Arrowland (6 page)

He'd been a lot slimmer back then. Obviously, at eighteen stone, nobody could accuse him of being svelte, but compared to now... Actually, he'd lost a bit of weight during The Cull. Thankfully, it hadn't ended like Gareth. They all pulled through. However, they'd also had to evade the men in yellow suits when they came to torch the infected houses and streets. It didn't seem to matter to those bastards whether people were alive or dead!

His family had turned to him, because he'd shown no signs of getting ill at all. Bizarrely, he'd ended up the strongest of the lot. Sure, he was scared to go out, but his Mam and Nan had looked after him all those years, fed him and kept him safe - it was the least he could do in return. So, onto the streets, bringing back what food he could find, as well as other supplies. His Dad accepted the help with notably bad grace, grudgingly accepting the mantle of Alpha male had passed to his youngest. All his life, he'd wanted to make his father proud, wanted to be half the man he was. But now the burly ex-miner had been reduced to this, and was having to rely on him. There was a certain irony to that.

His Mam worried, of course, and she was right to; it was dangerous out there. But he was lucky for a while, managed to get away with foraging. Until that day at the supermarket on the outskirts of the city: one he hadn't hit yet - this was back when there were actually stocks left of food and other essentials. He'd made sure there was no-one inside before entering, actually watched it for several hours before venturing into the storeroom. Halfway through his labours, he'd been interrupted by a gang of youths wielding various makeshift weapons.

"Hey, Porko, if we let you take all that, there'll be nothing left for the rest of us," the leader - a tattooed guy who spat when he talked - had said, making a snorting noise. Whether this was just his normal breathing or he was doing an impression of a pig, there was no way of telling.

"The rest of
the country
," added the pasty-faced girl by his side, sniggering.

"Or the world," another member of the gang chipped in, carrying on the joke even though it wasn't that funny to begin with.

He'd clutched the plastic bags to his chest, the tins inside rattling. "It's for me Mam and me Nan," he'd told them, only adding afterwards, "and me sick Dad."

"Jesus, there are
more
like you?" said the leader, spittle flying from his lips. "Are they
all
your size?"

He shook his head. No, he was the only one prone to putting on weight. And, especially now, the rest of the family were considerably thinner. Hardly surprising when they'd had to share what resources he could scrounge up.

"I bet it's not," said the only other girl, this one dressed in a leather jacket which she'd attempted to do up over her ample chest. In fact she was ample all round, so wasn't really in a position to criticise. It didn't stop her, though. "I bet he's gonna eat it all himself."

He shook his head, but the other members of the gang just laughed. "You're right," said the lad who'd originally made the joke. "He's goin' to scoff the fucking lot."

"No he bloody well isn't," the tattooed leader announced. Then the gang members fanned out. He'd backed up a few paces, but suddenly hit a wall. The gang encircled him, trapping him. He felt like crying, but knew that would do no good. Neither would shouting out for his Mam, nor his Dad - even if they had been nearby, the man couldn't fend off a flea.

"Come on, Porko, show us what you've got," said the boss, holding up a meat cleaver. And as they moved in, he flashed back to all the bullies at school who'd ever called him Porky, or Chubster or Wide Load. Flashed back to his Dad at those rugby matches, to what he was trying to tell his wimp of a second son.

"We are dragons," he whispered. "
I
am a dragon."

"What?" asked the pasty-faced girl, but it was already too late.

Before he realised what he was doing, he'd grabbed the tattooed thug, evading the cleaver blow by inches, and swung his attacker into the wall. The youth's shoulder cracked loudly and he let out a cry. Turning to the joker, he butted him with his stomach, sending the youth backwards into a pile of boxes. The rest of the gang he took down in no time at all. It was as if a switch had been flipped. He even began to enjoy the violence, taking years of abuse out on them. A golf club struck him on the hip but he barely even felt it, pulling his enemy in, throwing him to the floor and then stamping hard on the lad's pelvis.

Looking around, breathing hard, he found there was nobody left but the two girls. The larger one fancied her chances and, it had to be said, she was probably more of a match for him than all the men put together. She tried to kick him in the crotch, but he sidestepped her, then punched her in the face. Bits of cartilage exploded across her cheeks, blood splattering over his own face. The girl sank to her knees and he brought down his fist again, this time hitting her on the top of the head with the base of his fist. There was another crack as the weight of the blow cracked her skull, and she toppled sideways.

The pasty-faced girl stared in disbelief, not able to move as he approached. Christ alone knew what he must have looked like with all that blood covering him. When he reached her, she suddenly decided to escape. Quickly, his hand was out, clamping around her arm.

"Let go! Let me-"

"Shhh," he told her, pressing a finger to her lips. If the other members of the gang had represented all the bullies who'd ever called him names, then this girl, her flesh quivering beneath his touch, represented all those who'd ever spurned him romantically . The Kaiyas and Denises and Aimees and Brennas from his class, who he'd fantasised about but looked at him like he was the scum of the earth; at the same time draping themselves over the boys with model good looks. Well, he'd show them all now, wouldn't he?

The things he made that girl do, before snapping her neck... It was a sort of catharsis.

He eventually picked up the bags and walked back through the streets to his family, not caring now if anyone saw him. In fact a few people did spot him, but didn't come anywhere near. Perhaps it was his appearance, perhaps it was just his demeanour. When he arrived home, his Mam and Nan looked at him funny, but didn't ask about the blood. They were probably afraid to.

"Where have you been?" asked his Dad, then shut up promptly when his son glared at him. He could see it, the fact that he was a dragon. Maybe even
the
Dragon. And maybe his father realised that he himself was no longer one of those creatures. The older man took the food gladly this time, tucking in.

There was even a thank you.

From that day on, there was never any fear about going outside. Anyone stupid enough to tackle him soon regretted it. At the same time, he attracted a gang of his own: those who not only respected the way he handled himself - his size a plus rather than a drawback - but also his allegiance to the flag. Just like in those matches so long ago now. It was every nation for themselves, and they knew if they stuck with him there was a chance of making theirs great again.

It took a lot of time, but eventually that gang became a small army, which in turn became a larger army. Just as his family had done, they all looked to him to take care of them. Which he did at first, then they became big enough and tough enough to begin looking after him again. Why go out on scavenging trips - further and further afield - when you could send bands of your own men to do it? The food was shared equally,
after
he and his family were taken care of. And why fight, when others would fight for you - to
protect
you?

Soon they were much too big to occupy any one building, or even a set of buildings. So, about six or seven months ago he'd struck upon the idea of the Stadium. The place that had inspired him, the place where the Dragons used to meet. The place where this Dragon would rule.

There was just one problem. While he had been gathering his forces, others had been setting up shop in the area. Recruiting the local populace with promises that they would be safeguarded. Using these lies, a regional division of something called The Rangers had been established. It only took a little digging to discover where they came from and how they'd come about. Some prick masquerading as Robin Hood had managed to convince enough people to follow his lead, to create a peacekeeping force - what could easily be seen from the outside as a personal militia hellbent on taking over Britain.

Well, they wouldn't fucking get Wales; he'd see to that. No matter what it took.

Understandably, as The Dragon was wheeled along the corridor, two of his elite guardsmen pushing what could only be described as a padded sled - complete with feeding troughs filled with food on either side - he was eager to begin today's proceedings. He was about to make an example of these Rangers, make them understand in no uncertain terms that they were not welcome in this country. And the punishment for those born here who'd joined their cause would be severe.

The Dragon sat back and enjoyed the final stages of the ride to his private box - a viewing place his Dad could only dream about, but which now 'belonged' to his son. Inside, he found more guards, each carrying sub-machine guns, with pistols at each hip. They were dressed in green and white uniforms, with the Dragon symbol emblazoned across the chest. A symbol of power and eventual unity, under his command. His Mam had been right all along, he
had
been destined for greatness. It had just taken the death of ninety per cent of the world's population before he saw it.

Also in here were some of the new members of his private harem. Girls brought to the Stadium, some willing, others who'd required more coaxing to enjoy everything his hospitality had to offer. They were wearing a variety of revealing outfits, in silk, satins and lace. The Dragon noted one of the newest, sitting on a velvet couch near the window, wearing a baby-doll nightie. She was looking away from him, her blonde hair cascading over the milky skin of her shoulders, strands falling down between her pert breasts. He licked his lips, then reached for a chicken leg out of the trough and took a bite. He'd settle for sating at least one of his massive appetites for now, because he wanted to get on with the game. Later, he'd turn his attentions towards the women. The one woman in particular who'd caught his eye.

With a waving hand, he motioned for the guards to manoeuvre him closer to the gigantic window. Peering down onto the pitch below, a pitch they'd found overgrown when they arrived and he'd insisted they clean up. There he saw more of his men leading bound figures onto the freshly mown grass. The prisoners were dressed in darker green, hoods down at the back; there were about a dozen or so of them. His guards pushed them into the middle of the grounds at gunpoint.

It had been a decent swoop, he had to admit. Sending his troops into the very heart of the local Ranger's nest, they'd encountered very little resistance. Taken by surprise, swords and arrows were no match for heavily-armed men storming a building. These were the only ones left alive. It was still very much a fledgling operation in this locality, and that told him Hood had a way to go before he was a force to be reckoned with outside his native Nottingham.

What was about to happen today would make him think twice about a foothold here. Either that, or make him mad enough to come here en masse - in which case they'd devastate his numbers and send them packing back off to where they belonged.

"The microphone," he demanded through a mouthful of chicken. "And some doughnuts."

One of the guards passed him the mike. It carried his voice throughout the stadium. Another guard called for more food to be brought, which arrived just as The Dragon began addressing his captives. The young man who brought it was another new face to him, and one that didn't appeal much. Those soapstar good looks reminded him a little too much of the boys from school. He shooed the servant away, noting that the lad held back to watch the proceedings from behind. Oh well, let him. This would serve as a lesson to his own people just as much. You do not cross The Dragon.

"Your attention," The Dragon said, nodding happily at the sound of his amplified voice. The Rangers on the pitch turned and looked up. "That's right, I'm up here," he said, sighing. "Now, I expect you're wondering what you're doing in this place? It's very simple. Your actions have marked you out as not only an enemy of my country, but also of me. I offer you the chance of freedom, though. I am nothing if not a fair man. You are familiar with this nation's favourite sport?"

The Rangers on the pitch did and said nothing.

"Even if you're not, you know the idea is to pass this..." He waited while one of his men produced an oval-shaped ball, "...forward either by carrying or kicking. Then reach the other end of the pitch and score a try without the other team taking it from you. Got all that?" Silence again. "I'll take that as a yes."

His men began to cut the Rangers' bonds, guns still trained on them. Given any opening, these men were sure to retaliate. The Dragon noted that his new blonde odalisque - it was a word he'd 'borrowed' from the Turks, who knew a thing or two about their harems - was watching events unfold below with increasing interest. It was time to move things along so he could become better acquainted with her.

"Be aware that you are playing for high stakes," he told them. "If my men should win and score, then you will lose not only the game, but also your lives." One of his guards motioned for the Rangers and his own men to form a haphazard scrum. There were about the same amount of The Dragon's men facing them, which meant that theoretically they
could
win.