,
but Stephen could make out the men were anxiously trying to make out what was
happening.

Perfect, thought Stephen. He
glanced at Gary, determination on his face. They waited. In the dark, they heard
a dull groan and something slumped onto the ground. Something else slid off a
barrel and lay beside it. It was both men from the barrel barricade, having
been injured or killed, by two figures now running to the East Warehouse. Facing
the sea, the long building provided cover for the two and they hunkered down at
the wall. Stephen recognised their forms. It was Pullman and Talbot, who had
used the time to take advantage of the low tide and make their way across the
shoreline. Part of the backup plan was for Gary and Stephen to provide support
for them if they failed or were compromised in any way.

As agreed, Pullman and Talbot
lined up cover down the road south. Stephen and Gary were first out. In between
the tall buildings, they ran down the quiet street before ducking into the
first doorway. They took up a firing position while Pullman and Talbot ran past
them and ducked into a doorway on the left. Up ahead, there were men running
towards the pier away from the gunfire. The shots were clearer here and sound
bounced between the buildings. Stephen and Gary made off to the next door and
again covered while Pullman and Talbot took up their final spot.

Stephen quickly looked around.
They were alone. There was still some confusion up ahead and he didn’t want to run
into any gunfire. If the four man team had managed to progress, they were to
funnel the men towards the pier and their escape; Alana’s plan allowing them to
escape and minimise the fighting. The risk for them now was in running into a
bullet. He glanced over at Pullman and Talbot, patiently covering the area in
front of the large gate.

Up ahead, one man ran, pulling
his trousers up. In the gloom, Stephen thought it was Malcolm, the sailor they
had previously traded whisky for fish. Stephen went after him, with Gary at his
heel. They reached the corner of the building facing the sea. Keeping low,
Stephen stuck his head round. Behind them, they heard Pullman and Talbot take
up a new position.

All the men, seven in all, had
gathered on the moorings at the pier-end and were waiting for one of the yachts
which was heading in. Two men on a smaller boat furiously rowed out to their
vessel.

The sky was beginning to lighten
in the east and Stephen could make out that the approaching yacht was The
Mercury, Malcolm’s craft, heading towards the pier. A second yacht had lifted
its anchor and was following into the moorings. Malcolm himself shuffled his
feet as he waited, nervously looking behind him, almost dancing. Stephen made
way for Gary, a much better shot. He pointed out Malcolm and Gary nodded a
quick agreement as he sighted the rifle.

Gary breathed out and squeezed
the trigger. Malcolm went down and the others on the pier panicked. Three men
dived into the water and started swimming. The Mercury kept coming and bumped
into the mooring. Malcolm’s companion threw out a line for one man to catch. It
was Malcolm, back on his feet, but hopping on one leg, the other trailing
uselessly beside him.

Two men took up defensive
positions, low down in the stone part of the pier, and fired off arrows from
small cross-bows. Wood clattered on the cement ground as the arrows landed
harmlessly out of range. Stephen rounded the corner keeping low, and fired off
a shot which landed who knows where, but had the effect of making the two men
with cross-bows retreat. They joined the final man who helped Malcolm steady
the boat against the mooring.

Seeing the men clamber onto the
boat, Stephen moved quickly. Keeping his knees bent, he moved fast towards the
pier. Gary was beside him. As they stepped onto the pier, an arrow slipped by
him, sounding lethal and in range, but miraculously missed. Stephen fired at
the yacht, hoping to hole it.

The Mercury began to slip away
from the side. Malcolm was trying to lift his damaged leg into his boat but the
other men were barging past him. He slipped and fell into the water as the gap
between boat and mooring widened. Gary fired and the men on the boat ducked
down and hid, some making it below. Out in the water, the swimmers had made it
to the second yacht and were being hauled aboard. Malcolm’s friend was reaching
down trying to lift him out the water but Malcolm was floundering, panicking
and shouting.

The sky had begun to turn grey as
the sun threatened to lift above the horizon. Stephen came forward again and
fired. Malcolm let go of the side of the boat but continued to thrash in the
water. Gary was firing again as Stephen reached for his belt and found one of
the grenades. He pulled the pin, and threw it over arm, like Talbot had shown
him. He heard a knocking sound he hoped was the grenade bouncing on the deck
and Gary was pulling at his shoulder.

They ran up the pier and the
grenade went off. It was not as huge an explosion as Stephen had expected but
he felt the force of it in his back thump him forward. He stumbled but Gary had
him by the arm and they stayed upright. Stopping running, Stephen turned back
to the boat. The blast had blown open the far side of the hull and the whole
craft lurched around as water flooded in.

A couple of men had made it off
the boat and were swimming to the second yacht which had now made its turn and
was sailing away from them. The other boats, which had moored in the bay, had begun
to turn and were fleeing.

Followed by Gary, Stephen ran to
the mooring’s end. Spluttering, and slapping around in the water, Malcolm was
making his way to the edge. He stopped when he saw Stephen looming over him. He
was distraught and afraid, which pleased Stephen. Out in the bay, The Mercury
was sinking. Its mast was undamaged and poked up to the brightening sky. There
was no sign of anyone else. The swimmers were still chasing the second yacht.

Above his hip, Stephen held the
rifle. He pointed it towards Malcolm, who froze and waited in the water, his
hair soaked and matted. Gary watched him, impassively.

“No!” The shout was from behind
Stephen. It was Pullman. Backed by Talbot and the other four soldiers, she held
her hand out in a halting gesture. Stephen locked eyes with her, his rifle
still pointing at Malcolm, and pulled the trigger.

S
abre,
Morgan’s former
horse, and now belonging to Stephen, pulled Frank’s trailer. She didn’t like
it, but she did it. Frank led her by the reins as they made their way up the
forest path. Stephen walked in front, with no rifle, just his Glock and the
hunting knife tucked in their holster and sheath. Dave walked behind, ready to
lean on the trailer if it got stuck, but the dry weather meant the going was
good.

On the trailer was a barrel of
whisky. White oak in construction, it contained just under two-hundred litres
of single malt Glen Craobhmore. Frank coaxed Sabre up the hill under the
strain. He had complained about the journey, saying the horse would not be up
to it, and Stephen had sensed the older man’s own fear, but had managed to talk
him round. Frank’s expertise with the barrels was needed.

As they headed by the reservoir,
they ignored checking whether it was filling up or not and kept on. Eventually,
they neared the forest edge and found the barrier unmanned. It took the three
of them to move it back, despite it being a little dilapidated. After moving
it, Stephen looked at the branches which made up the gate. The last time he had
been here, the barrier was new, but despite it only being a short time later it
was starting to look decayed. He wondered what this was telling him, but Frank
had gotten Sabre moving again, and he didn’t find any time to consider it
further.

As they moved further into the
forest, light dappled between the branches onto the path and they began to
smell wood smoke from the camp’s fires. Nearing, the settlement, Stephen
noticed another smell. A rotten stench threaded in between the aromas of the
camp. Frank and Dave eyed each other nervously. Stephen strode on.

Joseph’s tent, the yurt, sat grey
and quiet in the middle of the camp. Faces hid behind trees or ducked inside
their own tents and make-shift shelters leaning against trees. Stephen looked
around, unsettled by the atmosphere. Before, the people had been quiet, but
their silent defiance had sparked the air. This time, they seemed afraid and
restrained. A child of about five chased a dog through the trees, her joy in
contrast to everything else.

Trees had been felled to create
more space. Jagged stumps poked about the camp. Finally, they faced Joseph’s
tent. The tartan rugs hung across the door in front of a small fire which
burned brightly in the dark corner of the forest. Filthy, and showing signs of
wear, one rug was gripped at the edge and Joseph emerged.

He smiled on recognising Stephen.
“You’ve brought different friends.” Frank and Dave huddled next to Sabre. He
looked to his left as if looking for one of his followers to be pushing Talbot
into the camp again. Stephen said nothing. Joseph turned to his right, and made
the same show of searching the trees.

Stephen baulked but he did not
move. On Joseph’s neck was a swollen, purple, boil. Dave went to back off, but
Frank got a hold of him. He made the younger man begin to release the horse
from the trailer. Joseph touched the boil, self-consciously, and turned back to
Stephen, smiling again.

Stephen looked around. A family
huddled inside in a small lean-to, boils on their necks; the virus. Joseph
spoke again. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Stephen said, “We’ve brought a
peace offering.” He gestured as Dave moved Sabre away from the trailer and
walked her back down the hill.

Joseph saw the barrel. “We have
no need of your whisky. We have the forest.”

Stephen paused. He moved towards
Joseph, who backed up and looked around for someone to help him. Having no wish
to get too close to Joseph, Stephen kept the fire between them. “Shame about
Private Davis.”

Joseph eyes crinkled into an
unrepentant smile and Stephen saw madness there. A large man lumbered out from
behind the tent and stood behind Joseph. He seemed untouched by the virus
himself and untroubled by being near it. Stephen understood in that moment that
they would never be free of them, that their devotion to Joseph was like a
sickness worse than the virus. He glanced at Frank, fussing around the barrel,
and noticed the big man lick his lips at the thought of the spirit inside.

Dave led the horse down the hill
with no-one bothering him. Stephen turned back to Joseph. “This whisky is
yours. I’m going to give it to you.”

Itching to reach for his gun and
shoot Joseph, Stephen looked at the bigger man and wondered what would happen
next. Frank rammed the barrel’s cork bung with his corkscrew tool and twisted
it a few times. The bigger man was licking his lips again and stepped away from
his leader. Stephen smiled at Stephen. With a practiced calm, Frank pulled the
bung out; its sack cloth wrap fell to the ground. Whisky began to glug out the
opening. Joseph frowned. Stephen picked a burning log from the fire and walked
to the barrel.

The big man saw what he was
doing, but Stephen had drawn his pistol and aimed it at the man’s chest, backing
up towards the trailer, halting the bigger man. Frank had jumped back as the
spirit poured onto the ground. It formed a large puddle which trickled outwards
down the path. Whisky fumes in the air, pungent and warm, mixed pleasingly with
the wood smoke.

Stephen dropped the log down into
the spirit. The vapour caught light and burned pale blue. He kept the pistol on
the big man and moved further back. There was panic in Joseph’s eyes and he
seemed paralysed to act. Frustrated at the lack of orders, the big man
retreated behind Joseph’s tent and came back with a bucket, heavy with water.

Stephen shot the man in the chest
and he fell back. The bucket bounced and the water splashed onto the tent. The
whisky was starting to burn further. The barrel was emptying though its
position on the trailer meant probably only a third of it would leak out of the
barrel. People came out of their tents but, seeing what had happened to their
comrade, declined to intervene, and started to gather their things to move.

Flames were beginning to catch in
the dry settlement. Stephen backed off, still aiming at people he saw. Frank
had hobbled quickly down the path after Dave and Sabre. Joseph watched them
silently, a mad smile in his eyes. Stephen saw him once more through the flames
and the thickening smoke.