Hooded Man (10 page)

But he could see subtle differences now. As the child turned, the cheekbones were slightly less curved, the brow more stooped, shielding green eyes. This boy was a bit older than his Stevie, as well.

Robert’s mouth formed the name, but he couldn’t say it out loud.
Mark
...

No, it couldn’t be. Because if he acknowledged that this was the boy he’d met at the market, then so many things were wrong with this picture. And yes, as soon as he’d thought it, Robert saw Mark pointing out across the lake. Except it wasn’t filled with water anymore.

Max was bobbing up and down, ball now in his mouth – but he was swimming in a lake of fire. The flames lapped at the dog, but he didn’t seem to be taking any notice.

“Max!” screamed Robert, rushing to the bank. The heat from the rising blaze drove him back. The dog, however, was still swimming towards them through it all – its fur all but burnt away, patches of blistered skin clearly visible.

Robert expected to see the men with the flamethrowers at the edge of the lake – surely they must be the ones doing this? But no. Instead, he saw the vague outline of figures, could hardly make them out, except that they were holding weapons of some kind.

One of them began walking across the surface of the lake, the flames hardly touching him. The man was wearing sunglasses, grinning madly as he approached. He pulled out a pistol, his fingers covered in rings, and aimed it at Max... Except it wasn’t the dog anymore, it was something else. Something with antlers...

That didn’t seem to matter because the man fired three times without any hesitation, blowing it away.

Now gunfire turned the scene into a war zone. Flashes from across the lake. Robert ducked, turning to see if Mark was okay. The boy was crouching, hands covering his head, tears streaming down his face.

Robert gritted his teeth. “No. No, I can’t. I’ve got to go...” he said.

“Wait... please... please help...”

Robert turned and began walking away, his back to the scene, to Mark. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got to go...” he kept on repeating, then finally: “I’m sorry.”

“Help us!” The boy’s cry followed him, but Robert had to ignore it. Yet could he? Could he just walk away? Robert began to turn.

There was one last loud bang and –

R
OBERT JERKED AWAKE,
breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He sat up under the shelter of his home, a much improved and portable version of his original lean-to, adjusting back to reality. Robert inhaled more slowly, reaching for the water he kept by the side of his bed of grass and leaves. He drank greedily.

It had been the same dream – or a variation of it – ever since he’d visited the market, seen Mark. Robert never used to be able to remember his dreams, but out here they were so much more vivid, more intense. The boy had looked just enough like Stevie to affect him, like seeing a ghost made flesh. And now this. If he’d thought he might be going insane before, then this was putting the finishing touches to it.

He would have been lying if he’d said he hadn’t thought about going back again. It wasn’t that far, and it was almost a fortnight since the last market – he’d marked off the days on a fallen branch, the only time he’d ever bothered to keep a track of the time. He’d stayed away the first week, but it was almost Wednesday again, almost time. He could trade some of the meat he had, some of the better meat – there were things he’d seen there that he could use.

Again, he wrestled with his conscience. How could he allow himself such luxuries when his family... If his stay in the woods and the forest was his penance, his time to wait before joining them, why should he make life easier for himself?

He shouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Yet there was Mark. All Robert could think about was the boy asking for, pleading for his help. It was only a dream, but it felt so real.

Robert put down the water and lay back again. He wouldn’t sleep now, he knew that – but dawn wasn’t that far away.

He just hoped he could hang on till then.

T
HE MARKET WAS
busy that week, but there was something missing.

Bill Locke knew most of the regulars by sight and one stall was conspicuous in its absence: one that offered fruit and veg, mainly. Sometimes it would be manned by the woman with auburn hair, sometimes the fellow with glasses, sometimes a vicar. Bill didn’t know their names because they preferred to keep themselves to themselves, which was fair enough. He wasn’t in charge here, after all. Nobody was. This was a free and open market – he just liked to see that things went smoothly, that’s all. Keep the peace. It was a little foible of his. Bill guessed that people saw him as the boss because he’d been one of the first to set these markets up, but it seemed pretty logical to him, just an extension of what he’d been doing for years.

It was rare that he’d have to break up any trouble, though. Only minor disagreements about what things were worth. Usually it could be resolved, especially when Bill stepped in, the very sight of his shotgun enough to make people agree on a reasonable settlement.

Apart from the missing stall, everything was relatively normal – the same faces, the same names. Like Mark, the kid who scavenged in the cities and towns for items to trade. He was good at it, too. There was a part of Bill that felt sorry for the lad, left all alone in the world. But Mark was getting by, the only way they knew how. He was the next generation, the ones that would grow up in this world, whatever shape it would eventually take. He was learning early, that was all.

Mark caught him staring, smiled, and offered him a sweet from a bag he was chomping his way through.

“Those things’ll rot yer teeth,” said Bill, but took one all the same. “Better off eating some o’ that beef or pork over there.”

Mark pulled a face. “Next you’ll be telling me to eat my greens.”

Bill laughed softly. “Cheeky bugger.”

The boy stiffened, and at first Bill thought it had been what he said. Then he saw that Mark was reacting to something he couldn’t yet perceive.

“What is it?” asked Bill, but then he heard the engines himself. The people with the fruit and veg stall, maybe, showing up late? was his first thought. But they tended to arrive in an estate car. This was the sound of more than one engine.

Before anyone knew it, the motorbikes were in the field – at least a dozen of them, churning up the grass. The open-top jeeps followed next, handling the soft terrain with ease, men hanging from the seats, carrying weapons Bill hadn’t seen outside of pre-virus news reports about the troubles abroad.

“This is an illegal gathering,” came an electronic voice, some kind of megaphone system attached to one of the jeeps. “By order of your new lord and master, High Sheriff De Falaise, all goods here will now be confiscated. Resist, and there will be serious consequences.”

“Bloody Sheriff? What’s he talkin’ about?” Bill looked down. Mark would have taken off at that point, if there had been anywhere to hide. But this wasn’t the city, this was open countryside. And there were precious few places to find cover out here. Bill hoisted up his shotgun, not really knowing what good that would do when – not if – this turned ugly.

Without any provocation at all, the men on bikes raced round and round the stalls, shooting into the air. Others were climbing from the jeeps, knocking people to the ground and pointing rifles at them so they wouldn’t move. Some of them snatched food. Bill saw one young man grab a hunk of cheese and bite down into it, waving an automatic pistol at the owner, daring him to do something. A pair of people did run, in fact, off across the field to get away. Apparently that counted as resistance, because one of the soldiers threw a grenade at them. It exploded just a few feet away from the couple, blowing them metres into the air. When they landed, they weren’t moving.

“Yer bunch o –” began Bill, moving towards the men. Mark got behind him, perhaps reasoning that if he couldn’t hide in a building he’d hide there. Bill raised the gun to his shoulder, then let off a round that hit one of the bikers squarely in the chest. The rider slumped over the handlebars, and the machine he was on smacked straight into the side of a Sierra belonging to one of the marketeers. The body was flung over the bonnet to land in a slump on the other side.

Bill let off another blast. This time it only glanced across the front of one of the jeeps. Several rifles turned in his direction, but something made them hold their fire. Bill cracked open the gun and loaded up two more cartridges. “That’s it, yer bastards, ye do well to be frightened.”

He was aware of Mark tugging on his jumper, trying to get him to turn around. When he did, Bill understood why the men had held off. The noise of the engines had masked the approach of something else: a great beast of a thing, rumbling over the hill. Bill gawped at the tank, blinking as if that might make it go away. He’d never seen one up close like this. But it was real, it was solid, and the cannon on the front was swinging in his direction.

“Judas Priest!” said Bill. Mark tugged at him to run, to get out of its path. But Bill stood there, raising his shotgun again. “All right, then, bloody well come on!”

As Mark fled, Bill shot at the tank twice, having as much effect as a wasp sting trying to penetrate a suit of armour. The tank carried on advancing; it must have looked like some kind of surreal modern twist on George and the Dragon, or even David and Goliath. Only Bill was out of stones for his slingshot.

The tank rumbled up and didn’t stop until the cannon was inches away from Bill’s head. He looked down that black hole, expecting at any minute to be on the receiving end of a live shell.

M
ARK RAN; HE
hated leaving Bill but didn’t know what he could do if the man wouldn’t budge. He’d be dead in seconds if that tank opened fire.

The boy was aware of a bike riding up alongside him. A quick glance to the side told him a boot was kicking out, trying to knock him over. Mark ducked and rolled away, but the bike swerved round, readying itself for another pass. Mark reversed direction, aware that the bike was gaining rapidly on him.

He looked up and saw that another one of the riders had decided to join in the game. That one was coming after him from the front. He was being hemmed in.

On the first pass, he managed to dodge sideways, hoping the two bikes would just slam into each other. It wasn’t going to be that simple. Avoiding one another, they rode now in a pair, leaving a gap between to squash Mark. He ran as fast as he could but knew that he wouldn’t be able to get away from them this time, that he’d be crushed beneath one set of tyres or another.

Then something odd happened.

Mark heard a whizzing sound, felt the brush of something flying past him. He heard a loud bang as the front wheel of the bike to his left exploded. He risked a look over his shoulder, just in time to see the spokes and mudguard of the bike bite into the field, sending the rider over the handlebars.

But Mark couldn’t stop running. The second bike had weaved out of the way, and was still chasing him, unwilling to give up on this cat-and-mouse fun just because his partner’s tyre had burst. In fact, the rider had a grenade in his hand and was getting ready to toss it at Mark.

Another couple of whizzes and this time Mark saw the arrows hit the bike and its rider. They went down heavily, leaving Mark to throw himself out of the way, just as the grenade the man had been holding went off.

Mark felt a searing heat, then there was a ringing in his ears.

Shapes passed overhead, arrows flying through the air. Two more soldiers crumpled beside him. Mark finally got to his feet and attempted to track the source of the arrows, but he could see nothing.

Panicking, they began firing every which way, because that’s where the threat appeared to be coming from. Now that Mark’s hearing was coming back, he caught barked orders, and more than a few scared yelps.

Someone had got these people spooked, even with their guns and their armoured vehicles.

The same someone who had just saved Mark’s life with a few bits of wood.

B
ILL HEARD THE
explosion at the same time as the tank crew, it appeared. To begin with he thought it was the soldiers killing more people from the market, but when he looked properly he saw it was one of their own bikes in flames.

The cannon swivelled away from Bill, chasing the person who had done this. It couldn’t find anyone – and neither could Bill. To his right, a couple of soldiers holding rifles dropped to their knees. No bangs, no gunshots – nothing. But now Bill could see they were clutching at arrows protruding from their chests.

Farther down the field, a jeep had stopped dead – its two front tyres useless now that they had been punctured. The men inside were climbing out, rifles poised, but already three had gone down.

Bill grinned.

He took this opportunity to get out of the tank’s way, rushing back towards the market. One soldier was heading in his direction, but before he could bring his rifle up, Bill had already whacked him in the face with the butt of his own gun.

The top portion of the tank was still swivelling, and Bill observed the hatch opening up on top. A thickset man smoking a cigar emerged. He was trying to get a bead on whoever was firing those arrows. Then he pointed, shouting in a German accent: “There, you idiots, he’s over there!”

It was the man Bill had met a fortnight ago, but hadn’t forgotten. The ‘poacher’ with the rabbits.

The man called Robert who’d worn a hood.

H
ENRIK COULDN’T BELIEVE
how incompetent these foot soldiers were. Granted, there were only a handful of properly trained men to spread around the units (hence the fact he was doing the job of three – tank commander, loader and gunner – while his driver, chosen for his previous experience with tracked diggers, sat behind a 10 mm partition up front). The rest of their ‘army’ was made up of dregs they’d struck the fear of God into on their journey. But surely even they should be able to handle one man using such a primitive form of weaponry?