Legends Never Die

Fall of the Cities – Book VIII

By

Vance Huxley

This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author.

© 2022 Vance Huxley

Published by Entrada Publishing.

Printed in the United States of America.

Table of contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1 — April Fool

Reivers:

Children of Cain:

London:

Chapter 2 — Angelfire

Soldier Boy:

Arena – Cellar:

Mercedes:

RAF:

Soldier Boy:

Arena: 40 Commando – A Co:

Vanna & Maurice:

RAF:

Vanna & Maurice:

Soldier Boy:

Chapter 3 — Bitch the Barbarian

Conan:

Catherine:

Barbarians:

Bitch:

Barbarians:

Catherine:

Chapter 4 — Too Many Chiefs

Dudley Zoo – Zookeepers:

Barbarians:

Zookeepers:

Barbarians:

Toppers:

Zookeepers:

Catherine:

Chapter 5 — Options

Lost Lambs:

40 Commando:

Hope Valley:

Soldier Boy:

Orchard Close:

Ironmen:

Sexual Liberation Juggernaut:

Cabal:

40 Commando:

Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital:

Dealer – Orchard Close:

Soldier Boy:

Sexual Liberation Juggernaut:

The Last Prophet:

Chapter 6 — Happy Easter, Children

Last Prophet:

Sutton Park:

Asif:

Last Prophet:

Asif:

Shiner:

Jehoram:

Sutton Park: Shiner

Jehoram:

Sutton Park: Shiner

Jehoram and Patton:

Patton:

Sutton Park: Headmaster

Patton:

Asif:

Peter and Gregory:

Sutton Park: Odin

Peter and Gregory:

Sutton Park: Odin

Peter and Gregory:

Sutton Park: Odin

Peter and Gregory:

Sutton Park: Odin

Peter and Gregory:

Chapter 7 — Settling Accounts

Sutton Park: Angel

Herod:

Asif:

Jephthat:

Asif:

Herod:

Sutton Park: Angel

Jehoram:

Sutton Park: Shiner

SLJ – SB Division:

Jehoram:

Lilith:

Patton:

Sutton Park: Hangaku

Shiner:

Asif:

Peter and Gregory:

Sutton Park:

Ex-Children:

Chapter 8 — Rumours and Reputations

Soldier Boy:

Dealer/Orchard Close:

Hope Valley:

Patton/Bitch:

Cabal:

Soldier Boy:

Chapter 9 — Recruitment Drive

Barbarians: Sylvester:

Dudes:

Ivan:

Sylvester:

Bitch:

Garth:

Catherine/Sylvester:

Chapter 10 — Onslaught

London:

London Defence:

Specials and Auxiliaries:

London Defence:

Cabal:

Army Cordon – London:

Soldier Boy:

List of Characters

About the Author

Dedication

To my Noeline and to the Joy of my life

Acknowledgements

Thank you to my editor Sharon Umbaugh,
for turning my words into a book worth reading.

My thanks to Rachel at Entrada

for all her hard work and encouragement.

This book covers different areas and many different people

during the same timeline.

Some readers may find the list of characters and gangs useful

Included at the back of the book.

Chapter 1
April Fool

As the clock ticked past midnight into this first of April, it heralded an April Fool’s Day unlike any other. Six years ago, an international Cabal struck for world domination—and came very close to succeeding. What stopped them wasn’t the world’s militaries and police—the conspirators took care to disrupt, destroy, neutralise or suborn such forces. The master plan failed because the Cabal hadn’t taken into account the huge number of people who are normally restrained by laws, accepted behaviour and peer pressure.

During two years of death and destruction, the Cabal succeeded in killing or suborning most members of the world’s major governments. The Cabal’s own infiltrators were already positioned to take over the levers of power. That should have left the Cabal in control, but by then what remained of humanity were, in most cases, out of control. A horde of everything from genuine freedom fighters to petty crooks and would-be tyrants took advantage of the power vacuum. As the usual forces of law and order faltered, they seized their opportunity, rampaging through all the Cabal’s carefully structured plans.

A campaign by Cabal-led alleged eco-terrorists cut the global production of fuel by destroying all the world’s super-refineries. That was meant to cause shortages, disrupting any organised opposition to the Cabal, but now a rising number of amateur arsonists embraced the idea. With mobs and bombers also targeting the large, obvious, flammable complexes, by the time flames died down almost every refinery in the world had burned.

Transport ground to a halt—but now it was the Cabal’s own attempts to take control that were disrupted. Chaos spread as the new terrorists targeted oil and gas well-heads, pipelines and bulk storage depots—even coal-fired generators. Suicide truck bombers or mobs struck nuclear power stations, resulting in nuclear leaks or frantic lock-downs, while others switched their attention to government offices, railways and road transport.

That might have been survivable fifty years earlier, but too much of humanity no longer lived where their food was grown. As fuel ran out, the vehicles bringing that food stopped, leading to massive starvation, riots, and uprisings which destroyed much of the infrastructure supporting civilisation. The majority of the population lived in cities, but now they streamed out into the countryside in a desperate attempt to find food.

Europe relied on shipments of food from both North and South America. Now the supply was disrupted as the ships stopped arriving, or the lorries ran out of fuel, leaving the food on the quaysides. First the armies and police forces abandoned their posts to try and feed families, then the whole population headed for the west coast, the fertile fields of France and alleged stockpiles at container ports. On the way they stripped the towns and countryside, killing the farmers and soldiers who tried to stop them. Most starved or killed each other en route, then nearly all the survivors died fighting over the totally inadequate supplies at their destination—or starved during the following winter.

* * *

Some areas were considered too difficult to control, so the Cabal opted for killing everyone. Introduced and encouraged disease turned most of Africa into a quarantined plague pit, with the Sahara as a natural barrier.

The tangle of religious conflicts in the Middle East, India and Pakistan was dealt with by Cabal agents triggering nuclear exchanges. The areas between irradiated cities were still being fought over by the remnants of national armies and religious militias.

A nuclear explosion destroyed the Aswan Dam. The subsequent radioactive flood threw Egypt back to pre-pyramid population and technology levels, leaving the Nile valley and most of the fertile land covered in irradiated mud. Most of the survivors died as they fled the area.

* * *

With their overall plan slipping away, the Cabal concentrated on the few countries where their plans had succeeded. Elsewhere, resources were directed towards controlling bases in the world’s strongest militaries—self-defence before those forces were used against them. Local officers, suborned or already agents, instructed garrisons in Army bases, naval ports and major air bases to protect their families.

With heavy weapons, plenty of ammunition, and huge stockpiles of food in the nuclear bunkers, most succeeded. Problem garrisons were deactivated using nerve gas, poison or nuclear accidents. With the largest navies confined to port, and aircraft grounded to conserve fuel, smaller military forces disintegrated. Their crews and garrisons concentrated on getting home to save loved ones, or carving out small kingdoms.

The Cabal takeover of Australia and New Zealand was total but low-key, as Cabal politicians and activists killed or cowed enough politicians to take over the government. With additional warships from nearby countries, mostly crewed by deserters with their families, Australia’s modern naval forces swept the local seas clear of other refugees. When France was swallowed in the European madness, Pacific elements of the French Fleet and armed forces were persuaded to join Australia, helping in the pacification of the whole southern Pacific.

In South America the takeover was more direct—and brutal. A Cabal-led military coup in Argentina seized control, then used their armed forces to assist similar coups in nearby countries. Struck by a wave of assassinations, disrupted by internal agents, and betrayed by their own militaries, governments surrendered or disintegrated. The Cabal’s military crushed any remaining resistance. Over the next four years the whole of South America was brought under the Cabal, which then controlled the South Atlantic and the whole southern hemisphere except Africa.

In the northern hemisphere, the Cabal destroyed or disrupted governments, but their plans to replace them failed almost completely. Their one limited success was to take control of the remnants of the United Kingdom government. The United States and Canada devolved into state control, then splintered further as the Cabal encouraged every religious, political, racial and regional prejudice.

The Cabal still had agents in some North American communities, a few of them in control, but wouldn’t be trying to expand for some years. Most of the US and Canadian military were confined to their bases, where agents worked on getting the right officers in charge. Even then there’d be no attempt at conquest, not until the splintered remnants of the National Guard and the general population burned through their massive stockpiles of ammunition.

The Russian and Chinese security services were more paranoid than most, so the Cabal had fewer agents in significant positions. Instead of trying to take control, the Cabal used nuclear weapons and nerve gas to wipe out the entire governments of both countries. Cabal agents concentrated on neutralising major military installations, keeping them on their bases, and without a central government mostly succeeded. The officers in charge were inclined towards defending their forces and families, since they simply didn’t have the food or fuel to save everyone.

With police forces deserting, using their weapons to feed their families, and no food in the population centres, both countries disintegrated. Smaller garrisons and police forces joined the hordes abandoning their towns and cities, surging out across the farmland looking for food. They killed the farmers, stripped the fields, and then most of them starved. Here and there warbands with military weapons led by generals, charismatic sergeants or local heroes, established defended communities or reverted to mounted raiders.

Europe was virtually depopulated. Eventually Cabal forces would invade and repopulate, but not until the rest of the globe was pacified. North America, Russia and China would be more difficult. The cities were almost empty and the majority of the population had died, but most of their military might was intact, still protecting their bases and families. Food stocks in those bases were running down, but in most cases the Cabal still hadn’t recruited enough senior officers to take control.

Sooner rather than later, those bases would have to be suborned or eradicated, which wouldn’t be easy.

* * *

The survival and limited success of the British Cabal had been due to geography and naval firepower. Any European refugees attempting to cross the Channel or North Sea were stopped by British warships, assisted by refugee units from European navies who traded their ships for a refuge. After assassinations and the judicious use of ‘terrorists’ and nerve gas, the Cabal controlled most of the UK’s population, though Ireland had to be abandoned. The Cabal had no intention of trying to control religious differences. Once mainland Britain was pacified, they would solve the ‘Irish problem’ using armour and air power.

On the mainland the Cabal’s control remained hidden, exercised through the surviving politicians, either allied or controlled. The injured King was isolated, kept alive in case the Cabal’s grip on government faltered. The conspirators would eradicate the MPs, then use him to control the armed forces.

Obeying a reduced, relocated Parliament, the British Army, Navy, and RAF worked together to confine a large proportion of the population to major cities. Meanwhile, preselected Cabal-controlled military contractors quickly built up their numbers by recruiting criminals, especially released prisoners. The contractors’ swollen ranks were used to clear the villages, towns and countryside of the ‘rebels’ allegedly responsible for the assassinations and sabotage. ‘Suitable’ citizens were relocated to pacified rural areas while the ‘rebellious’ population went into camps. Although very few knew about it, most of the ‘rebels’ went to extermination facilities.

Massive riots erupted in the enclosed cities, incited, encouraged and steered towards wrecking the infrastructure before attacking the Army positions. Organised criminals were bribed or tricked into providing firepower, believing they would be able to take over, but Army discipline, armour, automatic weapons and then air power prevailed. The remaining urban populations descended into a violent, pseudo-feudal system ruled mainly by gangs of petty criminals, split into competing fortified camps known as enclaves.

Pre-crash, almost all of the relatively few non-military firearms in Britain, apart from shotguns, were held by a small number of police and criminals. With the police and major criminal organisations obliterated in the riots, petty criminals inherited the firepower. They had little experience or ammunition, and even less skill, so guns were reserved for short-range shock effect. Most clashes were decided by fighters wearing reinforced clothing, wielding clubs, edged metal and crossbows.

Banks were closed and currency was abolished, replaced by government-issued coupons that could be redeemed at huge government supermarkets, Marts, which supplied food and essentials. If any enclave attacked the Marts or the Army posts on the city perimeters, their coupons stopped so they couldn’t buy food. The targeted enclaves suffered starvation and internal warfare until the population died, or grew enough food for the survivors.

The Cabal intended killing the populations of the cities, but couldn’t do so openly or the Army might mutiny. Agents provoked attacks on either Army posts or Marts to justify clearing the first, smaller enclosures, using contractors for the actual attacks. The results weren’t encouraging since even the better-trained contractors, the Specials, weren’t really soldiers. Even so, the system seemed to be working, until the wrong people escaped the massacre of Glasgow’s citizens. Organised by retired Black Watch officers, the Highlands of Scotland erupted in open rebellion.

Using the British Army to subdue the rebels could backfire on the Cabal, as many Army personnel might sympathise if they learned the truth. When the contractors failed, the UK Cabal employed mercenaries. Some of the remnants of European militaries were willing to fight anyone in return for a safe haven—especially for their families. Once again that led to limited success, but the rebels struck back, forcing the Cabal to pull back from much of Scotland. Contractors in fortified positions, supported by warships anchored near Edinburgh and the ruins of Glasgow, have sealed the frontier for now.

* * *

With Scotland contained, the Cabal had made their first attempt to clear a major city in England—the largest. Clearing London was meant to release enough weapons and personnel from guard duty to retake Scotland. The contractors took up guard duties around the other enclosed cities, which freed the British Army to strengthen the blockade around London. So far the soldiers haven’t been ordered to attack.

The Cabal daren’t ask the British Army to attack relatively peaceful civilians, not unless the Londoners could be either provoked into committing atrocities, or attacking the blockade. The initial attacks on London were by the foreign mercenaries against an obvious target, the Gatwick Salient, jutting out of London to the south. The target was so obvious the London Defence Committee had spent all winter recruiting gangs and preparing the ground.

The civilian defenders in London, and the other enclosed cities, were a very different proposition to the amateurs of the first few months after the crash. The fighters now wore steel-plated protective clothing and helmets, and were experts with a variety of bladed weapons and crossbows. Firearms were still in short supply, but damaged and antique weapons had been renovated, and there were some very good shooters. The first crude pipe bombs had been refined, as had the defensive structures built mainly of interlocked un-mortared bricks.

Even so, civilians were never going to succeed against armour and professional soldiers. Surprise, combined with massive amounts of industrial explosives, blunted the first assault. The next attack broke through the perimeter, after which the defenders paid heavily in blood for every soldier killed or vehicle disabled. The London Defence Committee never expected to hold Gatwick, using the battle to learn about their opponents.

The ferocious defence was aimed at degrading the opposing armour. The advanced weaponry would be difficult to replace or repair, so any serious damage would affect future operations. The defenders’ lives were also buying information on what assets the mercenaries had, and their tactics and weaknesses, to help in the defence of London itself. The big unknown was the British Army. Could the Cabal provoke or fake enough atrocities for the soldiers to attack British civilians on British soil, or would they refuse?

* * *

Reivers:

While the Cabal concentrated on London, far to the north their enemies were making their own plans. The Scottish rebels used the Cabal’s pre-occupation to look for allies, finally managing to contact a few surviving military personnel in Norway. The Norwegians wanted revenge against whoever triggered the virtual extinction of their people, and still had some military hardware. The big problem was crossing the intervening North Sea, patrolled by Cabal warships and aircraft. Single shipping containers, waterproofed then almost submerged to resemble derelicts, were bringing a trickle of arms and ammunition, but the Reivers needed something to combat the Cabal’s armour and air power.

In Scotland, April first brought a present for the Reivers, the rebels who had bought their country with blood. Temporary though they knew that freedom could be, the Reivers were working towards making any reconquest a slow, bloody struggle.

Unknown to their allies, the Norwegians had been working on the problem of transporting better weapons. With no large ships, Aberdeen docks didn’t look busy when a runner brought Bruce and Angus, the ex-soldiers leading the Reivers, to the waterfront. Bruce pointed down at an almost-submerged container as it wallowed into the dock. When the disturbance at the rear stopped, it drifted slowly forward until it hit the tyres hanging down from the stone walls.

Bruce glanced at his companion. “With luck our Norwegian allies have sent more ground-to-air.”

“I’ll settle for anti-tank. There isn’t an unlimited supply of heavy armour, and once it’s gone?” The hungry smile showed that Angus hadn’t mellowed over the winter. Occasionally joining the patrols that scouted and harassed the Specials sealing the border had kept him sharp, but he wanted to really hurt them. Since making sporadic, clandestine contact with survivors in Norway, he hoped the converted containers, slow, clumsy semi-submarines, would bring him the weapons to do so. For now he had to concentrate on defence, in case the Cabal came back.

Bruce nodded, looking across the dock to where a green flag flew. “Radar clear, no drones.” He raised his voice, calling out to the men waiting under cover. “All clear, tap the code.” One of them came forward, reaching down with a boat-hook to tap on the top of the container. Water bubbled and swirled on all sides, the disturbance continuing until the top was high enough so the waves didn’t wash over it, then a hatch opened.

Bruce and Angus jumped down to peer through the hatch, impatient, then both looked at each other with glee in their eyes. “Good enough, Angus? I can see four stands and boxes of reloads, and if I remember right, those are laser-guided. We’d better get them tucked away out of sight, a nasty little surprise for those bloody jets.”

A voice from inside interrupted Angus’s enthusiastic agreement. “When you two have done dancing a jig, you should get a few fishing boats out there.”

“Hamish, you old misery, good to see you too. Why the boats?” Bruce knew that despite the fragile truce, Cabal pilots sometimes ‘accidentally’ shot up fishing boats as suspected smugglers.

“Yon Norwegian laddies have been working on getting you some heavy weaponry. There’s another container out there, carrying a baby tank with a very grown-up gun.” Hamish laughed at the puzzled expressions on the two faces.

Angus looked at the inside of the container, only just over six feet wide after flotation and fresh-water tanks had been fitted. “If it fits in here it won’t be big enough to stop a main battle tank.”

“The gun and turret came off a main battle tank and fits just fine in a double width, double height container, four containers fastened together. There’s a few more being put together, but they’ll only be sent if the first one survives the crossing. There aren’t many of those Norwegian Army laddies left, but the survivors are a wee bit annoyed at yon Cabal. Now they know who caused the crash, they’ve been experimenting with ways to hit back. They’ve sent a complete turret from a battle tank, to see if it will fit on one of those armoured rams of yours.”

The old fisherman turned to look in the direction of the open sea. “Thing is, the double container looks a bit odd from overhead, so they submerge all day, drifting with a snorkel up for air. We daren’t use the motors until dark or the wake is a dead giveaway. If you can get a boat next to it, you can tap on the top to tell them if it’s clear, or warn them if there’s a plane about.” Hamish started up the ladder. “It won’t be far behind us, but you’ll have to find them or they’ll be floating out there all day.”

“Our radar isn’t picking up any drones or planes at the moment so we’ll find them, Hamish. The boats will use their fish finders—a big lump like that should show up. Now come and tell us just what our Norwegian cousins have come up with.” It might be April Fool’s Day, but for Angus this was Christmas, and Santa had just delivered. With ground-to-air missiles and their own mobile big guns, the Reivers were going to make taking back the Highlands a lot more painful than yon Cabal expected.

* * *

Children of Cain:

In the north-east of Birmingham, none of the trapped residents cared what the Cabal was doing in London—they had their own priorities. There was no April Fool surprise, but some of the Children of Cain thought there should be.

The Last Prophet’s Hosts were poised to assault Sutton Park, their only real opposition, but a prophesy was stopping them. Their leader believed he was on a mission from God, and his priestess claimed her visions showed victory at Easter. As a result, the Last Prophet refused to attack before then. Some of the leaders weren’t really believers, and didn’t want to wait.

The unbelievers had found a quiet place, somewhere they could complain without any of the faithful noticing. Patton, the latest addition to those leaders, drained his beer then threw the mug across the room. The cluster of dents in the wall showed it wasn’t the first time. “I know I agreed about attacking at Easter, but that was when we had to train up all those pussies. When we tossed the worst ones back, we took at least a month off training the rest.”

“But the prophesy says Easter.” Herod spoke cautiously, not his usual style but Patton was close to blowing.

“So give Lilith a few coupons or a good fucking, whatever it takes to get the prophesy changed.” Patton grabbed an empty mug, filling it from the jug. “Or cut her fucking throat, then I’ll read a new prophesy in her entrails. Those fuckers in Sutton Park are still training, so we hit them now!”

“How many blokes do you want to nail to a cross? It’ll be a lot if Lilith is even bruised. Believe me, we’ve all been tempted, especially the fucking because it might loosen the miserable bitch up.” Herod sipped his beer, then tapped the mug. “At least we’ve got good beer.”

For a moment Jephthat thought that Patton’s full mug was headed for the wall. He interrupted, hoping to divert all that frustration. “How about a bit of fun to take the edge off? We could nip over the motorway and grab some loot.”

“Why bother? The holy arse and his holy fucking arse-licker will take most of it, then give it to Dealer to buy the Kiddies new toys.” Patton smiled, perking up. “We should hit that fucking Dealer. We’d get back all our loot, the stuff the holy wanker used to buy weapons and ammo. Or how about that arse that gave us grief when we crossed the motorway? I’d raid him just for the pleasure of seeing the houses burn.”

The other two scowled. Most of their loot had been ‘borrowed’ to kit out the reinforcements, but Dealer had bullet-proof cars and automatics. Jephthat lowered his voice. “No, but if you don’t shout about it, a few of us could hit one of the other enclaves, the ones who pay us to leave them alone. Trusted men, no crosses on the vests, in and out then swear it was nothing to do with us. The Prophet and Jehoram will never know.”

“How many, and when? If we annoy them enough they’ll get stroppy, then her holiness will have to come up with a prophesy about a proper raid.” The idea of real action didn’t exactly cheer Patton up, but his moaning was done with. He was always dead serious about fighting. The small enclaves across the motorway paid a tithe to stop the Children of Cain raiding, but if there were too many mystery attacks, they’d stop.

“Not until we’ve dealt with Sutton Park. We’ll need all the men for that, but we can start on setting up the rest for after.” Jephthat began to draw a map on the table, using his finger and a few drops of beer.

* * *

London:

In London, most of the city was depressed, a long way from April Fooling or any sort of humour. The Cabal’s mercenary soldiers were closing in on the last resistance in the Gatwick Salient, backed by artillery, air power, and armour. As many resistance fighters as possible had been extracted, along with captured weaponry, especially automatics and munitions. The rest were trapped now that the mercenaries had sealed off the last exit.

The London Defence Committee were waiting for one last sign, one that everyone in the city would hear. The final stronghold had been built around a facility for making industrial explosives for quarries, reactivated to provide most of the defender’s explosives. The remaining workers would keep mixing and pouring until they died, adding to the final big bang. Everyone still in there was a volunteer, men and women with nothing left to live for, and none intended being taken alive.

* * *

In the Sin Palace enclave, in northwest London, Sinner had better news. “The diggers are through to the next clear section of line, and there’s daylight. They’ve paced it. Even if the tunnel roof has collapsed, the exit has to be the other side of the wire. We might not have reached the tube station, but we can’t be far short of Amersham.” He was trying to make this just another report, but his voice betrayed his excitement. “Half a mile short will still be outside the perimeter, the other side of all those bloody soldiers and guns.”

“No camera?” Sin hadn’t really expected to find any sort of exit that wasn’t watched.

“Nobody could see one. The diggers only made a very small hole, big enough for our camera so we’ll just watch for now. So far there’s no sign of either surveillance or patrols.” Sinner paused, uncertain. “But then what? We never did decide if we’d use it to get the children out, or raid for food—or attack the soldiers.”

“Because we never expected to find a way out, not all the way. We should tell the committee to see if they’ve got a use for a bolthole.” Sin thought, then suddenly grinned. “But not until we let Sally do some recon so she can score new underwear. I want to go get some today, April Fool gotcha knickers for her.” There were a lot of shortages but one of the Sin Palace fighters, Sally, made no secret of her main gripe—she’d had no new underwear for three years. When a captured spy was wearing new boxers, she’d been bloody furious to find out there wasn’t a shortage outside the wire. She’d broken his ribs before she’d been pulled off.

“Charlie will want Horlicks.” Everyone had one thing they really missed, and some would definitely kill to get it. The trick would be to get back without giving the exit away, so the scouts would have to be chosen very carefully. Meanwhile, there’d be some serious thought about what to do next.

Chapter 2
Angelfire

Soldier Boy:

Just north of Birmingham, on the southern outskirts of the Peak National Park in the middle of England, a more serious April Fool was being planned. One crowded electric SUV whined through the night without lights, driving slowly as the five aboard watched for any sign of life. They were looking for a stately home where, according to a now-deceased traitor, the rest of their friends had been taken. Their leader tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Near enough, Doll. We’ll sneak around the gates because there’ll be guards.”

A short, dark-haired, intense-looking woman with a long rifle patted it. “We could set up to cover the gates, Harold, then wait for our VIPs to arrive? Their car will slow to turn in, then if we shoot at the same time we’ll get them both, no chance to duck.”

Harold, Soldier Boy, shook his head. “No, Patty, they’ll be in something like the armoured Hummer I left for Vulcan. We want to be near the big house where we can see the doors, so when they get out to press the flesh? Pow.” He pointed to a wooden gate. “Turn into the field, Doll, and hide the car behind the hedge. We’ll leave the keys in case we need it again.” He meant if any of them survived to get back here, but as they all knew, the odds weren’t good. None of them really expected to survive long enough to free their friends—but they’d settled for killing a spymaster and his boss, a mystery woman.

The five of them took everything useful from the car, including a small backpack each with spare pistols, a 28-gauge shotgun, extra ammo, food, pipe bombs and a few grenades. The mismatched collection had been hidden in escape vehicles, missed by the searchers after they’d captured the rest of the escapees. Although it was totally irrational, Harold and Doll also carried Amber and Angel, Doberman-Labrador crosses. The dogs must have been darted along with their humans and might never wake up, but none of them would leave the pair behind.

Wayne, a survivalist wearing fringed leather and carrying a recurved bow with a quiver of arrows, led the procession along ditches so they weren’t picked up by infra-red. Half an hour later, all five were inspecting the target, heads close together.

Harold pointed, careful to keep low. “That building would be the best place for snipers, the old coach house or stables next to the driveway. There’ll be a good view of the front of the house, and the main doors. Patty can’t miss at that range, and neither can I. We’ll kill those guards, then scout the place for the prisoners and escape vehicles. Bottom line, if we can’t get to the prisoners, we’ll kill both VIPs. The rest of you can open up with automatics, kill anyone in sight—that might give our friends a chance to break out. After all, it’ll be the officers who come out to meet the visitors.”

His eyes followed the long driveway back towards the gates. “Maybe we’ll want the guards on the gate removed first, then we might get away down the drive. It depends on if there’s just a couple of men or a proper guardhouse.”

“My job, once we’ve taken that building.” Wayne patted his bow. “If there’s just a couple of guards I’ll hide the bodies, but if there’s more I’ll come back and we can rethink. If we can’t break everyone out, I’ve had another idea. We kill the VIPs, then you all run. I’ll hide, then when most of them set off after you, I’ll try to get inside the house to free the rest.” The silence after that summed up everyone’s opinion of their chances of surviving to lead anyone anywhere.

“I’ll come with you to check on the gate.” Mercedes glanced down at her heavy, powerful steel crossbow. It had been dismantled and hidden behind door panels, so the searchers had missed it. “Patty might be a bit better than me with a crossbow, but she’s a lot better with a rifle so she should cover us.”

“Mercedes is sneakier, and if necessary she can throw a knife a surprisingly long distance.” Harold smiled as Mercedes kissed his ear, though he had a hollow feeling inside and it was growing. It had been like a dream, escaping the city and then Mercedes marrying him, but now the nightmare was coming. “Just make sure you get back for the party.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Do we wait for a shift change, or secure the building now?” Mercedes pulled her scarf up over her nose, and her hood down, leaving just her eyes clear. It was a pity she didn’t have her dark, loose, sneaking clothes and balaclava, but she’d managed without before.

Doll smiled at the bowman. “Take the building now, in case the dogs wake up and make a noise. If a new shift arrives, Harold can act like a soldier until they’re close enough for knives and crossbows. Or your bow.” It was a shame she’d waited until now to admit, to herself at least, that Wayne was more than a bloke she liked to tease. Now Doll realised she hadn’t really teased anyone else since Christmas. Imminent death seemed to be helping her decide what was truly important—even if it was a bit too late to do much about it.

Pointing as he spoke, Harold designated targets. “Mercedes, the guard to the left is yours, knife or crossbow. I’ll take the one guarding the right-hand side with Patty’s crossbow. Wayne, cover me. As soon as my man goes down, stick an arrow in that sentry walking along the back. Doll, take Patty’s crossbow and cover Mercedes but leave it up to her unless she calls for help, or a surprise pops up. Once our targets are down, Mercedes and I will head for the front corner, reload our crossbows, then kill any sentries at the front.”

Harold paused, going over it in his mind to make sure he’d covered everything. “Mercedes, if there’s two at the front, wait for two clicks on my radio. Send three clicks back when you are ready, then we pop out and get them both.”

Mercedes wondered if she might be a bit too paranoid. “I know it’s unlikely, but if there’s three?” The way their luck had been going, she thought it was almost a certainty.

“I’ll wave Wayne forward to join me before sending my two clicks? You can do the same, get Doll to help.” Mercedes, Doll and Wayne nodded, so Harold turned to the one without a target, as yet. “Patty, overwatch with the sniper rifle. If someone decides to take a stroll down that drive at the wrong time, or is about to shout, kill them. With the suppressor on the barrel you might even get away with it. One muffled noise, no follow-up?” The shrug, returned by Patty, summed up the odds if shooting started. Harold looked at his watch. “If we have to run, you can give us covering fire with the Winchester. Thirty minutes, Mercedes. We’ve got plenty of time, so no need to rush.”

Mercedes pulled down the scarf, leaning over to kiss him, long and soft. “For luck.” She ghosted away at an angle, to get among the trees and bushes along the driveway. Harold smiled quietly as he slipped away towards the shrubbery and trees to the right of the building.

Doll and Wayne waited to give them a start, then Doll sighed. “What the hell.” She grabbed Wayne to deliver her own version of luck before wriggling away, leaving him a little shell-shocked.

“Earth to Wayne, Earth to Wayne. Yes, that meant she’s seriously interested so don’t get caught. Now bugger off and do your thing.” Wayne looked at Patty, eyes wide, then firmed up before crawling off after Harold. Left alone, Patty settled herself in, sighed, then smiled. “Oh well.” She kissed the rifle sights. “For luck, you sexy beast.” She’d often wished Vulcan had been able to come with her, but now she was pleased he was still safe inside the city.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Harold cursed himself for being so cautious. Keeping the bushes clipped wasn’t a priority for the occupants of the big old house at the end of the drive, so he had plenty of cover. Security didn’t seem much of a priority either because the man this side was smoking. He could see buses and lorries parked at the front, on a wide car park alongside the driveway, so he crawled further until he saw a man leant against the front of the building. His rifle was propped against the wall and he was looking at a mobile phone.

The guard picked up his rifle, walking to the far corner to show the guard his phone, and they laughed.

Crawling back, Harold thought fast. Mercedes would see them both so she’d have to hold fire. If he stuck to the timing, and either his man or Wayne’s made a noise, they’d just have to rush the other two. He’d run along to the front corner with his sword ready, then call out. With luck he’d get the guard as he looked around the corner.

Harold levelled his crossbow as the time ticked down. No mistake at this range, the heavy bolt drove in just under the man’s chin and the brutal, multi-spiked head shredded any chance of him calling out. As Harold ran forward, pulling his sword, he heard a thrum followed by a thump as Wayne did his thing. Just before he reached the corner, he heard a man call out, pain and surprise.

* * *

Mercedes had also been cursing the timing, especially when the second man turned up. As the two talked and looked at the phone, she grew resigned to the idea they’d both be there when Harold started the party. Doll would hit one of them, but wasn’t accurate enough with a crossbow to be sure of an instant kill. Mercedes reassessed, working closer before carefully propping the crossbow against a tree, point downwards. Hefting the Rambo, Liz’s version of the big fighting knife in the film, Mercedes let muscle memory take over, memory built up during many hours spent throwing one of these at a dummy.

Her watch, hung on a tree branch where she could see it, ticked down until she raised her arm and stood up. Her arm came forward as she bent, putting her back and shoulder into the throw, then her other hand pulled the crossbow up. As a voice cried out she straightened, tucked the butt into her shoulder and let fly. The empty weapon dropped to the ground as she started running, plucking another knife from her belt.

Halfway across the stretch of gravel down the side of the building, Mercedes slowed up, but kept going to cut one throat just in case. She peeked around the corner, along the front of the building, to see Harold running full out with his sword in his hand. He slowed up, looked down at the weapon and shrugged, then sheathed it and walked the rest of the way.

Mercedes looked down at his empty hands. “Crossbow?”

“No time to crank it. I heard a call?” Mercedes gestured to the man on his back, a Rambo stuck in his chest and from the positioning, maybe his heart. Harold’s eyes went across to the other man, with a crossbow bolt jutting out beside his eye. “Headshot?”

“Snapshot, he turned and ducked.” Mercedes put a foot on the man’s head, gripped the bolt, then let go and stood up. “Yeuk, maybe not.” Liz’s crossbow bolts were designed to be almost impossible to remove without losing the limb, so a headshot?

They’d both been keeping the noise down, and now another quiet voice joined them. “Any idea what’s inside?”

“No lights Doll, so hopefully no people.” Harold walked back to look through a small window. “Garage. The horsebox with Liz’s forge is in there, so this is the right place. There are some other vehicles but they’re in shadow.”

“I looked through the other window but only saw cars, so I gave Patty a thumbs-up. Are you ready, Mercedes?” Wayne looked towards the gates, then glanced towards Doll. “Wish me luck?”

“That looks fun, wish me luck as well?” Mercedes grinned, moving in to meet Harold’s smile.

“Nobody left the house, nobody on the driveway.” Patty looked at the two kissing couples, then down at her rifle. She blew it a kiss. “Nope, it’s just not the same.” She turned to look up at the end wall. “Was there a little round window like that at the other end?”

Nobody answered until Mercedes came unglued, pulling up her scarf as she headed into the bushes. Harold turned to look along the line of lorries and buses parked at the front of the building. “There might be, Patty, but I was watching the guard so I didn’t see it. Help me with the bodies first, then while I dress up you can go inside and check. Will you help me check these vehicles please, Doll? Check in the back, then for fuel and keys. We’ll need space for thirty—and the dogs when I collect them.”

“Those are Army lorries, so with luck there’ll be some proper Army weapons or at least more ammo. I’ll put a bazooka in with the dogs if I find one.” Doll grinned at Harold’s look. “Hey, I don’t know the fancy modern names, and that’s what they use in films.” She bent to catch hold of a pair of feet. “You can clean up after your wife, especially that bolt. On the good side, his shirt and jacket are clean?”

“Battledress, not jacket. Does that mean you’ll be digging Wayne’s arrow out of chappie at the back?” They all seemed a little too happy, possibly at surviving so far.

“No chance. No wedding ring means no dusting, hoovering, cooking or cutting arrows out of bodies. Though Mercedes seems to have got the ring but dodged the rest.” The three of them quickly hid the bodies, gathering enough clean uniform for Harold and Wayne. Wayne’s might be tight across the shoulders, but the bloodstain was on the back, out of sight.

Harold left Doll to check the vehicles and Patty to find a sniper position, setting into retrieving the bolts and arrow with his sword. It was a sad reflection on his life that after the slaughter of the last four years, he didn’t even feel queasy.

* * *

By the time Mercedes and Wayne came out of the bushes, Harold was leant against the front wall, a soldier apparently engrossed in a phone. They both carried an automatic, an extra pistol, clips for both, and grenades. Mercedes held up the automatic. “We hid the bodies over the hedge, in the ditch. I thought these might be handy.”

Harold pointed at a lorry. “The ammo and grenades will, but weapons aren’t a problem. All our stuff is in that lorry, even the weapons and tools from the forge and the guns we took from dead Specials. Everything except the ammo for the Army weapons, and the grenades. Not a lot of ammo for our other weapons either, we used up most of it last night.” He looked up the drive, towards the big house where his friends were being held prisoner. “If we can bust the rest out, at least they’ll be armed.”

Mercedes went to the indicated lorry, pulling herself up to look over the tailgate, then came back. “Weird, there’s armoured vests, swords, even a box of mobile phones.”

“In that case we’d better go and have a look for the prisoners. Please Lord, let them be in a wire enclosure around the back.” Wayne took a long look at the lorry. “We can deliver the weapons and break them out in one go.”

“Lorry through the wire? Bagsy driving.” Mercedes had a semi-manic grin. “I can’t actually drive, not properly, but if I’m meant to crash anyway?”

“In that case you’d better see if you can find that compound. Just keep your mind on scroats, not crashing a lorry.” Harold expected them to set off but Wayne hesitated.

The bowman looked around, trying for unconcerned, casual. “Where’s Doll?”

“She’s checking out that coach down there, hoping to find someone to wish her luck.” Despite the suspicious look, Harold managed to keep his face straight until Wayne was out of sight.

Harold let his smile come, but then it faded. “It’ll have to be a hell of a kiss.”

“That sounds promising, a hell of a kiss for luck.” Mercedes looked up and shivered. “After all, we found an angel last night?”

“Wielding hellfire, those missiles had to be Hellfires. My sort of angel. I wish I had its phone number because this place isn’t official.” Harold hugged her. “Knock on the bus before you disturb them. Though first, what was it? Oh yes, good luck Mrs. Mmmercedes Mmmiller.”

After she’d collected her luck, Harold shooed her off. “Remember, knock on the coach door before you go in.”

“I can’t make a lot of noise, so I’ll just have to risk having my innocence blighted.” Mercedes sniggered and headed for the coach.

* * *

He had nothing to do until the scouts came back, so Harold thought he’d investigate the second lorry, half full of something. He climbed inside and opened a box, finding it full of canned beans. He used his phone light to check more boxes, discovering canned stew, tomatoes and fruit as well. Doll’s voice disturbed him. “We’ve checked them all once. They all have keys and most of them have full tanks.” She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “I’ve checked in that garage and there’s Humvees, jeeps, a couple of cars and Liz’s SUV, but none have keys.”

“All this is canned food. I was just thinking, if we find a place with water we can lie low for a while.” Harold threw her a can. “Here, peaches. You can share them with Wayne.”

“Tough call, sharing my peaches with a man.” Doll looked back at the garage. “There’s a washroom in there, so we can fill those five-gallon plastic containers with water? Should keep us all going a couple of days.”

“Good call.” Harold looked down the row of vehicles and made another decision. “Everyone would fit in a coach, but then if it’s hit we’re stuffed. We’ll take as many lorries as possible, so we can abandon any that are hit. Or we can dump one as a road block if we’re being chased.”

The keys were left in one coach so that Doll could drive it forward across the driveway as a road block. Patty came down to help, suggesting Harold shoot from the top of a bus or lorry. There was a blind spot from her window, but he could cover it from a vehicle. Despite sneaking so that nobody in the big house saw them, and being careful not to bang doors or tailgates, the water was all aboard before the scouts came back.

One look at their slumped shoulders and grim faces was enough.

* * *

Mercedes hesitated but Wayne gestured, you tell them. “We thought we’d found them, a huge wooden construction at the back that could hold hundreds.” She shrugged, putting an arm around Harold. “It took a little while to get a look inside, then we found it’s decked out like an old-fashioned arena. It must be where the fights are filmed. There’s no other sign of prisoners except for what look like mass graves out the back. Three mounds, and a part-filled hole with arms and legs sticking out of the earth in the bottom.”

“We’ve got to break them out, one way or another.” Harold could imagine Daisy, Sharyn and all the rest at the bottom of that hole.

“We’ve no idea where to look, ’Arold.” Mercedes hugged him tight. “The front doors are lit up, with a guard, or there’s French windows at the back but I’ll bet they’re locked. The only other door is at the side, near the back.” She stopped talking, but Wayne must have realised why.

“I’m guessing we could get in that way, but the room is full of soldiers. Mixed uniforms, real soldiers and Specials, though we couldn’t see unit badges.” Wayne glanced at Mercedes. “There’s two women in there, you know, part-dressed. Mercedes wanted to see if they were really voluntary, or if we could snatch them, but there’s about twenty men in there.” He sighed, so maybe Wayne had wanted to try as well. “Not just Army rifles, they’ve got machetes, a couple of maces, big fighting knives and some long-handled clubs Mercedes said are used by slavers.”

Doll patted her Army rifle. “We wait, kill the VIPs and officers, then some of us will run. Me and Wayne will go in after you’ve left.” She tried for a smile. “We’ll probably meet Casper coming the other way. If we kill enough officers there’ll be chaos in there, then if Wamil gets near a soldier?” She mimed a chop with the edge of her hand.

“Not quite. We’ll set up to kill the VIPs and officers, then as many guards as possible before running. Then either they don’t send enough after us, and we ambush the bastards, or they leave this place short-handed which will give Wayne his chance.” He’d been hoping for a quick breakout, but now Harold had to reassess. “Until the VIPs come we’ve got to pretend nothing’s wrong here. If anyone comes past I’ll be out front because I can stand to attention and salute properly. Wayne, you stand along one side, another soldier to keep it all looking normal. Just a side view, keep the blood on your back hidden but don’t look at any new arrivals.” He grinned at the puzzled look. “You don’t know how to salute.”

Doll looked towards Wayne. “Make sure you’ve got your bow nearby. If our relief arrives, we’ll need that and the crossbows to kill them silently.”

“But when it gets noisy, I’ll want extra ammo for my baby.” Propping up her rifles, Patty headed for the lorry carrying ammo for her Winchester underlever. “About two hours to dawn. That’s plenty of time to get set, make sure we get as many as possible.”

Harold stood out in the open, an obvious guard, as the rest set into creating a small, temporary killing ground. Doll and Wayne stacked boxes of canned food in the bus to stop bullets, taking several pistols each for when the automatics ran out. The only lights on the ground floor were the front entrance and a room to the left, probably another ready room so Doll would shoot it up. There were a few lights here and there on the three floors above, but nobody seemed to be looking out.

* * *

Arena – Cellar:

Inside the building, in the cellar, neither the Orchard Close contingent or the other captives slept well. Long before dawn a corporal came in, banging on the bars with a long club. He kept well out of reach of the prisoners, standing between the painted lines on the cellar floor. “Rise and shine, time to put names to faces. You are all arena fodder, so most of you will die messily in glorious hi-def and maybe slo-mo. Even so, waste not, want not. I want to make sure we don’t stick the wrong two in a warmup fight, spoil a big payday further down the line.”

He passed the cage full of men, stopping at the one with just three inside, all big and muscular. “The big bastard must be Mack, baldy has to be Casper, so you are Henry.” He looked at his list. “You two will fight to save Liz and Marge, so who do you want to save, Casper?”

Casper looked at all the women in the cage opposite, torn, until Sharyn pushed Daisy forward. The corporal turned to the Orchard Close cage, but shook his head. “Not that one. Little Daisy stuck a knife in a soldier. She would have killed him with that pistol crossbow if he hadn’t had a vest, so she goes into the arena. We’ll let her keep her armoured vest to make it interesting. Can’t decide? Well think about it.”

“You can’t do that. She’s only just nine.” Sharyn looked down at Daisy, hugging her tight. “I’ll fight for her, take her place.” Despite the hug, and her bruised face, the young girl looked as if she wanted to kill someone—anyone.

“You’ll fight anyway, and your children will be in the arena with you. Keep her alive for three fights, then we’ll see. Could be a novelty team if she really can use that knife.” He made a note on the list, then looked along the bars. “Umeko and Thien, must be you two. One of you can fight, so we’ve got one of you pencilled in to save the other. Unless Umeko has a different preference?”

He ignored the muttering and cries of “no” and “you can’t.”

“Two lovebirds, both girls and both fighters? That one is easy.” He grinned because Ski and Fergie had an arm around each other, and looked ready to fight. “We expect you two to get through three rounds easy, then we’ll put you together. Maybe chuck Umeko in with you as a novelty trio, three sexy women.”

Ski smiled, holding out a hand. “Why don’t you come in here, check we can fight.”

The corporal shook his head, his eyes sweeping across the cell. “You can prove that out in the arena, recorded in hi-def. We’ll get a proper look once you’re through the melee rounds and into the specialty fights.” He smirked, pointing his club. “The one with a busted arm can join you if she makes it, then there’s blue-hair. This list doesn’t say much about appearance except for identification, but once you’re stripped off and hosed down, we could make up a full squad of sexy birds who can fight. We can send a bunch of horny blokes in to get carved up, it’ll look hot as hell with you all fighting in sod all. If it works out, they can all save one person. Hell, between you, the fighters can probably save all the rest, the ones that make it through three melees.”

Ignoring the threats and protests he looked down at his list again. “Which one is Many Knives, Aneka Myrtyua it says here, did I say it right? Indian bird, expected to be a contender, got a three-year-old. Guess that’s you. Damn, not much of you is there, but the info was certain.”

Marge finally found her voice. “I thought a VIP wanted us?”

At least the corporal answered her. “Captured, yes, but one of the officers said it might be just to ask questions, then you’re surplus. Jab a kid with a knife and you’ll tell them whatever they want, then with luck they’ll leave you here.” He held up a mobile phone. “There’s people out there that’ll pay serious money to watch real fights, with real blood and people dying. More than they’ll pay for porn, though the line gets blurred when half-naked women are fighting.”

“When we first arrived, you said that if we fight, and win, we can keep a non-fighter safe.” Umeko glanced at Thien. She’d promised to keep her friend safe, so if that was the only way, she’d do it.

The soldier nodded, smiling properly now. “That’s right. We usually insist everyone is in at least one fight, usually three, but the Soldier Boy connection will make you all prime viewing. Some of you are real fighters, already famous even if the TV never gave names, so we want to keep you keen and happy. We’ll run the TV clips before introducing you, and make a fortune.” He brandished his papers, talking to the whole cell now. “I’m trying to sort out who is who so we can get you on the schedule and get the adverts out. Pity the prats killed Soldier Boy and Killer Queen. Those two in the arena would have broken all records.”

Turning to the other women’s cell, his smile morphed into a sneer. “Take a good look, girls. These are all from an enclave called Orchard Close. Some of the fighters have been on TV, in close-ups, a few of them more than once. The whole enclave were shown chopping up a big mob, then they all starred on an infamous surveillance tape. Most of the Army have seen it, and will want more.”

He waited until that registered and most of the women were staring at their neighbours, horrified. “We’ll only put ten of them in the arena at a time, with thirty amateurs like you. The chances are those will be the ten still standing at the end. I suggest you concentrate on the kids; easy kills that will leave a vacant place for another survivor. Unless you try for little Daisy, she’ll carve you a new one all by herself.” He turned around to point to Casper. “Or you can persuade baldy to adopt you?” He laughed, looking at his list. “Sorry, wrong cell, he’d rather save a bloke.”

By the time he’d finished identifying people and taunting them, the corporal had half in tears and the other half wanted to tear down the bars to strangle him. He left after warning Casper he had an hour to decide who to adopt, or he’d have to wait until they’d all been through three melee fights and pick a survivor.

* * *

A woman with a bandaged arm came across and reached through from the next cell to prod Roxanne. “Ignore him, the bastard does that all the time, especially with new prisoners. I swear he takes the night shift so he can come in at all hours to wind us up. Is that true, you’ll fight to save each other and you can all use a machete?”

“Not all, and we usually use swords instead of machetes, but eight of us are veterans. Elise is a trainee, and Wamil is our unarmed combat trainer. We’re what’s left of the Riot Squad, along with those three men, but we’re not at our best just now. We were in a battle last night.” Roxanne looked down at the dressing showing beneath her sliced jeans. “My hip is just a flesh wound but Ava’s arm is bust, Casper’s got broken fingers and probably concussion, and some of the others were knocked about a bit. Who are the fighters in your cell?” She looked at all the women, puzzled because none looked fit enough.

“None, we were taken from slavers or in raids on enclaves. You actually call yourselves Riot Squad, and have proper trainers? The asshole was right, it’ll be a bloody massacre. Shit, I made it through one and thought there was a chance—and now this.” The woman sat down, lying back against the bars, then glanced across at the men. “We get machetes and knives for the melees, but none of us can use them so it’s a bloody shambles. Ten trained fighters, shit, five of you, will kill the other thirty without raising a sweat.”

“Maybe not, anyone can get lucky in a fight.” Though Roxanne was assessing the women, and none of them had a chance one-on-one.

The woman gave a short, humourless laugh. “The bastard is that sure you’ll survive three fights he’s already letting you protect someone, treating you as contenders, three-time survivors. They get decent food, proper training, good quality clothing, and fight in single or double challenge matches.” When her despondent gaze settled on the cell full of men, she gestured towards them. “Look at those men in the other cell, not a fighter among them. Your three could probably kill the lot in one go, then all of us.”

“What if we refuse?” When the woman twisted to look at the children, Roxanne realised. “Ah shit. Even me. I’ve got nobody, but I’ll fight to save one of the kids. Sorry.”

The two women sat almost back to back, silent as the Orchard Close women talked about the choices, agreeing to fight as a group to protect the kids. They talked about getting out as well, but that wouldn’t happen unless the corporal came closer. That wasn’t likely with lines marking a clear path down the middle—out of reach.

* * *

Henry, Mack and Casper had been talking quietly at the back of their cell. Now they came to stand by the bars, where Mack beckoned until Marge came across to the front of her cell. He stood back a little to hide his miming, with Henry and Casper masking the movements from others as much as possible. Meanwhile Casper started a shouted argument over who he should try to save, with Henry chipping in to help with the diversion.

Mack didn’t say a word out loud, looking straight at Marge while he mouthed words and mimed, twirling motions and pointing at shoes, then tried to explain what to do after. It took a while but then she nodded. “I’ll persuade Wamil. When?”

“When he comes back.” Hidden from the door, Mack covered his eyes then pointed towards the small square of glass. “Sooner the better.” The corporal had washed off the glass before knocking to be let out. The jug of water on the floor and the bog brush he used showed the cleaning was a regular thing.

Marge frowned at the clean square. “We’ll try.” She turned away, explaining as she worked her way around the cell.

* * *

When Marge beckoned, and explained, Roxanne found out she was the designated contact with the next cell. She drifted back across to the bars, sitting down near the woman with the bandaged arm. Roxanne didn’t get a chance to speak. “What now? Want us to cut our own throats, save you time?”

Roxanne kept her voice down, glancing at the nearest prisoners. “I want to talk to you very quietly about getting out—all of us.” She shrugged at the disbelieving look. “At the very least we’ll kill some scroats while we’re trying.”

“No chance. We’ve been warned. If one of us attacks any of them, they’ll send us out with nothing but a crash hat, then give the rest bats to beat us to death.” The woman hugged herself. “They’re all amateurs, so with our heads protected it’ll take ages before the bats finally manage to kill us. No good trying once the cage is open, there’s always guards and machine guns even if it’s just to bring in one person.” The glance at the naked woman with the slashed face explained.

“You won’t make the first attempt, but if we get out of the cell and can open yours? All we need is for you to block that glass pane in the door.” The woman looked at the door, and hesitated, but Roxanne stuck her hand through the bars. “I’m Roxanne, and if you help I’ll cover you until we’re outside.”

The woman took her hand and nodded. “I’m Sal. I’ll ask a couple of others. Not all of them, some would tell the guards to get a pass on the arena.” She looked around the rest of her cell. “It’s blocked to stop the guards perving, same as the cameras but they’ve stopped trying to keep those clear. We don’t usually bother if they’ll be back soon, so the others will be suspicious.” She hesitated, then gave a firm nod. “I’ll get it done. Forget covering me, just get me a club or a knife.”

Sal moved off, speaking briefly to the young woman who’d been deliberately slashed. She narrowed her eyes, then gave Roxanne a sharp nod. Shortly afterwards, there was a protracted argument, but by then some women were throwing shit at the door. It didn’t take long—they’d had practice so the glass was soon caked.

* * *

An hour later the corporal came back with his list, strolling down to the three-man cell. They were talking at the back so he rapped on the bars with his club. The three turned and walked forward, then at the last moment Mack lunged forward, bent one knee and thrust the other leg out through the bars. He couldn’t reach but the corporal took a half-step back, still safely inside the painted lines, and pointed his club.

“You pull that stunt again and we’ll put your missus in the melee, with just a knife and her knickers.” He turned to Casper, but didn’t get a chance to speak. A length of cloth with two shoes attached to weight it flew over his head—all Mack had wanted was to keep the corporal’s attention firmly on this cell.

As the shoes dropped, the four women holding the ends of the cloth ran towards the back of their cell. The silky material tightened over his face and neck before yanking the corporal back, his arms windmilling until his head hit the bars of the women’s cell. A forearm went across his mouth while another tightened across his throat, and then it was too late to shout or fight. Hands grabbed his hands and arms, pulling them through the bars before bending them sideways so he couldn’t pull them back. More hands scrabbled at his belt.

“Stop struggling or bleed,” a young woman’s voice whispered, but he believed her totally as something sharp dug into his throat.

Roxanne grabbed the bars between her and the next cell. “Stop squealing. Do you want to die trying to get out, or in the arena?” Sal’s group were trying to quieten everyone, but some were hysterical, terrified. The rest dragged the noisiest to the floor, two lying on their heads to muffle them while others punched or stamped them into silence. The rest shut up long enough for the six who knew to explain what was happening.

“Now how do we open the door?” Sal heard a screech. She turned to see the other women’s cell door already open. A tall, slim woman was striding across to the cell with three men.

Liz grinned at her husband. “Come on, Henry, show me some muscle. Pull.” Mack pulled the door one way as Casper and Henry pulled the frame the other, then the corporal’s bayonet went into the gap. Liz levered, putting her blacksmith muscle into it, until with a short screech the tongue came far enough out of the slot to scrape clear. When the door opened she kissed Henry, then moved to the other men’s cell. “Want to join us?”

Men heaved both ways but this time the bayonet didn’t do the job. Mack and Henry joined Liz to widen the gap until the bayonet tip could reach the end of the metal tongue, and the lock finally gave way. Liz pointed at the lock. “Old deadlocks, weak springs, they might be a hundred years old. Kick the tongue, the bit jutting out, back into the lock so we can shut the door again.” The two big men and willing helpers gathered at the door of the second women’s cell.

The cloth came off the corporal’s face as those pulling on it let go, allowing Marge and Wamil to reclaim their saris. They untied the two long lengths of silky material, then wound them back on while the rest set into the next stage of the escape plan. Emmy twisted the corporal’s face enough to see her. “You threatened to put Tammy, my little girl, into your arena. You can die very, very slowly, painfully, and silently, or you can get them to open the door and I’ll only club you, once.”

His eyes opened wide as he recognised the tall Jamaican with a half-cropped head. His list had Bad Girl down as a contender, an expert with a blade. Worse, she was a sniper, a cold-blooded killer. He’d even seen her on TV. “One blink for a slow death, two for a club.” The corporal blinked twice, then did it again to make sure.

* * *

When the corporal washed the glass and knocked on the door, he was careful not to look sideways or down. “What was all the racket?” The man at the other side had to shout through the thick timber.

“Baldy wanted a boyfriend. The women weren’t happy so there was a bit of drama. I had to rattle the bars a couple of times.” He sighed theatrically and rolled his eyes. “Now can you let me out?”

“Move aside so I can see.” Larger than a modern peephole, the glass pane allowed him to see most of the cellar. The cell doors were closed, the bars lined with sullen faces.

“What’s up, you think they chewed through the bars?” The corporal was getting desperate. “I haven’t got any keys you numpty.” Nobody took keys in there without automatics covering them.

The lock turned, and the door began to open. “Sorry, it’s just that I’ve been reading the notes about the newbies, and—” Something hit the door, throwing the soldier backwards. He had no chance to recover before two big figures crowded through, followed by more prisoners, and that was the last he saw. Moments later the attackers were looking around, but the four guards were down. One last bayonet thrust made sure they were staying there. Henry opened the door a crack, turning back with a smile. “The steps are clear.”

“Someone give me a club.” Emmy stalked back through to where the apprehensive corporal waited, his boots tied together with the laces and one hand tied to his belt. She looked him up and down, hefting the long-handled club. “I don’t mind hitting your face, your choice.” He turned, the club came down, and he crumpled. “Leave him there.”

“He doesn’t need clothes.” The naked young woman with the disfigured face began stripping the comatose figure.

“Here Emmy, it’s not your rifle but it’ll all be short range anyway.” Henry took her club and handed her an automatic rifle. “Ready?”

* * *

“Not yet.” Mack stood by the door holding a machete and a rifle, with Marge’s arm around him. As usual they looked incongruous, the burly seven-footer and the slim woman in a sari whose head barely reached his armpit. “When the door at the top of the steps opens, I’ll clear the way ter the entrance. Run, scatter, I’ll ’old ’em back, give yer time ter get clear. It’s time I did summat right.”

Marge raised her voice as more people crowded through from the other cellar, many of them strangers. “There’s a lot of young women here, and Albert believes he owes you this chance to get away. Most of you don’t know that he protected a very nasty gangster, in a gang that abused young women. He did it to keep me safe.” Marge glanced up at Mack’s face, which looked as if it had been cast in concrete. “I didn’t say no, so I’ll be staying as well. Albert spent hours teaching me to shoot, so I may as well get some use out of it.” She turned, the corporal’s pistol in her hand, following Mack up the steps.

Casper looked at the women coming out of the cellar, taking an automatic from Fergie before leaning close. They argued fiercely but quietly as everyone lined up, but then he said something and her shoulders dropped. Fergie kissed Casper gently on the cheek, patting him on the shoulder before turning away, rubbing at her eyes.

By then most were ready so Casper checked the Army rifle, clumsy with two broken fingers on his left hand. When he joined Mack at the top of the stairs, they both raised their weapons. Marge eased the handle open before squeezing back past Casper, then Mack kicked the door and charged out. Nothing, the long servant’s corridor stretching each way was empty, while ahead of them a shorter corridor led to the next door.

The prisoners had been brought in this way, so they knew that beyond the door was a wide hallway leading to the front door—and freedom. Everyone listened, but the great house still slept. More escapees crept out until the short hallway was full, then spread sideways.

Nobody was left alive in the cellar now—too many people had kicked or stamped on the corporal on the way past. When the door closed, over a hundred men, women and children stood, poised, ready to run. They had four automatics, a pistol, four machetes, five clubs and five bayonets, spread between nineteen people with absolutely no qualms about killing anything between them and freedom. The young woman with the slashed face, along with Sal and her small group, had claimed weapons the experienced fighters didn’t need—some even carried chair legs. Marge put her hand on the door handle.

The door opened! The soldier opened his mouth but Mack grabbed his throat, pulled, and nutted him hard. Mack passed him backwards then began to shoot, short bursts as the first shouts of alarm rang out. Hands were already stripping away the soldier’s weapons before a bayonet thrust finished him.

“He had grenades. Stand back.” Marge pulled the pin and threw, underhand, then pulled the door shut.

Voices shouted, followed by screams, the door shook and something rattled against it. Kicking it open, Mack opened fire as he charged out alongside Casper. Casper turned as he came out from under the stairs, firing a long burst, raking the landing above. He swayed for a moment, a combination of his head and the pain from his two broken fingers. “Come on everyone. Run. Go for it.” A head showed so he fired up through the floor. It wasn’t accurate, but enough bullets hit the man to drop him. Casper fumbled to get another clip in, gasping as he caught the splint on his left hand.

Mack staggered as he reached the front door, then fired sideways. Marge threw a grenade into the room, pulling Mack back before the explosion. She looked out through the shattered front doorway, shooting down at a fallen figure before turning. “Come on, it’s clear.” As Marge tossed a grenade into the room at the other side and pulled the door shut, ragged figures ran past, a few leaning down to snatch weapons from bodies.

Three women turned, and the remaining soldiers on the landing and in doorways died as Ru, Emmy and Umeko opened up. All three were sniper-class shooters and combat veterans—the confused, half-awake targets never had a chance. More voices were shouting, calling on the rest to hurry, run, when automatic fire from ahead brought them to a halt. “Covering fire, the others must be here.” That brought a cheer even if most had no idea who the others were, or how many there might be.

Marge was stood behind Mack now, shooting the pistol over his shoulder double-handed because he was sat on the floor. Despite the blood on his leg and chest, and trickling from his mouth, the big man was still firing short bursts at anyone appearing on the landing. The stragglers had nearly reached Marge so she heaved her last grenade over them, down the hallway towards the soldiers coming along the servant’s corridor. They were only half-armed and half-dressed, and there still weren’t many, but the numbers would grow quickly.

Another one ran out onto the landing, spinning away and down when Emmy shot him. Casper patted her on the shoulder. “Go now, we’ve got it.” She looked at him, at his broken fingers and the massive bruising that almost closed one eye, but Casper jerked his head. “Tammy needs you. I’m staying with Josh, to give you as much time as we can.” Josh died twenty-four hours ago, but Emmy nodded in understanding before turning away.

* * *

Running down the steps, Emmy saw a bus in the distance, across the driveway. Two automatics were firing from the windows, raking bursts up at the house above her. The soldiers in the bedrooms were shooting back, switching targets too late for the men and women sprawled on the gravel with holes in their backs. To avoid the same fate, she jinked towards the shadows at the side, blinking as floodlights turned night into day. The tracers from the bus lifted, firing higher, snuffing out some of the lights. A grateful Emmy headed for the welcome shadows, and others had the same idea.

The remaining lights were enough for her to recognise Lily, trying to stand. Emmy helped Lily up, then bent to sling her over a shoulder before staggering along the side of the turning circle, towards the trees and darkness. The whole area lit up again, followed by flashes of lightning and a long roll of thunder from just ahead. Emmy had no idea what it was, but nothing was striking near her so she put her head down and stumbled forward as fast as she could.

* * *

Mercedes:

Mercedes started by pacing up and down the bus, stopping to talk to Doll occasionally, then she sat for a while before bringing a small envelope to Wayne. “Don’t tell Doll, just give that to ’Arold, but only if I don’t make it. I’m going over there, so I can catch the visitors from the flank if they hide behind an armoured vehicle.” She patted him on the shoulder. “Grab that girl, don’t wait or you’ll be sorry.” With that she turned, easing out of the bus before disappearing into the shadows. As she sneaked through the bushes and trees, one thought went around and around in her head.

On top of that haystack, ’Arold had told her about Wellington and Charger, that they’d stayed and died as a rear-guard to atone for their past. He’d confessed his own ghosts, to his doubts about whether he should have stayed with them. Mercedes had her own ghosts and guilt, ’Arold knew that, but now she wondered if they all had ghosts, all the survivors. Even so, she had one confession to make—one that might cost her ’Arold. It wasn’t an omission, because she hadn’t known when she confessed all, but now she just daren’t tell him.

She’d chucked the birth control pills after their marriage, but still wasn’t pregnant, so all the rapes or maybe the morning-afters and other pills meant she couldn’t. Mercedes daren’t tell ’Arold they couldn’t have children, but if she died, knowing might make it easier on him. She’d left the message with Wayne, because he’d get away if anyone could. If she escaped, Mercedes would take the letter back. If she didn’t, Harold would know it couldn’t have lasted anyway, that he would have needed someone else for his happy ending.

Banishing her own problems, Mercedes concentrated on the job in hand. She settled in with a good view covering the front doors, for the VIPs, and the door to that ready room along the side. When Patty and Harold fired, the soldiers would come rushing out and she’d empty a clip into them. By the time they took cover, then realised she’d gone, it would be too late for them to save their boss because Mercedes had brought a grenade.

The first shots, from inside the house, were a complete surprise, then an explosion inside wrecked the front doors. As more weapons opened fire, the window next to the door blew out. When she heard a woman’s voice shouting, “Come on, it’s clear,” Mercedes aimed towards the ready room. Mercedes had lived in the Mansion long enough to recognise Marge’s voice, and if Marge was breaking out, Mack and the other captives were with her. They’d kill any soldiers in that hallway, which only left the emergency squad.

Mercedes thought of Daisy and Wills trying to run down that long driveway—a short delay wouldn’t be enough. There was no conscious decision but she was running flat out, parallel to the side of the house, towards the only people who were awake, alert and fully armed. The ready room door opened, but she snapped off a short burst and it slammed shut again. Mercedes cut in towards it, firing at the lit window to keep their heads down.

A tiny voice told her there might be an innocent young woman in there, but Mercedes had learned long ago how to quash that voice. Her grenade went through the smashed window as she ran past, right after another short burst. Mercedes flattened against the wall, ignoring the bullets hitting the brickwork as a sentry fired at shadows, her attention on the door. She shot the first man through, which slowed up the next one. She could see his shadow, then the grenade threw him out. A quick burst to make sure, then she slammed in a full clip.

For the first time ever the Killer Queen failed her, letting grief leak through into the ice-cold killing machine she needed in the middle of a fight. Her eyes stung as Mercedes swung around the doorway, emptying the clip in one long burst that traversed the whole room. She couldn’t have her own, but the Killer Queen would make damn sure everyone else’s children got out alive. Tears poured down her face as Mercedes charged forward, sword swinging and Rambo reaching, knowing that every scroat she crippled was one less shooting at Daisy, Gulab, Wills, Tammy…

* * *

RAF:

Neither the arena guards or the escapees knew about the blacked-out helicopter in the night sky, looking for a missing Apache. The pilot banked slowly and gently, shaking his head as his gunner complained, mostly about having to obey orders instead of looking in the right place. Technically they could go where they liked because this was a civvy helicopter, and neither had officially re-joined the RAF. Even so, the six rockets in bolted-on racks, the machine gun and the two kegs of liquid fire came with conditions, one of which was obeying their unofficial RAF paymasters.

Eventually the pilot sighed, cutting in. “We’re here because an order came in to pull back all the RAF birds, but our bosses are just a bit curious. We’re not officially RAF, just civvies flying a civvie chopper, so they’re fudging it to get answers. To be honest I’m well past bloody curious myself. A mayday from an Apache that shouldn’t be here, airwaves full of units screaming about a rogue Apache attacking them, then radio silence, a no-fly zone and stop worrying, the Apache is in a reservoir. It stinks.”

The gunner wasn’t mollified. “Yeah, okay, but the reservoir is about twenty miles north, so why aren’t we there?”

He was frustrated as well, so rather than snap his oppo’s head off, the pilot kept his voice calm. “We can’t swear it was a mistake if we go any deeper into the no-fly zone. You really think the Apache went down in a reservoir, or anywhere near where the message said? Our control don’t think so. That’s why the channel we’re supposed to report on, because we aren’t RAF and this definitely isn’t a mission, will connect us to the cavalry. Forty commando would love an excuse to find the contractors with dirty hands. I’m betting there’s at least another three unofficial birds up, sniffing around the other edges of that no-fly.” The helicopter banked gently. “Have a good look at those lights. It’s a big house of some sort, but I thought this area was cleared.”

“Some bloody duke’s family home, they always do as they like.” The gunner/observer raised his binoculars. As they came closer, he whistled, obviously impressed. “The real thing as well, ye oldey stately homey with a garden bigger than most farms. The garden shed is a bit rough, but it’ll house a couple of hundred servants.”

Smiling now, the pilot altered course enough to give his oppo a better view of the place. “Throttle your peasant reactions for a moment and take a proper look.”

“What for, an Apache on the front lawn? These things are useless, the RAF should give us proper surveillance kit. Shit! The front door just blew out! There’s Army lorries and buses, I saw them in the flash, now tracers.”

The pilot swung towards the house. He’d no idea what the trouble was, but he didn’t know what the RAF expected him to find so he hit the coms and called. He was impressed. Someone was more than ready—the contact only wanted co-ordinates. There’d be an official chopper here in less than five minutes so it must have been crewed, ready to roll.

As the pilot signed off, the observer prodded him and pointed. “Get moving. There’s people running from the building and some are falling. Civvies, none of them are in uniform.”

“Slavers?” The pilot swooped down, any doubts gone. “Ready with those rockets?”

“Aimed at what? Ah, damn. I’m blind but you should be able to see now.” The binoculars had been aiming right at the floodlights when they came on.

“Well enough to see the firing is coming from the house. The bastards are shooting at the civvies from the windows. Here goes my pension.” The pilot turned on his own searchlight. “Fire that machine gun, now. I’ll swivel to aim it.” There wasn’t much traverse on the wire-operated mounting, but the pilot swivelled the whole craft to rake the first-floor windows. “Not enough, they’re still shooting. Can you trigger the rockets, one at a time?”

“Yeah, my eyes are coming back, enough for that. Tell me when.” The gunner squinted at the crude controls bolted into the cockpit.

“I’ll count in seconds, fire on every odd number. Ready… and one and two and three and four and five and six.” The helicopter was almost stationary now, swivelling to space the rockets, but bullets began to hit them. “Drop the kegs on my mark.” The pilot was past caring about the shit he’d get for burning a historic building—there were women and children sprawled out in front of that house, with more running down the drive.

He pushed the stick, trying to build up as much speed as possible, then pulled up to clear the roof. “Now.” He kept going, chased by tracers from the trees on both sides. Most of them missed, and by the time the surprised shooters corrected, the helicopter was hidden by the trees.

The observer’s eyes had cleared enough for him to see the flames rising behind them, from the front of the house. “What the hell did you do that for? They’ll string you up. I thought you were kegging the slavers, the shooters?”

“I was, they were shooting women from the windows.” Though the pilot was starting to worry—those rockets had blown holes in the wall so the fire had gone inside. He hesitated, then called to ask for fire services as well. The answer was there’d be someone coming right behind the chopper. The helicopter circled, well clear of the occasional burst of tracers, until airborne lights announced reinforcements.

“FR three to Roamer two, sitrep please. I’ve got a burning house and a convoy pulling away.”

“FR three, this is Roamer two. The convoy are escaping slaves, women and kids so let them go. Someone will pick them up later. The slavers’ vehicles are outside the building near the burning bus, military vehicles, keg them if they try to make a break. Have you got eyes on the victims just outside the house, the bodies? The people in the house shot them.”

“Affirmative. We’ll make sure the slavers stay here, no sneaking away through the woods. You are relieved, Roamer two, this is an official combined arms mission now.”

* * *

Soldier Boy:

Harold had placed a ladder against the back of a lorry, putting his own rifle on top, then when Doll drove her bus across the drive he could shoot over it. He double-checked the lorry with all the captured gear, to be sure it had plenty of diesel and the keys were in. That one was the first escape vehicle, so he could arm anyone who got this far. He kept ignoring that hollow feeling that told him nobody was getting out.

Wayne would be okay, Harold told himself, because those leathers would disappear in the woods. The trouble was, Wayne wouldn’t leave Doll and she wouldn’t leave him. Harold knew he and Mercedes were as bad—they’d already agreed they got out together or not at all. By rights Patty had the best chance of getting away. She was behind brick walls, with a clear route out, but he knew better. She’d keep shooting until there wasn’t anyone to save, then it would be too late.

Lost in thoughts of death and disaster, the first shots, then the explosion, came as a total shock, and not just to Harold. “It’s the front door.” Patty had taken a radio, as had Harold and Doll. They were only for emergencies or, it seemed, a whole new plan.

Even as he scrambled up the ladder, he heard Patty’s suppressed rifle followed by the roar of the bus engine, briefly before it stopped, and Patty called again on the radio. “I can see Mack and Marge, and Casper with a rifle. Now Ava, it’s a breakout.” Doll, Wayne and Mercedes had heard that, because automatics opened up from the bus.

Harold threw himself flat on top of the lorry, snatching up his rifle, but he paused for a moment when he saw strangers rushing out of the shattered doorway. He realised the men weren’t in uniform, then that there were women and children stumbling and staggering across the gravel turning area. Some fell, but when they lay still Harold realised they hadn’t fallen—they’d been shot. He brought his rifle up, aiming at the stab of flame from a window. Harold had a cure for back-shooters.

He was still shooting at windows when the first runners reached the bus, and Doll shouted to keep going. Recognising Wamil carrying what must be Gulab, Harold came up on his knees to shout and point. “Wamil, take all the lorries that have keys—not the buses. Take that one first, it’s got our guns, then the half-full one.”

One lorry had been nearly out of fuel so they’d thrown the keys away. The buses didn’t have keys, not now—no point making it easy for the pursuers. Wamil’s head jerked up and she stopped dead, then shouted back before slowing and calling to people. Harold went back to shooting, dropping flat as the night lit up, followed by tracers coming from behind.

Nothing hit him or the lorries, but when Harold looked up dust was spouting from the house, all around the first-floor windows. Another guardian angel? A half-dressed soldier ran out of the door, pausing to raise a weapon so Harold shot him. He hadn’t seen Mack or Casper, but everyone must have got out. There were bodies on the gravel, not all dead, and for a moment Harold wondered if he could reach them with a lorry.

Bullets hit his lorry, just before streaks of flame came past overhead, exploding on the front of the house in a slow ripple left to right. Moments later a helicopter came over, rising above the building. It had barely cleared the roof when the ruined stonework erupted in flame.

That stopped any shooting from the house, so Harold jumped down onto the lorry cab, then the bonnet and climbed down. Most of the people he saw were strangers, though some had weapons. Déjà vu—many of them were young women, some were wounded and too many were barely dressed in rags.

He saw Daisy, fighting to go back for some reason as Tessa lifted her into a lorry, where Sharyn wrapped her in her arms. He pushed dazed people towards vehicles, shouting at others as Doll and Wayne staggered back towards him. “Where’s Mercedes?” Harold stopped dead, staring at the gore all over them. They should be dead.

Wayne must have understood the look. “Stew, tomatoes and beans, from burst cans. Mercedes went to flank them.” As Wayne pointed, explosions inside the bus across the drive turned it into a bonfire.

“That’ll slow them up.” Doll pulled at Wayne, her right hand inside her vest. “Come on.” When the pair staggered past and on towards the lorries, Harold saw their automatics and packs on their backs.

“Everyone who can walk has got away, no more vertical hot spots. Come on, move.” Patty pushed Harold towards the lorry driving seat, then ran towards the back. A hand hauled her up as the other lorries pulled out one after the other. The radio crackled, Patty again. “Go Harold, I’ll watch the back.”

“Mercedes?”

“Everyone, I swear, I watched the last ones with my sights, infra-red. There’s nobody firing back at the house, just some wounded laid outside that front door. Now go, before those scroats get their shit together.” Patty’s rifle fired, followed by another, both from the back of the lorry. Bullets hit the bodywork as Harold slammed it into gear and raced to catch up with the rest.

* * *

The front lorry was at least a mile clear before he caught up. Henry’s voice came on the hand-held radio. “Front. Where?”

A good point, but any military radio could hear the reply. Harold was still thinking when Patty answered. “Motorway convoy.” The radio clicked in reply. The lorries kept going, racing down the country lanes, then a wider road, until the front lorry slowed and turned. As he made the turn, Harold saw a convoy further down the hill, speeding across in front of them. He hoped whoever was driving the front lorry would stop to get everyone organised, so he could find out if Mercedes was injured.

The lorry didn’t stop—it turned onto the slip road and kept going onto the motorway, heading east. In the dark, they looked like any other convoy, but once the other traffic could see there were civilians driving, there’d be a radio call. The leading driver accelerated, which made sense. Motorway convoys always drove fast, and the escapees had to get well clear and hidden before dawn.

There was a radio in the cab, but Harold daren’t turn it on, or call to tell the rest to leave them turned off. Once that helicopter called in backup, and the arena gang were rounded up, the RAF would look for them. A few questions would tell the pilots exactly what vehicles were missing.

Several convoys had passed, going the other way, before the front lorry led their convoy onto the M1, heading south. Another two passed, with about fifteen minutes between them, but then the lorry ahead began to slow. The first streaks of light were showing in the sky so Harold hoped it was a good place—there’d be no chance to find another. Then he saw where they were going, and for the first time since he’d woken up on the haystack, Harold grinned.

They were approaching a wrecked motorway service area. The pumps and buildings were gutted hulks, but the huge parking areas were almost filled with lorries of all shapes and sizes. The big mystery about missing lorries was solved—they’d all been parked up away from the cities. From the grime on windshields, some had been here since the crash but others looked cleaner. The front lorry turned down a narrow gap between two big articulated trucks, followed by the rest until Harold’s was well out of sight of passing traffic.

People poured out of lorries, a surprising number, but Harold pushed through them looking for one in particular. He reached the front, pulling himself up to look into the lorry. “Wayne. Did you see Mercedes?”

Wayne turned away from Doll, who was settling a sling. “I told you she went to the flank, to cover that ready room.” He leant forward, looking along the line of lorries. “Isn’t she here?”

“I must have missed her.” Harold turned back, but somewhere inside he already knew. She’d have been looking for him as well, unless she was badly wounded. He pulled himself up to look in each lorry, until he got to the last one. “You said you saw Mercedes get away. She’s not here.” Harold saw the shock hit Patty, so she hadn’t done it on purpose to get him to come with them. “We agreed—both of us or neither. You know she’ll never surrender. Mercedes knows about the work camps and how Specials treat women. She’ll never let them take her alive.”

“Oh shit, no. I watched all the hot spots leave, but couldn’t identify them all. Oh shit Harold, I’m sorry, I really am.” Tears were trickling down Patty’s cheeks, but she daren’t suggest Mercedes was unconscious, wounded. That would be worse—Harold would head back there to get her—alone if necessary. “I wouldn’t have, I swear.”

“I know.” Harold turned away because he wanted to hit something—but not Patty.

He walked away from the row of lorries until Sharyn caught his arm. “Where are you going? We have to hide, Harold, get out of sight.” She stopped, looking at his face. “Mercedes?” It wasn’t really a question. “Here, climb in the back of this one or the planes will spot you, then they’ll catch all of us.”

She pulled Harold around, waiting until she was sure he was listening to her. “I’ll keep everyone clear, but Daisy had to leave Grimalkin in Hope Valley and then thought you were dead. Then she lost Casper but found you. Angel might still die so please, please don’t eat a bullet. And don’t go back, or she’ll run away and follow you. You might not care about yourself, but don’t kill my little girl.” That got through. Harold nodded, then climbed up and under the tarpaulin side of the indicated lorry. He sat on the floor, then, as it all crashed in, fell into the big black hole that used to be his future.

Sharyn diverted all questions about Harold beyond confirming he was alive—which became easier as the likes of Emmy and Ru found out. Once they knew Mercedes was missing, both understood exactly why Harold wasn’t out here helping. They’d all seen or heard about the argument before leaving Hope Valley, when Mercedes wouldn’t leave unless Harold did. In a normal world there’d be a chance she was a prisoner, and might be rescued, but all the young women had vowed they wouldn’t let Specials or slavers take them alive.

Sharyn went back to Daisy as soon as she could. Emmy and Ru, helped by Tessa, Patty, Liz and a few of the newcomers, were organising people to watch over wounded, then chivvying everyone out of sight. Cans of food and bottles of water were passed out, cold but nobody cared. Once he’d eaten, Wayne went to look for water in the gutted buildings, wrapped in four thermal sheets from the medical supplies to hide his heat.

Sharyn couldn’t help—she was still trying to persuade Daisy they couldn’t go back for Casper. Tessa had thrown her up onto the lorry to stop her running back with a bayonet, then Sharyn laid in the back with her arms locked and Daisy pummelling her until exhaustion and tears took over. Now she’d woken up again, but at least she didn’t have a weapon anymore.

Daisy had been persuaded she should cuddle Angel. The dog had been darted along with the people and Patricia had no idea what that dose of a human sedative might do to a canine. Daisy was also worrying about Amber, about how the dog would react when she found out Casper and Josh weren’t here. Sharyn just hoped either one of the dogs woke up, to give Daisy something to distract her.

Their medic, Patricia, had her own problems. There were too many wounded, though at least most were flesh wounds—the seriously injured hadn’t made it to the lorries. She was worried, because although she now had the medical supplies stripped from Specials, Patricia was on her own this time. Lenny had set Ava’s arm and dressed other wounds before the capture, but now she had all those wounded in the escape. She just hoped Lily’s shattered leg didn’t have to be amputated.

* * *

Arena: 40 Commando – A Co:

Back at the mansion, now firmly ablaze, larger helicopters had dropped off commandos who were combing the woods, rounding up anyone trying to escape. Finding them was easy with a chopper following the rapidly reducing number of heat spots, but care had to be taken as some resisted.

Attitudes changed after seeing the dead women and kids—and a weeping crowd of barely-dressed young women on the lawn at the side of the blaze. Now the soldiers weren’t trying to persuade any who didn’t surrender immediately—they killed them. Their mood wasn’t helped by hearing that these arses had killed Soldier Boy and his bird. He was a civvie but the SAS rated him, and he was a decorated veteran.

A nearby group of men and women in more practical underwear, many of them badly scarred, were very fit. A crowd of men in partial or full uniform sat nearby, with their hands on their heads. Grim-faced commandos were watching both groups, with fingers on their triggers.

The commando captain looked into a room with bullet-scarred walls and a tumble of bodies. “What are we looking at here?”

“Ready room we think, sir. Someone used a grenade, then a full clip going by the holes along the walls. She tried to finish the job with a sword and a knife.” The corporal held up the blood-stained weapons in question, home-made but they looked efficient and sharp, gesturing to some of the cuts. “We’re more or less certain it was this woman, sir. Her belt has scabbards that fit the weapons, and she’s wearing a steel breastplate under that armoured vest.”

The officer leant down towards the indicated body, but the corporal shook his head. “She didn’t go down easy, sir, but there were too many. We couldn’t find a pulse. The medics are trying to save the two women caught in crossfire.” He paused, looking at the wounded men. “Some of these men need emergency treatment. That would take another chopper, sir.”

The captain looked down at the bloodied face, still wet with tears, and shook his head. “Fuel shortages, sorry. Tell the medics to triage the men, do their best. Make sure all the women go on a chopper to our base—not a civvie hospital. Put the civilian bodies in a lorry so we can give them a proper funeral.” As he left the soldiers looked at each other, then down at the wounded men.

The corporal scowled. “Slavers will be shot. No point wasting medication, but you heard the captain. We’ll make sure the women are okay first, no point interrupting the medics until then.” The soldiers began dragging the bodies and wounded aside so the medics could reach the women—though one at least was past help.

* * *

At the rear of the house, at the entrance to a huge, crude, one-storey plywood building, a lieutenant colonel stood looking at the large open space inside, painted to look like a Roman arena. “So this is the infamous arena. I want to know who has been covering this up.”

“The guards we caught reckon he’s coming here today, sir, to see the prisoners that escaped. Some of them were Soldier Boy’s people, the Birmingham breakout group. The man who is coming is a spymaster, allegedly, and he’s bringing his boss—a woman. They’re both official, senior officers, but I’ve never heard the names. Sir?” When he saw one name on the note the sergeant passed him, the lieutenant colonel almost swore.

He recognised the woman’s name, from when he’d had to liaise with Specials, though he’d never actually met her. Lt Col Wheaton turned, trying to keep the anger from his voice. “Get me on the line to overwatch. I’ve got a mission after he’s finished rounding up strays. Better still, get him to land because I want to make sure there are no mistakes.” He turned back to the arena, calling a lieutenant over.

“Make sure the men go through the house and this place, everywhere you can reach. I want every scrap of paper, phone, chip, memory stick and any sort of computer or pad. Weapons as well, blades as well as firearms because they’ll be on film somewhere, evidence, and pictures of faces, including bodies.” He held the junior officer’s eyes. “I want to make sure every single guilty party stands in front of a firing squad or on a gibbet.”

“Sir.” The lieutenant ran from the room because the fire was spreading rapidly. He’d wondered why the battalion commander had come with A Company, but now it meant there’d be no cover-up. Some bastard would swing for this shit.

* * *

Vanna & Maurice:

Vanna, the Cabal member responsible for the civilian contractors—armed guards for Marts and city perimeters and the Specials who dealt with death camps—leant forward. “Stop!” Their convoy had come through a small wood and crested a rise, revealing a panorama of overgrown farmland. In the distance a helicopter bearing a red cross was heading away from a thick plume of smoke. The source was behind a clump of trees, but she knew exactly what must be on fire. “Get Maurice, now!”

As she sat waiting for the Cabal spymaster, Vanna looked each way, nervous because she was in the front vehicle, an unarmoured Land Rover. She’d heard the Yanks did that with the American president, put him in an escort vehicle in case the official limo was hit. She wore a corporal’s uniform, while the corporal was in the armoured limo, wearing a lot of braid to attract any of Soldier Boy’s snipers who weren’t dead. At least one Accuracy International AWM sniper rifle was still missing, and that woman sniper had shot the senior officer first.

Maurice got in, leaving the door open. “That’s the place, the Army must have found it.”

“You mean those bloody idiots didn’t treat their prisoners seriously. One of those women will have offered some idiot the chance to get up her skirt, then taken his bloody gun.” Vanna pinned Maurice with a glare. “I hope there’s no link that suggests I’m involved?”

“No, nothing.” Maurice wasn’t going to mention telling the leaders who was visiting, so the assholes treated her seriously. “As long as those phones are in the bonfire.”

Vanna shrugged, unconcerned. “The cement works is wrecked if anyone wants to look at it, so they aren’t really proof.” True, but they both knew that the ashes and bones were still there. “Time to clean up this mess. Go back to the car and send this.” She passed a slip of paper. “I’ve got no official coms in here.” Deliberately, because Apaches could lock onto them.

Maurice looked down; his face shocked as he read the message. “Now?” The plan had been to set off a half-full fuel tanker, a crude thermobaric explosion to explain the damaged armour and dead men from last night’s disaster. The fireball would also kill the seriously injured Specials, especially those with bad burns, so they didn’t talk under anaesthetic. Any hint it hadn’t been a training exercise, or a mention of Soldier Boy and his Riot Squad, or the use of Hellfire missiles, would lead to too many people looking for answers. Even so, Maurice had hoped Vanna would back off killing the wounded Specials.

“I was going to put the prisoners in the explosion, along with all their gear, all the evidence in one big fireball. We can still stick with the training exercise story if we deal with any official witnesses, the sooner the better. We’ll head straight back to Chapel-en-le-Frith, keeping well clear of that smoke and Hope Valley.” The pointed look at the door sent Maurice on his way.

All the way back to the car, Maurice wondered if there was any way around giving that order. He’d order the deaths of hundreds, and had already arranged for thousands of innocents to be killed or abused by the worst type of gangster, but this one niggled. He didn’t think it was smart. There’d be some sort of official enquiry over the loss of valuable armoured vehicles, which would include questioning the surviving Specials, those who weren’t badly injured. Considering the quality of the average recruit, ex-prisoners with a good percentage on drugs of some sort, it would be a miracle if they all stuck to the script.

The surviving recruits could be put with the Specials who manned the disposal facilities, so it shouldn’t go further, but there were too many to be certain of keeping any real control. More worrying, the Specials might begin to think their boss didn’t care how many of them died. That could be a real problem—they were heavily armed and not the most reliable of people to start with. Maurice sat back in the plush seat, still hesitating, when a loudspeaker blared.

“ALL VEHICLES REMAIN IN PLACE. UNITS OF THE BRITISH ARMY ARE ON THE WAY. DO NOT RESIST OR ATTEMPT TO FLEE.”

Looking out of the window, Maurice could see a helicopter. A heart-stopping moment later he heaved a sigh of relief—it had no weapon racks, just two kegs. It wasn’t that rogue Apache. “Corporal, get out and wave it off. Then get back in.”

In the front vehicle, Vanna looked from the small helicopter to the smoke, then in the mirror at the limo. She saw the corporal dressed as a senior officer, waving upwards, and heaved a sigh of relief when the helicopter made no move to attack or repeat the instruction. “When the corporal gets back in, set off slowly and keep going.” The driver didn’t reply so she spoke louder. “They won’t bomb a senior officer to stop an official car.”

“Ma’am.”

In the limo Maurice sat back, relieved by the lack of reaction. As the corporal got back in, the Land Rover in front began to move. His driver turned to look back through the partition. “What should I do, sir?”

“Follow her but leave a bit more space. At least this thing is armoured. Unless you want to explain to the Army why we’re here?” The car began to move, and when Maurice looked back the rear-guard was in motion, though they’d also increased the gap. The driver didn’t want splashing if it all went pear-shaped, which made sense. When Maurice checked, the helicopter was overtaking them, but it wasn’t an attack run.

The chopper swung around above the road ahead with its landing lights and a searchlight on, though neither had much effect in daylight. It hadn’t come low enough to be threatening or block the road, so Maurice dismissed it. As long as his car reached the Specials, the RAF and Army couldn’t touch him. The helicopter started closing the distance, still too high to make any difference but then the driver hit the brakes, hard.

* * *

RAF:

The helicopter pilot recognised the three vehicles when he saw them—escort for a senior someone in an armoured limo. The actual vehicles didn’t matter—the set-up was exactly what he’d been told to look for, a VIP visit, and where they’d parked confirmed these were the targets. The vehicles had stopped as soon as they had a clear view of the smoke from the mansion.

Both the aircrew understood why stopping the vehicles was important—the lieutenant colonel had asked them to land so that he could explain personally. That also meant the two of them got a close-up look at the civilian bodies, and the young women, so both were very keen to catch the person responsible. At first the pilot thought the loudspeaker had worked, but then the vehicles started moving again.

“Call it in again, let the commandos know they won’t stop.” The pilot desperately wanted to stop those cars, keep them here, but if he landed in the road the soldiers would just shoot him.

The co-pilot called, listened, then looked across and shrugged. “He says do what you have to. He’s telling the troops to hurry.”

The pilot had a nasty feeling they’d be too late, because that rear-guard would block the road. Then, whoever was in the limo—the bastard responsible for the women and children lying dead on the gravel—would get away. The lieutenant colonel had bagged someone well up the tree, going by all the braid, and the soldiers in the escort Land Rovers were Specials. So were the most of the slavers he’d seen when he landed, those rounded up after running from that fire. The pilot swung around, hovering above the road ahead of the Land Rover, but it ignored him.

“Seems they aren’t going to pay any attention.” The co-pilot wasn’t happy, but they didn’t have anything to stop that limo doing as it pleased. Once the assholes got to a base they’d disappear—nobody would admit to ever seeing them.

“Fleeing felons, we’ll keg them.” The pilot was apparently well past unhappy.

“We can’t keg a senior officer!” The co-pilot sighed, looking longingly at his controls. “Though I’d love to.”

“We aren’t proper RAF, just reserves called up to help out. Our training is a bit rusty, so we might have misunderstood the rules of engagement.” The pilot had relatives who’d been in places the contractors cleared. He couldn’t find them, and had some suspicions about why. Then he’d seen that place back there and realised it might have been even worse. Now he’d got some of the bastards right here with nobody to say no—one golden chance to even up, all legal, or near enough. Worst the RAF could do was ground him.

The pilot glanced at his oppo. “A commando lieutenant colonel said do what we have to. We might think it’s acceptable to keg four shitstain Specials? If we do I reckon the brass in that car will keck their panties, and stop right there until the commandos get here. Then the real soldiers can deal with these shites nice and legal. You saw the boss’s face, he’s bloody hopping.” His co-pilot still hadn’t answered so the pilot kept pushing. “It’ll stop the Apache pilots bragging about bagging those Specials near Birmingham?”

The co-pilot had seen the bodies and those prisoners, slavers, wearing Specials’ uniforms. More to the point, he could hear from his voice that the pilot was going to do it one way or another. He even had a good idea why, and if it helped his friend sleep at night? “Fair enough, but only because it’s the rational response, the only practical way to stop fleeing criminals.”

“Exactly. Ready?” Because if he delayed any longer, he’d have second thoughts, and the pilot knew he might never get another chance like this. Several times during the short run-in he almost pulled away, but then it was too late.

“Keg away.” The helicopter curved around to hover over a nearby field. “That should do it.”

* * *

Vanna & Maurice:

Maurice put his hands up to protect his head, but the car hadn’t got up enough speed for a sudden stop to be dangerous. The driver cursed as the road ahead exploded in flame and the limo accelerated backwards, braking just before it hit the rear-guard.

Maurice pushed the other man in the back seat. “Corporal, get out there now. Hands on your head and stand very still.” He stared at the Land Rover bonfire ahead, then the smoke in the distance, then the helicopter and the remaining keg, and wondered if he’d be better off eating a bullet. As the first panic eased, Maurice began to think that despite the shambles there might be a way out. After all, he wasn’t military, or in Vanna’s chain of command, but the arena personnel were.

Raising his voice, Maurice kept an eye on that helicopter. “All of you listen very carefully. Can you hear me, corporal?” The pseudo-officer nodded through the open door. “None of us have any idea where we were heading. The senior officer commandeered us. We headed this way, then for some reason she stopped and ordered us to head home. We have no idea why. You keep me clean; I’ll cover for you. Deal?”

The muttered “sirs” were a huge relief. “Corporal, keep your hands on your head while you walk back along the road and talk to the rear-guard. Make sure they understand exactly what to say. Point out that as soon as they’re released, I don’t care if they desert. If they shop me I’ll see them hung as well.”

Thinking hard, wondering how much he could deny knowledge of, Maurice realised he still had a slip of paper in his hand. With that shit-fest to investigate, and all those badly wounded men in Hope Valley to interrogate—definitely engaged on a military operation—the investigation might overlook him long enough to get clear. “Anyone got a match?”

* * *

Soldier Boy:

A long way from the smoke and flame, someone scrambled under the tarpaulin into a lorry, but Harold didn’t raise his head or open his eyes. “Can I sit with you, Uncle Harold?” His eyes shot open to find a bruised, tear-stained face above a miniature armoured vest. “Please?”

“Yes Daisy, but quiet please.” Harold closed his eyes again.

“I know, I remember. Will you be like when Holly went to the special happy place? Will Mercedes and Casper be there now, with Holly?” Something nudged him so Harold opened his eyes again. He was being offered a drawing pad and a pack of felt-tip pens. He looked up and now there were fresh tears streaming down the little face. “Mum said Casper had to go to join Josh. Will you help me draw their special place, please, then I’ll be quiet. I’ve brought dinner, and water?”

Outside, people occasionally called from lorry to lorry, trying to find out who had survived, or how friends were. Patricia nipped from one patient to another with fresh bandages and pills. Wayne made trips to the toilet block in the services to fill five-gallon plastic containers. He was still swathed in thermal sheets, meant for the injured but handy for reducing his body heat.

Tins had been distributed properly now, to make sure everyone had a half can of stew as well as beans, tomatoes or fruit. Some talked, still full of adrenaline, while others just wanted to know who everyone was. The Riot Squad searched the loaded lorry, reclaiming their plated jackets, helmets and personal weapons. The rest of the escapees were offered jackets, helmets, swords, sabres and Rambos from the bundles Liz had loaded into the cars, ready for the planned exodus.

For some reason, everything from the farm had been put in one lorry, even mobile phones, digital cameras and pads. The Orchard Close contingent checked for their own—Fergie and Ski were overjoyed to get their wedding photos back. Amber woke up but was still sleepy. After drinking she slept again, cuddled by Eddie because Wills had claimed Angel. Gradually everyone wound down, and despite the daylight many slept.

Well behind the last of the seven Army lorries, in the back of a canvas-sided articulated truck, two people didn’t sleep. A twenty-five-year-old reluctant killer and leader and a nine-year-old would-be girl warrior, both old beyond their years, wept and remembered, and drew special happy places made of love. Each page had unicorns, lambs, improbably colourful birds, cats and dogs with wings, fluffy clouds and rainbows, and among them were Mercedes with a big Rambo knife, wearing a miniskirt and long boots; Casper with his extra-big machete and Josh pushing his wheelchair; Cleo in her shorts with a Liz special bolt in her crossbow; Harriet on a flying horse; Rabbit Bob and Rocket Man the bunny, on a rocket; Wellington wearing wellie boots and bunny ears because he was Bugout Bugs; Matti sporting a feathered headdress, dancing with Jeremy; Bethany hugging her very little soldier; Charger driving a super-powered car with bat wings; Doug with a giant bow missing a tiny bunny; Ethel sharpening knives for Fred in his frilly butcher’s apron; Stewart Baumber mowing grass for a blue-haired Karen waving her punk gun; a giant Mack with a huge mace, holding a very tiny Marge like a baby; Celine in her green minidress dancing with Roy; and Daphne and Beryl and Tish and Mika and Sophia and everyone else they’d left behind, and, because it was Daisy, a few of the dogs and cats were pirates, and they had a sailing ship and a Red Cross elephant, but this time the Patty Bats guarding the elephant had put Hellfire knitting needles in their crossbows, for armoured scroats.

As the shadows lengthened across the lorry park, Harold and Daisy finally fell asleep, surrounded by sheets of paper. A cautious head came up under the tarpaulin, then a hand quietly removed the empty cans before replacing the water bottles with full ones. Tessa came out with a finger to her lips, creeping away before confirming both were alive, just asleep. The small group headed back to where the rest were trying to work out where the escapees went from here.

Chapter 3
Bitch the Barbarian

Conan:

In the Barbarian enclave in the north-west of Birmingham, a warband leader was startled by loud knocking. “Wakey, wakey, April Fool.” The voice, and the expression on Sylvester’s face, had no humour at all. “Conan is already strutting up and down the square, telling his adoring fans just what he’s going to do to Catherine. She could do with a few more weeks, but technically she’s healed. He knows she hasn’t been able to train full out with her fingers for very long, but the shit wants to break her before we go after the zoo.”

Garth shrugged, he knew all that but that he couldn’t do anything about it. He was more worried about all the comments from Conan about Garth wanting to be boss, allegedly so he could screw the Bitch, Catherine. He was also worried about the zoo, because even if Conan thought he’d got a way past those machine guns, he couldn’t have taken them all out. Garth had seen those weapons at work—they’d destroyed a whole warband in seconds.

He banished thoughts of all those dead and dying men, looking towards the door. “I suppose I’d better go and get her. There might not even be a fight. She’s mentioned more than once she’d rather kill herself than kneel in the street, so once she has a knife?” He shrugged, pretending indifference.

“Yeah, being hamstrung is bad enough, without the rest. Conan won’t allow her to die, but each time she recovers she’ll go back in the street—how long can she put up with that before she breaks? Then he’s won.” Sylvester almost spat but remembered he was in Garth’s quarters. “The pig wants a new playmate, but he can’t have one until she gives in.” At least he wasn’t worried about saying that aloud in here, and a lot of other Barbarians were muttering something similar. The Barbarians weren’t angels, but even some rapists were thinking long and hard about what Conan had been doing.

“Serves the sick bastard right for shooting his mouth off.” Garth had been arming himself. Now he finished by tucking a snub-nosed Magnum into the back of his belt, under his armoured jacket. That was insurance, for Conan if it came to it. Garth would never admit it, but he’d cast six silver bullets, and cut crosses in them.

“Pity she can’t hide that pistol.” Sylvester followed Garth outside and they headed across the road to where Catherine, aka Bitch, was waiting.

* * *

Catherine:

Catherine was working through her exercises, trying to stop the rising terror. She knew she couldn’t beat Conan with a knife, or any other way, not when he knew she was coming. Her one hope had always been to hide a weapon—catch him by surprise. Even now, if he’d just been going to kill her, she could have handled that.

It was the thought of being crippled that nearly broke her, unable to stand ever again while every man who wanted to took her, again and again. She’d always sworn she’d never surrender, never beg Conan to screw her however he wanted, then let him, but right now she might have considered it. Too late, he wouldn’t let her, because she’d mocked the asshole in front of the rest and some of the Barbarians had laughed.

Lost in her thoughts, the knock came as a surprise. She still hadn’t totally got used to the idea of anyone knocking on the door instead of just marching in. “Come in.”

Catherine was naked because she wasn’t allowed clothes, but there were sheets on the bed these days if she’d cared. She’d spent too long naked in chains to have any modesty, and anyway she’d have to fight Conan like this. He’d refused to let her have clothes, so she’d exercised by running around the enclave, naked, to make sure all the watching men wouldn’t bother her.

The bastard was pissed off because he’d made one mistake—he’d asked if any of the Barbarians wanted to challenge him while she was there. He didn’t mean her, but Catherine said yes. He’d thought it was funny, offered her a knife to fight him when her fingers were broken, but that made her a gang member. He’d accepted a challenge, and only Barbarians could fight challenges. That meant he had to obey other rules, one of which was that both fighters in a challenge had to be fit. Conan had to stop beating and raping her, and unchain Catherine to heal and train.

Conan wouldn’t make another mistake, give her any sort of a chance. His bragging meant he couldn’t claim another woman until he’d broken Catherine, or he’d lose what had become a public battle of wills. She was also the only female Barbarian, ever, and he was determined to fix that. The public gang rape was Conan’s revenge for making him look a fool in spite of her chains. The door opened, pulling Catherine back to the present.

Sylvester came in ahead of Garth, and smiled. “Last chance to run?”

Despite everything, Catherine smiled back, just. “How far do you think I’d get?” There were a dozen Barbarians outside, day and night, with instructions to shoot her through the legs if she tried.

“As far as the square?” Which was where Conan was waiting. “Garth is here to make sure nobody tries to rig the odds. Conan would kill them, but there’s a lot of betting on how long you’ll last. I’ve bet on you winning.”

“Me too, we’ll be rich this time tomorrow.” In spite of the attempt at levity, Garth couldn’t manage to pull it off.

“I wish I could make a bet.” More to piss Conan off than because she’d have any chance to collect. Catherine didn’t even want to know the odds—they’d just make her feel worse.

“Fifty coupons? I’ll lend you them?” Garth put a hand in his back pocket, and turned to call out. “Victor, get a bookie here, best odds for Bitch to win.”

“On it, boss.”

Sylvester pulled out coupons as well. “Here’s another fifty, I reckon you’re good for it.”

That nearly did it—broke Catherine. These two men were murderers at the very least, among the toughest in a gang of brutal murderers, but were throwing coupons away in a gesture of support. Not a big financial sacrifice—all the top men had plenty, a cut of the ‘rent’ that any inhabitants of the conquered enclaves paid for the Barbarians to allow them to live. What got through her defences was the kindness, that they’d risk Conan finding out just to make her feel better.

She swallowed hard and forced the grin. “I’ll be able to afford a penthouse, maybe even clothes.”

While they waited, Catherine finished her bends and stretches while the two men offered final advice. It came down to making Conan lose his temper, then hoping he was careless. The bookie arrived, a Barbarian of course, but hesitated at the hundred. “I can’t cover that.” He looked worried when he realised what he’d said—that it might imply Bitch could win. The bookies were offering huge odds, trying to tempt a few into betting, but Conan had been saying anyone who thought Bitch might win was too stupid to live.

“You’ll have all the coupons from the suckers who bet on Conan, or you can lay some off with the other bookies.” Sylvester shrugged, then patted his knife. “Because when she wins, I wouldn’t want you to come up short. After all, I’ve made a bet as well, because I’ve seen her training with a knife.”

The bookie hesitated, nearly asked what her chances were, but he daren’t. Sylvester or Garth might risk upsetting Conan, but the mad bastard would kill someone like him. He was thinking hard as he handed over the betting slip, on a signed strip of plastic, and left. Garth hoped the bookie laid some of the bet off with others. It wouldn’t help Catherine now, but eventually it would leak, and the Barbarians would know the bookies hadn’t been absolutely certain.

Catherine didn’t even look at the odds—she held the slip out. “Here, hold onto that, will you? I don’t have any pockets.” Once again Garth wondered if he could risk a shot from a window or from the crowd, kill her clean when Conan crippled her, before the men got to her. There’d be plenty who wanted a turn, some of them because she was famous—the only woman to have a Barbarian name—Bitch. She’d earned it; Catherine had come nearer to killing Conan than anyone else ever had.

The rest would want to because Catherine was a real looker. Conan had wanted to beat and rape her into submission, make her grovel and offer herself in public as he had with others, but his ego insisted they were always attractive women. He’d never starved her, or deliberately scarred her. Then when she got her hands on a gun and nearly killed him, he’d been hospitalised. He’d broken her fingers once he recovered, so now she’d had another three months without abuse, months spent training and exercising while she healed.

* * *

“It’s time, Bitch.” That was Boris, one of the original Barbarians and Conan’s right-hand man, if anyone was. Like most Barbarians, he had trouble knowing how to deal with Bitch the Barbarian now she wasn’t Conan’s punchbag or sex toy. Women had no status in the Barbarians, but Bitch ran around the enclave naked, daring them to touch her.

“I’m coming. I hope he hasn’t run off?” Catherine forced a grin onto her face, marching out of the door and into the street. She almost faltered because the route to the square was lined with Barbarians, but she kept her head up, ignoring them.

There were a few whistles, and comments, but most seemed off-balance, probably because she wasn’t having to be dragged. Even though these men were bloody-handed killers, none of them would do this, challenge Conan to a fight to the death. Boris wouldn’t look at her. He had brought twenty men, presumably to stop her escaping but now they looked like an escort.

The square was too far; her nerves started up, but Catherine couldn’t break her steady walk. Instead, she looked to each side, holding out both hands. “I’ve forgotten my knife. Any chance someone could lend me one?” There were several cheers, and a dozen knives landed on the road in front of her—proper big, sharp fighting knives.

“Leave them alone. Conan said you can’t have one, in case you…” Boris tailed off when she turned around, her hands on her hips.

Catherine had found her answer to nerves. She’d always taunted Conan when he came for her—well, she could start right now. “Cut my throat? Cut your throat, Boris? He needn’t worry, I’m not going to cut anyone’s throat.” Spinning on her heel Catherine set off again. “I’m going to cut his balls off.” She waited a couple of steps. “If I can find them.”

That got a few laughs, and now she was on a roll. “Why do you think I used to make all that noise? You would if that ugly little thing in his pants came near you.” She looked to the side and some were smiling, so she smiled back. “I used to worry it would come creeping out of a mousehole in the night.”

“Bitch, Bitch.” The chant cut off quickly and some men looked worried. Conan had blown his stack the last time he’d heard that.

“That’s me, Barbarian Bitch. Come on, is that the best you can do? On the count of three, one, two, three. Bitch, Bitch, Barbarian Bitch.” This time she got more joining in. “You’re right, it needs more. How about this? Who’ll use a knife to scratch your itch? Bitch, Bitch, Barbarian Bitch.” The laughter got her a few more steps. Now Catherine could see the square, surrounded on three sides by hundreds of Barbarians—with one lone figure on the big patch of green. Her throat dried up, but she tried once more. “If I had more time I’d find a rhyme that includes a chicken, but now I’ve got an itch to scratch, with a knife.”

At last, real laughter this time followed by some clucking noises. “Cock and hen fight, like a cock fight but sexy.” Catherine laughed towards where that came from, swinging her hips a bit more. Nearly there now, but then a loud voice cut off the laughter and comments.

* * *

“Bitch.”

Her knees nearly went as it crashed in again—Catherine was here to die, horribly. That voice had meant rape and pain, again and again and again, and now it brought the memories back. She stopped, she couldn’t help it, but Catherine wasn’t going to let him know he frightened her. “Dick.”

“Shut it.”

“Make me.” Conan nearly came for her, punched her at least, which he shouldn’t do in a challenge—not before she had a knife. She wasn’t going to win, but Catherine would have settled for taunting him into cheating because he’d never live it down. Conan was hesitating, wanting to shout her down, but he couldn’t do that and face down the occasional laughs and Bitch-calls from the crowd. That was enough for her to get her legs in motion again—get her onto the challenge square without stumbling.

“Give her a knife.” This time at least twenty knives landed in the grass, grass because this part of the square was only used for one thing—shedding blood.

“Thanks lads.” Catherine forced her legs to move, walking over to the weapons as naturally as she could. She was pleased to find what Garth had sworn she would—the knife she’d practiced with. “This will do, now get your pants off.” She pointed down at herself. “Fair fight, drop your kecks. Unless you’re ashamed of what’s in there? I’m sure any real man would be.” Catherine looked up towards Conan and almost flinched. He was bloody huge like this, bared to the waist and pumped up for the fight.

“Off, off, off.” Conan whirled at the chant, which immediately cut off so he turned back to Catherine.

“All right, I’ll lose my jeans and boots. I’ll be taking them off anyway, once you’re on your knees.” He pulled them off, throwing the clothes off the edge of the grass. “Any more excuses?”

“Frightened they’ll see how tiny it is?” Her nerves were gone now—Catherine was going to die anyway so it just didn’t matter what she said. “Or are you worried nobody will see it, that you’ll end up in the brothel? Only for the rough trade—you haven’t got much up top and you’ll need a bag on your head.” That got whistles and laughs, even a few clucks. From the corner of her eye Catherine could see that had started some arguments in the crowd. A full riot would be a blessing about now.

This time the chant of “off, off” ended in loud voices and a brief clash of steel.

Catherine pushed harder. “Even if I’m on my knees, you’ll still be too chicken to shove it in here.” She clacked her teeth together. There was more laughter and more clucks because she’d done that before, but they cut off when Conan glared at the crowd.

“Or maybe I’ll knock out your teeth in the fight, then I’ll choke you with it.” He started towards her, moving faster than she’d ever expected.

* * *

Catherine crouched as she’d been taught, knife ready with the other hand up to catch his wrist, but it was worse than she expected. Conan let her catch his knife wrist, concentrating on catching hers, then his fingers bit in as he turned his hand and lifted. Catherine went up on her toes as Conan twisted her arm, pulling it up against the joint, then his knife hand swept around and up.

She couldn’t even slow it up—he was too strong. For a moment Catherine thought it was over, she was going to die. Instead, Conan’s fist and knife boss came up under her extended arm, hard. She felt the joint give, screaming in pain, but it wasn’t over. Tossing his knife past her, out of reach, Conan reached over to pluck her knife from her weakened grasp, then he punched her in the ribs.

She would have screamed again, pain and fear as she went back and down, but Catherine was fighting to take a breath. She was sure he’d broken ribs but what was worse, what turned her bones to jelly, was the realisation of what came next. She couldn’t even kill herself, her fallback option, because he’d taken her knife. Worse, he’d done it so easily, contemptuously, but as she raised her head she saw he wasn’t coming to finish her off.

Conan had both arms raised, turning from side to side to accept the cheers from the Barbarians. She looked around desperately but the other knives had been cleared, and then Catherine saw the one Conan tossed away. She stumbled to her feet, her ribs stabbing every time she coughed, fighting for breath, holding her ruined right arm with her left as she staggered towards it.

Catherine cried out with the pain as she had to let her right arm hang free to pick up the knife. As she straightened she looked towards Conan—just in time. Either someone had pointed or he’d turned to look, but now he started towards her, a big smile on his face. She could see it in his face—he was going to break her other arm.

Just for a moment Catherine almost did it, killed herself. She knew where all the blood vessels were, but now it came to it she just couldn’t do it, couldn’t give in like that. Sobbing in pain, and fear because she knew what was coming, she threw the knife at his nuts.

The throw was too weak, too slow. Her arm had telegraphed what she was going to do so Conan kept coming, turning his upper body and leaning aside to let the knife go past. He realised she’d thrown lower, but jerked the target aside, almost a twerk. A waste of time, because even if they’d been her target, his jewels had never been in danger. Catherine’s broken fingers hadn’t been healed long enough to practice throwing past the basics. She’d probably have missed even with her right hand, but her left was worse, even before the punch and the pain had robbed her throw of strength.

The knife struck too low, hitting Conan’s right thigh and not even point first, but crimson splashed as the edge slid along his skin. The knife bounced off to land in the grass behind him, leaving a short cut and blood running down Conan’s leg. Conan didn’t even look down—he straightened and took the last few steps. At the last moment, as he lifted his left foot to drive his heel into Catherine’s chest, he stumbled as if off-balance.

She tried to deflect and dodge, to use her training, but with only one hand and every movement causing agony, the best Catherine could manage was to end up staggering back. Off-balance, she spun to the side, though at least she stayed upright instead of being knocked onto her back. Conan’s leg was still bleeding, so she’d scarred the bastard, but any satisfaction was swallowed in the rising terror. Catherine knew what came next and she’d thrown away her one chance of escape—killing herself.

* * *

“That it, that’s all you’ve got?” Conan lifted Catherine’s knife as he stalked towards her, then stumbled again when his bleeding right leg hit the ground. He paused and frowned, looking down at the sheet of blood and the wound still pumping it out—then there was an explosion.

Conan grunted, staggering two quick steps forward as blood blasted out of his waist to the right of centre. More explosions followed as Conan’s back arched, and he was driven forward as blood blew out of big holes in his chest, twice, then his belly again. He landed on his face, his knife bounced free, and Conan laid still.

Catherine was hunched over, cradling her right arm with her left hand, but now she raised her shocked gaze to see Garth. He had a weapon held in both hands and smoke was drifting away from him. Boris’s voice broke the shocked silence. “You killed him. You’ll go on a cross for that, you back-stabbing fucker, and she goes on her knees in the street!” When she looked over, Catherine saw Boris had his pistol aimed at Garth, and a score of men behind him with weapons drawn.

It suddenly hit her—she’d survived and Conan was dead. The strength went out of her legs and Catherine half-sat, half-fell onto the grass, still cradling her arm.

* * *

Barbarians:

There were men behind Garth with weapons drawn, but they were in some sort of shock. Most of them seemed to have no idea where they should point them. Garth took a hand off the pistol, pointing at the body. “I shot the arse attacking the new boss of the Barbarians, Bitch. That’s supposed to be your job, Boris.”

“Fuck off. She was done, disarmed and crippled, and he was going to finish the job.”

“That throw killed him. Bitch missed, but she got lucky. Don’t tell me you never got lucky in a fight, Boris, especially with knives. Look at the bleeding, he’d have never got the job done. Bitch hit the artery—the fight was over but Conan was too stupid to notice.” Now the men behind Garth firmed up, aiming towards Boris.

Catherine couldn’t understand it. Conan was dead, but all the Barbarians seemed to care about was if he’d been killed within their rules. There were a lot of other Barbarians with their weapons out now, steel and crossbows as well as firearms, and Catherine almost got something better than a riot—a war. A short burst of automatic fire stopped everyone in their tracks.

“Steady on everyone. Easy enough to be sure.” Sylvester had the Barbarian’s Army rifle, while Victor was pointing the AK-47 in the general direction of Boris. “Garth, Boris, and the sister go to check the body while we all calm down. We’ll need the nuns for Bitch as well.”

“All right, but no bullshit from the nun. Bitch didn’t throw that knife hard enough to cut deep. It didn’t even hit point-first.” Boris hesitated, then holstered his pistol before looking around. “Where is she, the nun? She’s supposed to be here during a challenge.”

“I’m here, and I’ll look providing the fighting is over.” The sister was looking at Conan’s body but she seemed worried rather than happy. “Though either way he’s past anything I can do.”

“Okay.” Garth put the short, chunky pistol under his jacket, around the back. “That’s Conan’s knife, Boris. If I dropped it from waist height, the weight would cut deep enough, and it was thrown hard enough to cover a lot further than that.” He nodded when Boris hesitated, frowning in thought. “Maybe not if he’d been wearing jeans, but when he stumbled, I saw the amount of blood on his leg. The way it was pumping out, the wound had to be deep enough. I didn’t fire until Conan stumbled the second time, only seconds after the cut.”

Even then Garth had hesitated because it was a huge gamble, then he’d suddenly realised he couldn’t let Conan win like that. He’d have been untouchable. He’d been winding up to it, so Conan would take the opportunity to nail at least one warband leader to a cross.

The sister had reached the body, but she barely paused. After one look at the blood trail and Conan’s leg, she turned back to Garth and Boris. “The femoral is cut. A red-hot iron might have stopped it but even then the leg would have to go, and that high up, infection would have got up into his hip, perhaps gangrene. A moot point, because heating the iron would have taken too long.”

Boris nodded to Garth. “Fair enough. Even if he’d got the iron, with one leg gone he’d have been challenged and dead in a week.” He turned to the sister, grinning. “That means the nuns failed to save him, so we get to have a holy fuck-fest before we sort out the zoo.”

* * *

Bitch:

“No!” Catherine had been listening in a daze but now she tried to stand, still nursing her arm. She just had to get to Conan’s knife, though she wasn’t sure what she could do then. Boris would probably just shoot her.

“No to what, Bitch? The nun raping?” The voice was familiar, Sylvester.

She wondered how he’d got over here so quickly, but things had been a bit fuzzy. “No, yes, no nun rape.” Catherine was on one knee, stuck there until a hand under her elbow helped her up.

Sylvester’s hand when she looked, then he stepped away with the Army rifle up, ready. “The new boss, Bitch, says no, leave the nuns alone.”

Catherine was confused again. Boss Bitch, he couldn’t really mean that? Boris wasn’t accepting it—his hand drifted towards his gun and there were a lot of other weapons pointing this way. Garth’s voice cut into the rising noise. “Only the boss until the next challenge. Or if her arm is crippled, Bitch might step down, then we fight challenges to sort it out.”

“I challenge now.” Boris pulled a knife. “Give her clothes because I’m not stripping.”

“When her arm is fixed. You insisted with Conan.” Garth held Boris’s eyes until the warband leader nodded, reluctantly.

“You’re right, but the men won’t do it, do what she tells them. We’re going after the zoo tonight, so we need a proper leader.” A quick look around showed that the Barbarians were confused, already splitting into groups, and nearly everyone held a weapon.

Garth raised his voice. “Warband leaders’ meeting, to sort it out before some twat starts shooting.” He turned to Catherine. “You okay with that, Bitch?”

“Say yes.” Sylvester was speaking very quietly, but Catherine got the message.

She raised her voice so everyone would hear her, doing her best to sound confident. “Boris, Garth, sort it out while the nuns look at my arm.” That nearly screwed it all up—Boris didn’t want to do what Bitch said. Luckily he wanted the meeting before there was a civil war. He jerked his head in what might have been agreement as he turned away, shouting at his men to get the rabble organised.

Garth managed to keep it to a fairly modest smile, when what he really wanted to do was to laugh hysterically. Some was definitely relief because one thing was sure—Conan would never put him on a cross now. “On it, boss.” He turned to shout at the rest. “Warband leaders to my place, now. The rest of you better sharpen up—you’re Bitch’s Barbarians now. You don’t want her spanking you.” That got what he expected, laughs and offers to be spanked, which meant he could finally grin properly.

* * *

Catherine had zoned out, but now the sister reached her. She glanced at Sylvester. “Keep that lot clear, will you?”

“Far enough so they can’t hear.” He shook his head, bemused, but the two women wouldn’t know why. Sylvester was the Cabal’s agent in the Barbarians, meant to steer them into doing what his controller asked. Now he was wondering how the hell he was supposed to persuade Catherine to do what his control wanted. Threats sure as hell wouldn’t work, nor would flattery, and she was a lot smarter than Conan.

He lifted the rifle as several Barbarians headed this way, though he smiled. They were all younger men, the sort that had no trouble getting a woman, so they were all hoping to suck up to the boss. “Back off lads, while the sister does her stuff. Once the boss is fit, you can come and audition for stud if you want.”

Some laughed but the men backed off, much to Catherine’s relief. She doubted she’d ever want a man to touch her again, not in this life or the next. “Sniff this.” She did and something stung her nose and throat. She gasped, coughed, then doubled up in pain. The nun’s voice was in her ear again, very quietly. “Sorry, smelling salts because you can’t afford to faint. They’re like a pack; you can’t show weakness. No stretcher, you have to walk away if possible. Spit on the body if you can. Can you walk without help?”

Catherine nodded, taking a couple of shallow breaths while the pain died back. “Slowly, but first I want a belt with a weapon, a knife will do.”

“Try not to scream when I splint that arm. It might only be dislocated, but even so it’ll hurt, a lot.” The sister looked up at Sylvester. “Your boss wants a belt with a weapon, then I’ll need my bag and the splints. No stretcher.”

Sylvester undid his belt, handing it over before calling out to the crowd still watching. Three of the would-be studs bickered over who took the nun’s kit, then one brought it over. He smiled and nodded to Catherine before swaggering back to the rest.

While that was all going on, Catherine finally got her brain working. “I’ll hold my arm still while I walk. If you move it about I might scream or faint. Just be ready if I pass out.” She could do this—handle pain. She’d had practice. Catherine felt the sister fasten a heavy belt around her waist.

It slipped down and almost off until the sister pulled one side up to her waist, hooking it on her hip. The other side slid lower, but held. When Catherine looked down the sister chuckled, very quietly. “That’s as tight as it will go, definitely a different look. If it was wider it might even serve as a micro-mini. Ready to strut your stuff, or do you want another sniff?” The nun had cheered up now that mass rape was off the agenda.

“No thanks. If you make me cough again I might pass out. Right. Strut, spit, then hospital.” Catherine braced herself for the first step.

“The patients in the hospital are Barbarians, so Conan’s house would be better, private. Don’t worry, the women who clean out the pig’s pen are terrified of him so it’s spotless.” The sister stopped; then when she spoke again her voice was cautious. “Unless it will bring back bad memories?”

“No memories. I don’t even know where it is.” Catherine took a few steps, working up a good mouthful that spattered on Conan’s body. She raised her voice, looking around at the staring men. She still didn’t believe they’d let her be the boss, not really, but she’d keep it going as long as possible. “Someone throw that with the rest of the rubbish.”

Sylvester answered, politely. “I’ll sort it, boss, once you’re home and the guards are organised. I’ll send someone to get a couple of nuns to keep you company if that’s okay, sister?” Sylvester exchanged glances with the sister. Nuns should stop someone nipping in there and killing Catherine, if only because they’d shout for help. “I’ve got a couple of men in mind, for the door.” Two outside and two inside, at least, men who would behave because Sylvester kept their secrets safe.

“Won’t you be at the meeting?” Catherine glanced at him, dressed better than most and the men treated him like a leader.

“No warband. I’m more of a spymaster and general aide I suppose, organising things like meetings with other gangs or medical help after a fight.” Though Sylvester realised that he should get into the meeting somehow, so he could steer whatever the six men decided. That was going to be fun, like juggling six manic monkeys with hand grenades.

Keeping his voice down Sylvester moved closer, though he still gave Catherine plenty of personal space. “Those six will want my report. You might want to stop it but fair warning, they’ll still attack the zoo.” He shrugged when Catherine glared at him. “It’s all set up. When they act, give the Barbarians a way in, my spies will reveal themselves so there won’t be a second chance. The top Barbarians know that, so right now they’ll go along with you being boss. None of them want a fight over the succession just before a big attack, which means you have some influence. Not much; if you oppose them head on, one of them will just shoot you.”

Catherine had always known she couldn’t be boss—she’d just hoped to survive. “So they’ll shoot me as soon as they’ve decided who’ll be boss, or when they get back from the zoo? Can you park a fast car outside the back door when you leave?” She was only half-joking, and maybe not as much as half.

“After the fight they’ll have casualties, which might include leaders. You can get them to back off while everyone heals.” The sister would love to stop another attack, but she agreed with Sylvester—it wasn’t possible. “We’ll talk once you’re fixed up. No blood in that spit, so even if your ribs are broken, your lungs are intact.”

Catherine nodded, concentrating on walking as if her legs weren’t jelly. The brief adrenaline rush, after she realised she’d survived, had faded. She kept her head up, placing one foot firmly in front of another until two nuns helped her through a door. They must have been primed because they caught her as she staggered, supporting her onto a settee with pillows and a blanket. “Here, this will help you sleep.” She wanted to ask, to make sure there were guards, but warm, comfortable blackness washed over Catherine.

* * *

Barbarians:

The six warband leaders sent men for a couple of extra chairs, then sat around Garth’s table. “What a complete fuck-up. You don’t really think she can be the boss, Garth, do you?” Ivan shook his head, then his look sharpened. “Or do you fancy being the power behind her—and in her bed?”

“Fat chance, she’d cut it off. I doubt Bitch even thought about being boss; she just saw a chance to get out of those chains or die quickly. Can’t really blame her for that.” Python undid his belt, holding it up. “How about we put these out of reach, before someone says the wrong thing? It’s the usual way anywhere else.”

“Yeah but Conan was… Shit, was, not is, that’ll take some getting used to. Though I might sleep a little easier once it sinks in.” Ivan, one of the original Barbarians, looked a little flaky but firmed up. Six belts and their weapons were dumped in the kitchen, though they all had knives up sleeves or in their boots.

“You shot him, Garth, so now what?” Boris, the other original, still wasn’t happy about that. “What did you have in mind?”

“Nothing, honest. I just thought shit, she did it, she killed him. I didn’t like the idea of the shambles if our new boss was going to spend a year learning to walk again, so I started shooting. No plan.” Garth shrugged, relieved when Boris and a couple of others relaxed.

“Yeah, maybe you were right. If he’d tried to hamstring her, it could have taken that long before she healed enough to challenge, or gave it up.” Boris sighed, then glared around at the rest. “I get first challenge if she’s stupid about it, right?” The rest shrugged or nodded—it didn’t really matter. Whoever got the job would be challenged, probably more than once.

“It was Conan’s own stupid fault. If he’d finished her off instead of prancing about, Bitch would never have got to a knife. He even did that fucking stupid shimmy instead of dodging the bloody throw. If he hadn’t bent his knees for that, the bloody thing would have bounced off his knee.” Cool Hand, one of the new gang bosses after the Sikh screw-up, laughed. “If it had hit his nuts, I doubt it would have got through his kecks. All the bullshit you gave us new blokes about how tough he was—then a naked woman got him—twice. The first time while she was chained to a bed. Maybe she should be the boss, especially if she dresses like that.” He smiled at a thought. “She’ll have all the blokes standing to attention.”

That brought brief answering smiles. There’d be a traffic jam at the brothel after seeing Bitch in fuck-all but that gunbelt. For some reason that looked a lot sexier than naked. The faces soon sobered. “It wasn’t bullshit. Conan was a bloody animal in a fight, but he didn’t treat Bitch as a proper challenger. His own fault so let’s move on.” Ivan glanced at Garth. “It would have been easier if you’d let him kill her, then we’d be deciding on a boss without complications.”

“But he wouldn’t have killed her. The twat would have tried to hamstring her so he could screw her, but he’d have bled out before he finished. Then we’d have had a crippled leader, but this way she’s on her feet and shouldn’t take too long to heal.” Khan, the latest promotion, wasn’t really a Conan fan anyway. The arse had got too many men killed the last time out, throwing a hissy-fit because someone took the piss. “There were a lot of bets on Bitch drawing blood, so we’d better keep an eye on the bookies. They were offering good odds but won’t want to pay off.”

“They might not have enough coupons to cover all the bets. Bitch bet a hundred she’d win, and now she’s boss so they’d better pay her first.” Everyone looked impressed because they all knew the odds, though a couple of curious looks wondered where she got the stake. Garth almost mentioned he’d bet as well, but the rest might think that was why he’d started shooting.

“She’d better spend it quick, before she heals, because this time there won’t be any complications. Bitch heals, I challenge, it’s done.” Boris had a challenge in his look at Garth.

“Then one of us challenges you and someone challenges him, or you once you heal. It’ll take a year and cost half the best fighters before we’re done.” Khan held up both hands as eyes centred on him. “I’m happy with a warband, but why don’t we just do it like this? Run the Barbarians between us, let the Bitch heal, then give her the option. She’ll probably stand down, as long as we guarantee she doesn’t end up on a chain again.”

“Nobody here is that stupid.” Garth hoped not. “Give her one enclave—the hospital and the nuns. They’ll be happier, and we’ll want them happy if we’re hitting the zoo.” He looked straight at Boris. “The holy rape-fest might not look like such a good idea if you get in the way of a machine gun.”

“Fair enough, but it’s all those virgins running around in fuck-all, it ruins the blood supply to my brain.” For the first time since Conan went down, Boris had the ghost of a smile. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but maybe we should let the actual medics, the nuns, put on more clothes. Not too many, but we can send more women wearing fuck-all into the hospital for changing sheets. They’ll actually be available if a patient wants company, which will save some aggravation. Just let Bitch know, if she tries to stop the brothel she’s dead.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you, Garth. After all, we’ll have to let her carry a gun if we go ahead, and you might be the only one she won’t shoot out of hand. Or we go over there now and shoot her.” Python made a gun out of his hand. “Pow. But then we end up with challenges.”

“Might end up with a fight if you went to shoot her. Bitch already had a few fans, but then she challenged Conan and made it stick. She’s got real admirers after today, maybe enough to do what Garth says, give her enough muscle to run the nun enclave. It’s the dangerous, hot and almost naked thing.” Cool Hand brushed his hands together. “Now what about this zoo?”

Khan was still considered the newbie, so he was cautious. “Can we call it off until we get the other shit sorted?”

“No need, and we might not be able to. Conan hadn’t told you, but the rest of us know Sylvester got to someone inside. They’ll get us past the machine guns but it’ll blow their cover. We need Sylvester in here, because he’ll know if we can call them off.” Ivan scowled at nothing in particular. “We might even find out just what that fucker does, spies and shit. He always gives me a twitch between my shoulder blades. Trouble is, if I try to solve it I reckon he’ll be a lot tougher than he looks.”

“Ex-Army, I’m sure of it. I’ll send someone to get him.” Boris went to the door, calling for a guard. An hour later none of them had worked out exactly what Sylvester did. They knew what he couldn’t do—contact his spies fast enough to call them off—so the attack was on. The nuns would be told, if they kept doing the job they might get Bitch in charge. Let anyone die who didn’t have to and they’d get the Conan option, mass rape.

In the meantime, the news about Conan would be kept inside this enclave, the Barbarian’s home base. If any of the conquered enclaves found out, one of them might get ambitious while the Barbarians were attacking the zoo. Garth’s job was to talk Bitch into not raising any waves, then stepping down when she was asked. Definitely stepping down because judging by the mood out there now, and the number of volunteers to guard Bitch, there’d be a nasty little fight if she was forced.

* * *

Eight hours later, there was a strange sort of tension in the air as the Barbarians filed aboard vehicles, heading for the zoo. There wasn’t much joking, while many of the heavily armed men looked worried, uncertain. “The fuckers don’t know who’s in charge. Usually Conan would be shouting at them, telling them to go get some, but even if we try that it won’t work. Some want their boss out here, Bitch. The rest don’t really believe a woman can be in charge, but they can’t work out who is. They couldn’t storm a fucking kindergarten like this.” Python spat, glaring at Boris. “It would help if we all acted as if she was the boss, for now at least.”

“Yeah, yeah, fair enough, but it don’t sit right with me. I don’t fucking believe I’m actually saying this but you’re right, we need the Bitch.” Boris turned to Sylvester and gestured. “Get her.”

“Even if she agrees, you might not like what she says. She doesn’t approve of the attack, Boris, so do you want her to tell them to abandon it? You’d get a fight, but not with the zoo, and it would finish the Barbarians.” Sylvester knew his control, his spy chief, didn’t want the attack, but he wanted this gang strong. The Barbarians would provide atrocities when the day came, give the Army a target they’d have no qualms about shooting at. Control couldn’t have both.

“Tell her to stand on a box and wave a fucking machete at them, but keep her gob shut or I’ll gut-shoot her.” Nobody moved, and when Boris looked at the rest of the leaders, none of them was going to. “Okay, I can’t, because her guards won’t let me, not without a fight which would really fuck things up. So persuade her, promise her puppy-dogs or fucking silk knickers, whatever.”

“Not really a ladies’ man, are you, Boris? What are you willing to offer, a real concession?” Sylvester nodded at the scowl. “Yeah, she’ll spit in your face if it isn’t something she actually wants, but it doesn’t have to be much. That woman is no fool; she knows she’s lucky to be still alive.” He relaxed when Boris gave a short, unhappy nod. “I’ve got to know her a bit while I’ve been training her. She’s protective over the women.”

“Protective? How?” Boris couldn’t see what difference that could make because they weren’t being freed—no chance.

“She spilled her guts a couple of time, when she was down. Before you sneer, she was training to fight Conan while all her fingers were broken.” That thought brought a couple of winces. “Bitch took all that shit from Conan, and kept coming back, because while she did he couldn’t pick another woman to beat into submission. Two years, I worked it out. How long do you think you’d have lasted?” Sylvester grinned at the shock, then the wrinkled brow as Boris thought about it properly.

“Fuck, she must have balls of steel, or buns of steel I suppose. Either way, threats sure as fuck won’t work. Give her… Not the brothel, that’ll cause even more trouble. Some of them?” Boris looked at Sylvester, baffled. “The ones Conan broke, before the Bitch? Nah, I doubt there’s any left alive.” He looked at the cars and the despondent men still filing aboard. “The ones he said were next? Fuck, I haven’t got time for this shit.”

Another voice cut in. “Twenty of the women from the brothel. She’ll take the ones who are still fighting it or suicidal, so it’s not a big loss. Or tell her the nuns can cover up a bit, or some combination.” Python smirked, looking towards Conan’s house—Bitch’s now. “But we’ll want her stood up in the back of a pickup with a machete, wearing just that gunbelt. And a sling I suppose.” He laughed at the look from Boris. “Go on, tell me you don’t fancy a piece of it.”

“Just not enough to bleed.” That was Garth. “I agree, but let’s get moving or the bloody spies will get caught, then it’s machine gun time.”

“You and Sylvester, Garth. Bribe or persuade Bitch to hold up the machete and wear that belt because Python is right, these horny fuckers won’t look at her face.” Boris turned away, shaking his head. “We’ll be a fucking democracy next.”

* * *

He was shaking his head again a little later because Bitch had done it, and in spite of the sling and bandages covering one of her tits, the mad fuckers were cheering. “Come on, come on, get in the bloody car. You can lust after Bitch later; we’ve got a fight to win.”

Several of the fighters laughed at him. One turned to look towards the pickup. “After that send-off I’ll be fighting and lusting.” The men slammed the doors and their car set off after the rest.

Boris looked over and he had to give the Bitch her due, she’d earned however many women Garth had to give up. The gunbelt was positioned to hide a G-string, just, but that fuck-you look meant there wasn’t one—she’d kept the bargain. He beckoned to his seconds and climbed into a van, joining the convoy. Once they’d taken the zoo he could sort out Bitch, but right now he needed his head in the game.

* * *

Catherine:

As the last of the Barbarians headed away, four nuns came out of a door, hurrying towards the woman stood in the back of the pickup truck. One offered her a dressing gown.

“Waste of time now.” Catherine, aka Bitch, almost threw the machete down, then sheathed it on the gunbelt. She looked down at it with a wry smile. When the sister had put the belt on after she survived, she hadn’t cared what it looked like as long as she got a weapon. Now six hundred horny murderers expected her to wear it like that instead of a skirt. They could expect what they liked but hard luck, she’d earned the right to wear knickers at least—she just had to be careful how she got the message across. Catherine didn’t want to end up chained to a bed again.

Four boxes were placed at the back to make a set of steps, then a man raised his hand to steady her on the way down. “That showed ’em, Bitch.” He was definitely a horny murderer, but this was a younger, good-looking one who really fancied his new boss, enough to miss the attack and guard her door.

Instead of spitting on him, then possibly shooting him, Catherine smiled at the hand. “I’ll show you something if that hand touches me without permission.” When her left hand dropped onto her knife he backed off, still smiling.

“I’m willing to wait, boss.” Him and the other horny bastards guarding her, all hoping Bitch needed a bed-warmer. For now, they were willing to settle for the prestige of promotion to the Boss’s personal bodyguard, with the best gear and weapons. Until she was fit enough to choose, every one of the young, fit veterans was determined to make sure nobody else got through Catherine’s door.

Catherine concentrated on walking down the steps without staggering. A long, enforced sleep, during which the nuns had set her dislocated elbow and bound her bruised and cracked ribs, had left her feeling much better. She was still bemused, coming to terms with surviving, but now Catherine had three months’ grace while her torn ligaments healed, then time to get her strength back. She also had one staunch ally—the sister.

Sister Meredith was a realist. She had to be after negotiating with Conan for the relative freedom of her nuns, then deflecting the frequent threats from various Barbarians for a year and a half. Now she was willing to help Catherine in negotiating a way to step back from being the boss Barbarian, but without becoming like the other women—a sex object without options. Not all the other women—Catherine had realised the warband leaders needed her to reassure the men so she’d bargained hard.

The four nuns crowded around Catherine when she reached the ground, deliberately so none of the men got too close, and if she stumbled none would see her. Drugs were keeping the pain down but left her woozy, while if she caught her elbow no drug would stop the stab of agony. Once through the door, all five women sighed in relief—no men in here. “I feel guilty somehow, but I couldn’t stop them anyway.”

“But Boris and those like him will be a lot more wary after all the cheers. I’ve made a list of the twenty-five women who are worst off.” The sister’s face was sombre because a lot more than that weren’t even close to happy about being in an unpaid brothel. “Some will need time to heal physically as well, the ones who still fight. Are you sure you want to go? I can send for them?”

“No, I want the other women to see me.” Catherine looked down. “With knickers, or it isn’t much of a message, but I’ve still got to keep those horny bastards onside.”

“How much clothing do you need, to feel comfortable in front of all those men?” That was one of the younger nuns. They were all fairly pragmatic by now—living half-naked with almost daily threats of rape or murder had that effect. “I’m pleased I’ll be getting my habit back so I can cover up, but not getting the full length isn’t as important as it used to be. Not after wearing the Conan version.”

Conan’s idea of a nun’s habit was left intact down to their shoulders, with half-length sleeves. The back had been shortened to where it just covered knickers, while the front had been cut away entirely. The nuns wearing underwear, then the type of underwear, was a hard-fought compromise between what the sister would concede and what Conan preferred. Now the nuns could have their full habit, but only knee-length. The ‘nursing assistants’ would still wear whatever the Barbarians wanted them to, so never very much.

“I don’t really care about being nude, but it’s the principle. They’ve got to understand I’ll wear what I want, starting with pants.” Catherine looked down, scowling. “This was a one-off, to get you half-decent clothing and some of the women safe.”

“So it doesn’t matter if it looks sexy, as long as they didn’t choose it? I’m Callie, but you weren’t awake last time we met.” This nun was older, with a world-weary look until it brightened with a mischievous smile. “They’re Barbarians, so you could wear something barbaric, or maybe more tribal. Not Viking or Celts, from someplace warmer so there’s some skin. African, or Indian, maybe North American, sexy Apache.”

Another nun cut in, a younger one. “Wear a band around your head with a couple of feathers, then instead of showing your knickers, wear one of those flap things the Native Americans wore. You can put jeans under it sometimes, and leave them off if you want to get someone’s attention, but you decide. That way they never quite know what to expect.”

“You’ll need a Tomb Raider holster, the type that fastens around a thigh. I have to clean the barracks occasionally, and some have Lara Croft posters so they’ll like that, especially when you aren’t wearing the jeans. Put a knife on the other thigh, then you can leave off the belt sometimes.” That was one of the cleaners, who looked a lot happier with her new boss.

“Sleeveless tee, maybe a short jacket in warm weather, a thicker, longer one if it’s cold?” The nuns and cleaners gathered around, picking through some of the clothing the women had collected, including jewellery. Catherine stood in the middle, bemused, until the older nun caught her eye.

“You can say no? They’re just trying to help because all of us want you to live, and we hope Garth meant it about you bossing the hospital enclave.” Callie smiled, gesturing as the women picked out two silk scarves, twisting one into a rope. “Tell them if it’s too much, or you’ll go a bit further, as long as you are comfortable with the result.”

“I meant what I said about not really caring, but I don’t want them to only think of sex. I’ve been thinking about that negotiation. They let me push, get more than they offered, so that I’d dress how they wanted. The bosses wanted a sexy figurehead, but with a machete and a gun so she looked dangerous, and they’ve got a better idea of what the men want than any of us. The thing is, I was watching the blokes, and some of them really do like the idea of a boss like that.” Catherine raised her hand as one of the women took off her weapons belt, tying the twisted silk around her waist to leave the ends hanging from one hip. Another pulled the end of the second scarf up behind the ‘belt,’ while someone behind pulled it through her legs. That end was also pulled up through the belt, then left to hang down like the front. Some adjustment got the front and back about the same length.

“There, now you definitely need that feather on a band. We can find another scarf as a bra if you want?” The cleaner inspected Catherine, nodding when another held out a chunky necklace.

“No, a silk bra and jewellery is just sexy, not dangerous or shocking. Conan was larger than life and they all think I killed him, so I’ve got to be my own version of the same.” Catherine looked down at herself, thinking that through.

“You did kill him. I daren’t lie to Boris, not about that.” The sister seemed to be losing worry lines and shedding years, at least ten since Conan went down. “I’m pleased Sylvester stepped in, and called you boss. That was nothing to do with sexy, that was him taking your side. Some of the men will remember that.”

“They can’t look at you without thinking of sex—the trick is to not actually offer it. Tighten that scarf until it’s comfortable, instead of knickers, then you can put on jeans but leave the ends hanging out front and back.” Callie the nun stepped back, eying the result critically while Catherine pulled the front until it tightened under her. The nun widened the scarf as it went over the belt, then nodded. “What do you think?”

“It’s actually comfortable.” Catherine looked down in surprise. “Covers me as well, silk knickers, though having something that long flapping around my legs will take some getting used to. Good idea, the jeans, or maybe shorts sometimes, but the scarf already takes the edge off the naked leg thing.” She took a deep breath. “Okay, I’ll try it, but with proper boots so I can kick one in the crotch if necessary. I’m going for shock and eyeful—they get to see a lot of skin because I don’t give a shit, but I’ll shoot them if they try to touch. The fallback if they can’t keep their bloody hands off is shoot a couple, then wear baggy jeans and a big leather jacket.”

“Here, there’s several small guns in a drawer through there, but none have many bullets. This one won’t jar your wrist until you build some muscle.” A hand proffered a slim pistol. “You could hide it in your sling.”

Catherine had no idea of the calibre but it was too small, then she remembered what Sylvester said about the weapon she shot Conan with. “I’ve been training for months so my wrist will handle that, easy. I’ll want crosses cut on the bullets so they break up.” She glanced up at the sister, smiling at a thought. “You can do that, and bless them, just in case I meet a vampire.”

“Ask your faithful guards to cut the crosses, then they’ll spread the word so everyone will know. It will make them all wary because getting the pieces out will need a proper operation. Even the most stupid might realise the aftercare would be less than dedicated.” For the first time since the Barbarians took her enclave, Sister Meredith smiled properly. “After all, the Barbarians insist all their nurses are women.”

With Catherine and Sister Meredith apparently agreeing, the nuns and cleaners set into turning her into Bitch the Barbarian. Her long auburn hair was brushed before a beaded belt was cut down for a headband, while a guard was sent to find some fancy feathers and steel toed boots—size six. The guard came back with two tail feathers from a pheasant and motorbike boots, which he swore had steel toes. He hesitated, but finally asked what the feathers were for.

Once they knew Catherine was dressing up, a guard volunteered a fringed suede jacket he’d looted but then found was too small. For now Catherine put one arm in it, with the rest hung over her shoulder and sling the other side. That left it gaping wide open so the bandages over Catherine’s ribs, and her naked breasts, were still on show.

“We’ll have to cut a shirt or blouse so you can get it on without hurting your arm, or maybe make something like a short poncho. You could use another silk scarf as a bra?” The fashion squad started looking through the clothes, but Catherine held up a hand.

“Enough. I told you, a silk bra is too far down the sex object route, but we can sort out a shirt I can get on later. I want to get those women out of the brothel while there’s nobody visiting.” Catherine looked at the weapons on her belt, her face hardening. “Then we’ll be making a short trip. I’ve got something to sort out before the rest get back—just in case there’s been a change of mind.”

* * *

By the time she’d met the women in the Barbarian brothel, Catherine was in just the right mood for her first official visit. She would have liked to put on jeans and a shirt because the night air was chilly, but wanted maximum impact for her first visit to another Barbarian enclave. The sister hadn’t gone with the zoo attack because she was nursing the boss, so now Catherine insisted she come along in the car where they could talk in private.

It took a little while to work up courage, but then Catherine went for it. “I’ve got a problem, sister, or do I call you Meredith? I really, really want to kill a man, in cold blood and as painfully as possible, but I don’t want to start down that road. If he makes a wrong move I can live with self-defence, but I doubt he will be brave enough.” She explained, keeping her voice down even though the driver was a woman, one who was very pleased to be out of the brothel.

“Sister if it’s official, I don’t mind Meredith when we are talking privately.” The sister thought about the rest, rather than simply giving the official answer. “My religion would tell you to forgive, but I understand why that may not be possible. The alternative is to look at it from a legal angle. Any remotely neutral judge and jury would sentence him to life without parole, death if there was a death penalty.”

Sister Meredith sighed because she really did understand. Her own faith had been sorely tested, though she’d never actually prayed for Conan to die. Some of the younger nuns in particular just couldn’t agree with turning the other cheek—a few were tending towards an eye for an eye. “Since you are the only authority, Catherine, you have the right to kill him. I doubt the rest of the Barbarians will care. Look into your heart, but even if you kill him, I doubt the gates of heaven will be barred when you get there.”

Privately, Sister Meredith thought the hell she’d taken to save others from a similar fate possibly qualified Catherine for sainthood. Killing Conan like that was definitely close to a miracle—she wasn’t discounting an angel nudging that knife.

“Thanks sister, I never expected a clean pass. Maybe I won’t have to think, maybe he’ll go for a gun or I’ll see him and blank out—bang, dead.” Catherine let it drop because they were almost there. The section of wall and the gate lit up by headlights was familiar, even though Catherine hadn’t seen them for over two years. Now there was a growing tension, a tightness in her gut as a man in the front jeep stood up and waved his machete. The guards recognised Conan’s big pickup truck so the gates opened without a challenge.

* * *

As the three vehicles pulled up, men scrambled out of houses half-dressed, pulling on jackets and weapons. The four men in the back of the pickup and the men from the vehicles in front and behind spread out, weapons drawn. “Listen up, assholes. This is Bitch, the new boss of the Barbarians, so watch your mouth.”

“Where’s Conan? That’s his truck.” Someone had to ask—in fact, Catherine had counted on it.

When one of her guards opened her door and stood back, Catherine climbed out and stood in the light from the windows for a moment, letting them all get a good look. Before anyone could do more than whistle, she pulled Conan’s knife, hers now, and raised it. “Conan is feeding the rats after I killed him one-on-one with this—in a challenge match in front of the Barbarians. Anyone lays a hand on me or gives me lip joins him.”

Two of her guards racked their shotguns, the sound loud in the sudden silence. “I’m told the arse who runs this enclave is Arthur. Get him. He’s in the shit so I don’t care if he’s only wearing panties, he hasn’t got time to dress.”

Two of the local fighters looked at each other, then ran off. Two of her guards strode forward, opening a door and checking inside. “Clear, Bitch.” The two went inside so she followed, her other guards spreading out around the entrance. Catherine noticed some were already talking to local Barbarians. She wondered briefly about their version of the fight, then got her mind back on why she was here.

She went in to find a small table and chairs. Catherine took the chair facing the door, pulling the table back next to her so she could lay a big pistol on it, her left hand resting on the grip. She wouldn’t be shooting—the recoil would probably sprain her wrist, but with guards stood either side of the room she wouldn’t need to. Both held machetes, which was actually quite reassuring.

The local Barbarian bossing the fighters asked to see her, but from his cautious attitude he must have been given an impressive version of Conan’s killing. Once he knew she was after one of the civvies, he promised a list of the ones who might do as a replacement for Arthur and left. The local guards might still be unsure about the whole Bitch Barbarian thing, but Arthur wasn’t a Barbarian, Catherine was armed, and a dozen Barbarian fighters were treating her like the boss.

* * *

A few minutes later one of Catherine’s guards opened the door. “He’s here, Bitch, in his panties as requested.”

Catherine pointed between the other chairs, putting her hand back on the gun. The door opened wider before Arthur was thrown in, landing on his hands and knees. He looked frightened and confused, only dressed in underpants and one sock so they’d stripped him. Just for a moment she almost shot him.

Memories crowded in, of flames and gunfire in the night, bodies on the street, dad dead at the bottom of the stairs, and men kicking open the bedroom door. Then the hobbles and Conan strutting up and down giving them all the rules. He’d called this shit forward to announce Arthur had drugged the guards, let the Barbarians inside the walls. He’d offered Arthur a prize, and he’d taken… Her hand tightened on the gun, but she eased it off with a real effort.

“You’ve been skimming. If you lie I’ll put you on a cross. How much did you take?” Catherine had known Arthur half her life—she was absolutely sure he’d be cheating the system somehow.

Arthur stared at her for long moments, but he just didn’t recognise her, not dressed like this. A guard stepped forward, kicking him in the ribs, hard. “When Bitch asks a question, you answer.”

He’d been knocked over but Arthur scrambled back onto his knees, one hand on what would be a lovely bruise. “I never…” He glanced at the guard and the lie died in his throat. “Not much, I swear. I’ll pay it all back…” He looked at the guard, then Catherine as the name suddenly made sense. Everyone knew who the Bitch was, the woman Conan couldn’t break, but Arthur actually knew where she came from. The colour drained from his face as this strange woman’s features became a familiar face. “Bitch?”

Catherine wanted to grind it in, to make him crawl and scream and bleed, but if she started she wasn’t sure where she’d stop, or if she could stop with one. Hopefully, the Barbarians would never know how near they were to getting a female version of Conan.

Instead, she turned to the guard who’d kicked him, trying to act disinterested. “What’s the usual punishment?”

“Up to you, Bitch. Conan might just cut his throat, but he’d probably string him up between the posts, smack him a few times with an iron bar. Depending on how you feel, anything from broken legs up to beaten to death.” He looked at her sling. “I’ll beat the fucker if you want to rest that arm, boss, just tell me when to stop.”

“Tempting, but I can’t be arsed. Send him off with a couple of the lads to strip his place bare. I’ll take anything decent, give the rest to the locals.” Catherine turned back, locking eyes with Arthur. Once again she had to clamp down on her urge to hurt him, to see him bleed and scream.

She couldn’t resist making sure the disgusting little shit got at least some extra grief. “Make sure he gives it all up. If he tries to hide a single coupon or bottle of beer, you can get the iron bar, then we’ll see how many bones you can break before he dies. Put his woman in my motor, we’ll take her for the hospital. The guy who shopped this dick was probably after her, but she’ll be too good for the asshole.”

One guard grabbed Arthur by the hair, while the other went to the door to pass on her instructions. Arthur was dragged to the door and handed over while Catherine shut her ears to his pleas and promises. She wouldn’t torture him, but he was a dead man and deserved at least a few minutes of terror first.

* * *

Beer arrived, then a list of names. The woman looked worried when she saw the Bitch, until Catherine told her the beer was fine. She’d rediscovered a taste for beer while training and this would be the good stuff. For a moment Catherine wondered if she really had changed that much, because the woman, Eunice, didn’t recognise her. When she read the short list of residents who were supposedly capable of running the place, most had familiar names.

She chose one she thought would do a good job, reminding her guards she wanted this one in working order so he wasn’t roughed up. Tony recognised her, but Catherine spoke first. “I am Bitch the Barbarian, the new boss. I’ve just caught Arthur with his fingers in the pie. Once he’s handed over everything but the fillings in his teeth, he’s going in the rubbish pit.”

Tony, once a good friend of her father’s and hers, had opened his mouth when he saw her. Now he nodded slowly, and she saw the understanding in his eyes. Catherine had come for payback. She was somehow in a position to get it, but her name was now Bitch. Even so, he was wary when he spoke. “What did you want me for, er, Bitch?”

“Same job, run the enclave, but keep your sticky fingers out of the pot.” She thought Tony would do a much better job, look after the residents rather than going off on a power trip like Arthur probably had. “His woman is called Samantha?” That was the first time she’d dared ask. Catherine wasn’t sure what she’d do if her little sister had died in the interim, but Arthur would end up meeting the iron bar at the very least.

When Tony nodded she bit back the sigh of relief. “She’s going to the hospital enclave, so you’ll need someone else for anything she dealt with.” Catherine made a production of looking at the list, even if the name wasn’t on it. “You’ll need a secretary. This one looks suitable, Stephanie.”

“She has to stay, er.” Tony knew exactly which Stephanie she meant, but really didn’t want to finish that sentence.

“She’s your secretary. If anyone gives you shit about it, send them to me. Just warn them I haven’t killed anyone since breakfast, and I’m pissed off at having to come out here to sort out this shit.” Catherine held out the list but Tony fumbled the first try at taking it, probably because of the tears in his eyes.

Stephanie was Catherine’s younger sister, good-looking enough to be in the brothel or warming a Barbarian bed. “Tell them that if I have to come back to deal with whoever, you might have to dig a whole new rubbish pit.”

“Right, er, Bitch. Thank you. For the job.” Tony got out, sharpish.

“He was nearly shitting himself, I thought he was going to cry.” The guard laughed. “I haven’t killed anyone since breakfast? You might need a whole new rubbish pit? This is more fun than I expected. Why do you want the woman, boss? You know, since you’re a woman. Unless?” He suddenly looked wide-eyed, then frowned.

The last thing she needed was for them to think she was gay, not interested in choosing a man, preferably one of her guards. “Yeuk, no thanks. Who the hell asked you to butt in anyway?” Catherine looked him up and down, then turned away, remembering she was supposed to keep her guards hopeful. “I prefer strong and silent, though I don’t mind the occasional yes please Bitch, or thank you, Bitch.”

* * *

Both guards straightened. From the corner of her eye she saw a smirk, then both said, “Yes please, Bitch.” She forced a little smile before taking a drink of beer. Catherine hoped this was over quickly so she could get somewhere private. It was like juggling piranha, fine as long as she caught the slippery bastards by the tail every single time.

The local guards were efficient—she still had some beer left when a guard told her the twat’s stuff was in the pickup. “Toss him in the rubbish, just make sure he doesn’t crawl off down a rat hole.” Her two guards laughed, while the messenger promised to make sure the holes were all stopped up. One of her pair followed, to make sure the job was done properly.

By the time the guards came back, Samantha was huddled in the back seat of the crew cab with Sister Meredith, so Catherine got in the front passenger seat. The guard who’d gone to check waved to her, sticking up a thumb before he jumped onto the back. As the pickup set off the four men were all laughing and high-fiving.

All the way back Catherine was waiting, terrified. That was her twenty-year-old baby sister in the back, and the last time they’d seen each other, Arthur had dragged her off on a collar and leash. Samantha had seen Conan drag Catherine off—then Arthur had probably taunted her with what Conan would do, and was doing. Now her big sister had turned up to rescue her, but two years too late and she wasn’t the same big sister.

Catherine wanted to turn around, to say something, anything—but she daren’t. There were four men in the back of the truck who might reassess the whole deal if she broke down, and she was damn sure she would. Samantha was being told to keep quiet, that it would all be explained back in private, that the nightmare was over. Catherine really hoped so, but whatever happened, Arthur sure as hell wouldn’t get at her again.

Back at the main enclave, Catherine got out at her new home, and her guards jumped off the back. “Grab the beer, split half between you. We’ll divvy the rest up later.” When two of the men held up small crates she turned to the driver. “Drop this pair off at the nuns’ quarters.” There’d be no men there so the sister could explain properly, then Samantha could scream or laugh hysterically without mouthy witnesses. “Then park this thing around the back and come in. If you’re gonna be my driver, you’ll need different clothes, and a gun.”

As Catherine turned towards the house, one man held out her beer. She recognised him, the one who’d gone to make sure Arthur went into the pit, so she smiled. “I hope you filled in all the rat holes.”

“Too many, boss, but no problem. I busted his elbows and knees so he couldn’t crawl down any of them.” The guard high-fived the others again—just as well because it let Catherine wipe the shock from her face.

She tried to smile instead, and actually it was much too easy as she thought of Arthur screaming his life out in the rubbish. She hadn’t even meant to do it, so she could enjoy it with a clear conscience. “Inventive, I’ll remember that.” Opening the door, she took the beer and headed for some privacy, somewhere she could relax with a drink until Boris and the rest came back. Not too many beers though, because she’d need her wits.

Chapter 4
Too Many Chiefs

Dudley Zoo – Zookeepers:

As darkness fell on April the first, in the enclave based on Dudley Zoo, the night guards had taken over. Half their enclave’s twelve automatics, stubby ex-police weapons, were concentrated to the north where the border was a wide motorway. The gangs the other side weren’t friends. Worse, the O’Sullivans were friendly with the Barbarians, and Conan made no secret of the fact he was coming for the zoo, eventually.

The border to the east had devolved into a friendly truce with two gang leaders, Curly and Bonnie, so there was only one automatic at the old zoo entrance. The western border had almost disappeared. Absorbing the Toppers was only a matter of an official agreement sometime, so the few guards only carried crossbows.

Directly south of the zoo was a no-man’s land of ruins nobody wanted, especially surrounded on three sides by Curly, the zoo, the Toppers and the zoo fields.

Three more automatics were on the other side of the Toppers, in the other half of the zoo enclave, the farming part. Spread along the arc from south-east to south-west, the weapons deterred occasional raids to steal livestock.

* * *

Inga, one of the original Zookeepers, ducked off the path as she heard someone coming, pulling her hood up over her feather-decorated dreadlocks. She stayed out of the convenient woodland, or the marmosets would go crackers and she’d be in trouble. No moonlight walks in the trees, but the noisy little sods were a fabulous alarm if intruders sneaked past the sentries. That hadn’t happened for ages, but the ready squad always turned out just in case, then she’d be stuck with extra chores. The ex-police sergeants were sticklers for discipline, while Mahaan was ex-Army and just as bad.

They certainly wouldn’t approve of fiancées joining sentries on duty, but as far as Inga was concerned, if she joined David in a sentry post, that doubled the number of eyes. Anyway, he’d be lonely if he had to sleep alone after his night shift. She wouldn’t sleep well herself if she went to bed now; she’d got used to company. Inga smiled at her justifications. She was well past the stage where she should admit the long arm of a certain policeman had well and truly nabbed her.

David would complain at first, saying he’d get into trouble, but she’d flash the ring then say whither thou goest. Got him every time. Inga frowned as a nun came past—she was early. They usually brought a hot drink to the guards on the northern border about two or three in the morning, not at the start of night shift. Inga always hid in case they blabbed, then shared the drink.

Shrugging to herself as she headed up the path, Inga wondered if it was some special god-day. The duty ‘officer,’ whoever was in charge tonight, should have finished his rounds—unless he’d snaffled a drink and stayed to finish it. She moved slower, trying to keep quiet as she got closer. She didn’t want to bump into Koos, or Sergeant Koos, or, she sniggered silently, fifteen. David, six-one-three, hadn’t used his official police number with her since she’d taken him midnight swimming, and he’d found out she meant skinny-dipping.

* * *

Inga frowned; she couldn’t see David, then she realised the slumped shape must be him. She darted forward, heart in her mouth, sighing in relief when he grunted. Even so, why was he asleep? She shook him, worried now, then her foot caught something that chinked. A mug? The steam meant it was the drink from the nun, but in that case he should be awake, still sipping.

Hoping he wasn’t mad at her for waking him up, Inga shook David but he only mumbled. Now she was really worried, so Inga gave him a good hard slap. His eyes came open but he looked confused. “Wha?”

“Why are you asleep? Sarge will give you hell.”

“Fifteen? Where?” David tried to get up but he slumped again, his eyes drifting shut. Inga grabbed his hand and bit his finger.

“Ah, shit! Why did you do that?” David blinked, then squeezed his eyes shut and opened them wide. “Can’t wake up.”

Inga pointed down at the mug, spotting his automatic on the ground beside it. That proved something was very wrong. “You’ve been drugged. It must be the nuns.” David never dropped his weapon, especially not in the dirt.

“My gun? Hang on.” David fumbled for his radio, shaking his head again. “Alarm.”

“They’ll hear—and attack.” If the nuns were spies, they had to have given the attackers a police radio to listen in. Whoever it was would be ready, waiting until the guards were asleep. If David used that radio to raise the alarm, they would cross the motorway faster than reinforcements could run from the zoo buildings. Inga thought hard, finally coming up with one possibility—providing she could get the message across without unwanted listeners understanding. “Give me the radio. No, the little one, not the police one.” Inga tried channel four, knowing someone would be listening. “Any sisters awake?”

“Always. Can’t sleep?” This was the help channel for women who had bad dreams—and memories.

“More the opposite. I spotted a rat in a grain bin, just past the marmosets. I need a one-shot, but keep it quiet. I swear those rats can understand everything we say.” Inga waited, ignoring David’s puzzled look. The reason they called each other sisters on here was because men didn’t usually have these sorts of nightmares. Nor did Inga, but she’d done her share of providing an anonymous sympathetic ear.

The reply, when it came, was cautious because single-shots weren’t something discussed on a radio. The type who knew about them were downright paranoid, which was why Inga hoped it would sound an alarm. “I’ve got a one-shot someplace. Didn’t the automatic trap get it?”

“Some idiot turned it off so now I’m worried there’s more rats, maybe in the pens.” Inga thought quickly, wondering what else she could do. David would open fire, but whoever it was would overrun one gun, even a machine-gun, and she didn’t want him to die.

As if he’d read her mind, David pulled her close, voice low. “Run down the line, pick up all the automatics.” His eyes met hers, clearing now as adrenaline blasted away the drug. “They’ll use them on our people. I’ll keep them busy, slow them up so you can get away.”

The radio answered. “If you’re worried, I’ll bring a couple more one-shots.”

Inga didn’t want that—they’d be slaughtered. “Ask them to stay there for now. If one rat got through, they could be anywhere. Got to go, to check the other traps. If the same dozy idiot set them all, none of them might be working.”

“I’ll see if anyone else is awake, then wait for a call. Luck, sister.”

Inga pocketed the radio. “You come with me.” She tugged David to his feet, but he stumbled.

“I’ll be too slow. Throw the clips away if you can’t carry the guns.” He kissed her, hard. “I love you, Inga. Now run, and hide when they come.”

“Only if you run as well.” David wouldn’t be able to run far, but then inspiration struck. “Head back towards the zoo. When you get to the woodland, run into the trees, then shout or shoot. The marmosets will go crackers so the ready squad will respond. The Barbarians might miss you in the trees, even if you pass out. Or I’ll stay here and we’ll fight together.”

She sighed with relief when David turned away, lumbering into a sort of fast shamble, weaving as he went but holding onto his automatic with grim determination. Hoping he got to the trees before he passed out again, Inga whirled and started running, keeping low because there had to be someone watching with infra-red.

* * *

The next sentry only had a pistol, but she picked it up along with his ammo and night-vision binoculars. Inga kept going, knowing that leaving him might be a death sentence, that the bastards might cut his throat. The next man had an automatic but was laid on the sling. Desperate, she cut it with her fighting knife before pocketing his four spare clips.

Each time she stopped, Inga checked with the binoculars. There were hot spots in a long line the other side of the tarmac, but they hadn’t started crossing yet. She couldn’t understand why—surely the nuns had sent a signal? Now she had two rifles slung across her back, four pistols in her belt, three automatics hung around her neck, and she carried one. She’d thrown two rifles into the darkness, along with some pistol and rifle ammunition because she couldn’t carry more.

The marmosets started up just as she found a fifth automatic, so the ready squad would be on the move. Hopefully they’d already been primed by whoever was on the radio—now the racket might wake up some of the other fighters. Inga checked but her pockets and hood were full, so she threw the guard’s pistol and clips in all directions. She looked through the binoculars, quickly ducking right down.

There were warm shapes creeping across the tarmac, what looked like hundreds of them. The first ones reached the floodlit strip, and she could see gleam of weapons and plated jackets—they were definitely fighters. She wondered if there was time to run back to the zoo, but even as she thought that, Inga saw figures standing and running forward!

She was knackered; she’d never outrun them. Inga looked around desperately, but the empty warehouses just back from the border had been stripped bare so there’d be no cover. There was one chance, but only if she had time to find the right spot. Inga raised the automatic with a cut strap, emptying it in short bursts while keeping the barrel down, just like David had explained.

A wide swathe of figures went down, but they couldn’t be dead. Sure enough some began firing back. The clip ran dry, so Inga dropped the empty weapon next to the drugged sentry, ducked low, snatched up his weapon and ran towards the empty buildings. As she came past the second industrial unit she saw what she wanted—a low bush and long grass against a wall.

Diving in behind the bush and grass, Inga wriggled low, spilling clips from her hood then pulling more clear, frantic to cover her hair and feathers. She pulled the hood over and down, then put her arm above her eyes to create a shadow, peering underneath it. She should keep her eyes shut so nobody saw them, but she couldn’t do it, lie here with her eyes closed while maniacs ran past. Now she just had to hope that none of them stopped to search what were obviously empty buildings, or looked back with infra-red once they were past.

She suddenly remembered the radio. “Sisters, sisters, alarm, the Barbarians are over the north border. The nuns drugged the guards. Wake everyone up.” The radio started to reply, but that’s all she cared about—someone heard. Inga turned it off, stuffing it inside her coat in case a light came on.

Inga cowered in the dark as the Barbarians pounded past, making very little noise but there were so many of them! Someone complained the guard had no more ammo, but a voice said it didn’t matter, Boris and Ivan had machine guns. Others wanted to know which bloody idiot woke the monkeys up, which meant they’d known about the marmosets.

Shots to the east, not far away, were answered by a fusillade, then shouting followed by a few cheers so they’d overrun the sentry facing Curly’s gang. Inga waited, holding her breath and hoping, but Curly’s sentry didn’t open fire. Voices shouted, telling the Barbarians to stop pissing about, get to the zoo gates before the rest woke up. Despite everything she’d heard about them, the Barbarians seemed disciplined, with nobody arguing when voices shouted orders.

It probably wasn’t long, but what seemed like ages passed while what looked like a thousand men ran past, steel weapons and protective vests gleaming in the moonlight. There were two bursts of firing as the sentries facing Curly were overrun, then relative silence fell. She had to move, but where? Inga had four machine guns, two rifles, five pistols and a lot of ammo, but she could only use one at a time. If she did the Barbarians would swamp her, then they’d have the weapons and all this ammo.

* * *

Forcing her frozen limbs into action, Inga came up into a crouch. She felt around for the clips she’d dumped, stuffing them inside her blouse and down the top of her sleeves, hoping she’d got them all. There was no alarm, so she crept back towards the guard post, until heavy gunfire to the south meant someone was awake and fighting back. Nobody would hear her over that lot, so she took a chance. Her legs like jelly, Inga ran for the sentry post. The machine gun was still there, thrown aside in disgust, but his throat had been cut and his knife and machete were gone. Inga took the weapon, then headed for Curly’s gang.

The sentries on the border were dead, their weapons taken by the Barbarians. Hoping the attackers hadn’t left anyone, Inga ran out into no-man’s land. “Stay right there!” She nearly had a toilet malfunction, but then Inga realised the voice was ahead.

“It’s me, Inga.” She kept going, pulling at her hood because now she wanted them to see the feathers. “Help, the Barbarians are attacking! Let me get in cover.”

“Hey, it’s the feather girl. Come on, but hands in… Christ, are those machine guns?” A figure rose from cover, a crossbow in his hands. “Where…”

She cut him off, because she’d suddenly realised where to find more shooters. “Yes, with two rifles, pistols and lots of ammo. If Curly and Bonnie use the guns on the Barbarians, I’ll bet you get your own breeding herd, with milkers. Or you can watch Conan eat them all?”

“Not up to me, but the alarm has already been raised. Can you ride a bike?” Another figure thrust a pushbike at her. Inga leant on the pedals, trying to keep up as the sentry weaved down a cleared strip through streets he obviously knew.

* * *

David reeled through the woods, bouncing from tree to tree. He’d no idea where he was; he’d lost the path but one thing kept hammering through him. He had to get back, he had to get to Inga before the Barbarians… His brain wouldn’t go further as it skipped back away from what might happen, back to him getting there in time.

He could hear shooting and lights flashed through the trees, but there were marmosets screeching and birds calling so he couldn’t work out which direction to go. He started to slide down a tree but his head jerked up. “Inga!” As David crawled up the trunk, something tugged his arm. His gun, he’d need that to help Inga. Nursing it David lurched through a gap, finding himself out in the open, out of the woods, but where?

“Bloody hell, have you been hit? What’s happening over there, is it a raid, the O’Sullivans?” Hands caught David, supporting him. Sleep beckoned, but he had to tell them.

“Conan, sentries asleep. Get to Inga.” The relief at finding someone was too much—David crumpled. Figures leant over him, trying to find a wound.

“Hey, it’s a machine gun.”

“Didn’t you hear him? It’s Conan, and the sentries are asleep.”

“So is he, drugged. No wounds.”

“Call Toff. Tell him it’s Conan, and we’ve got one of the coppers’ machine guns.”

“And ammo, and he’s got a pistol.”

* * *

Mahaan came wide awake immediately when someone banged on his door—the legacy of years in the Army and then trying to keep his small enclave alive. He rolled out of bed, opening the door to find a woman, not one of the fighters. “I had a radio message, trouble on the border, the automatics out of action. I went to tell the ready squad but they’re asleep.”

“They’re what?” Mahaan turned back to put on some clothes and grab his weapons, listening as the woman continued.

“The message was from someone who thinks the radios are being listened to. She said the rats could understand, the automatics were turned off, and we had to hurry.”

“I’m coming.” Mahaan thought the wording was odd but if the ready squad was asleep, something was very wrong. “Run to the barracks, wake them up.”

“Easy.” She lifted a little radio. “Pots and pans, sisters.” The woman grinned at him. “We sent a couple of lasses over there to wait until I’d asked you. Rattle those pots and pans?” Her smile died and now she looked worried, frightened, but she followed as Mahaan ran out of the building. “It’s Conan, isn’t it?”

“Probably.” Mahaan stopped in the doorway to the ready room, looking at the guards, still sleeping despite the two women shaking them. He pointed at the small radio. “Can you use that to stop anyone drinking any more of this? Without letting the listeners know we’ve been warned?” There were mugs by every man, or on the floor nearby.

“Watch out sisters, rats pissed in the water. Warn everyone, no drinks except bottled water until we sterilise the tank.” She shrugged apologetically. “Best I can do. You two, come on, we’d better get home. It’s not safe out.” They both looked frightened as they ran out, but the woman paused long enough to hand over the radio. “Listen to channel four. Don’t talk, no men on this channel. It’s important.”

Mahaan listened as he stripped weapons from drugged men and collected ammo to give to whoever turned up. The first few men came in, the type who, like him, didn’t sleep sound. “It’s an attack from the north. Either the O’Sullivans are ambitious or it’s Conan, but whoever it is they could be past the machine guns.”

“Not all of them.” The man held up one of the ready squad weapons before taking extra ammunition from the small safe. “Two men with me, in case I get hit. I’ll try to seal off the woodland path.” Gunfire split the night, to the north. The distinctive sound of an automatic firing in short bursts was followed by other firearms. “Maybe they aren’t past.” The automatic fell silent, but the other firearms kept going. A runner headed for the gates, carrying extra ammo for the automatic there.

“Sisters, sisters, alarm, the Barbarians are over the north border. The nuns drugged the guards. Wake everyone up.” All the men looked at the radio in Mahaan’s hand, including Teddy and Koos, who had just arrived.

“Use the radios, warn everyone.” Koos had hardly spoken when the police radios were blanked out with voices shouting gibberish on all channels. “It has to be Conan.” Moments later the little radio had the same trouble, shouting on all channels.

“We’ll need runners. Where do you want people?” Teddy was poised.

“The northern edge of the zoo buildings. We’ll lose the stock that are grazing there but those pastures are open ground, our best chance to break them.” Koos looked towards Mahaan, who nodded. If the Barbarians got past there, they’d be in among the buildings. Teddy snatched up more ammunition before sprinting away into the night.

Outside, men were running towards the ready room, while others were already heading north. A man came past on a bike, shouting to get to the north of the zoo, keep them out the buildings. Even as he ran that way, Mahaan knew the remaining weapons couldn’t stop a full-on attack.

He’d heard Conan had six hundred men, so the only way to stop them had been to heap the bodies on the motorway, thin them out. Then, even if they got across, the rest of the guns could stop them here. The rattle of an automatic confirmed his worst fears. That wasn’t one of theirs, so Conan had his own, as well as up to six captured weapons with nine hundred rounds.

Teddy caught hold of Imogen as she ran past. “Try to get the women out of here.”

“No, if it’s Conan he’ll have men waiting for anybody who runs. We’ll be in the single women’s block.” Imogen blew a kiss but kept running, leaving Teddy watching with a sinking heart. The women would be one of Conan’s priority targets. He shook himself, waving down another non-fighter, diverting him to the stop line to pass messages. He hoped the line really did stop the Barbarians.

* * *

Barbarians:

Boris had been worrying about the empty sentry post, while cursing the idiots who woke the bloody monkeys, but neither had made any difference so far. There still hadn’t been any response from the zoo fighters when he reached the wide stretch of open ground, just before the zoo buildings. He grinned when he saw the big, meaty animals milling about, but then saw movement among the buildings so he held back a little. There were old Barbarians and bold Barbarians…

Sure enough, gunfire cut down a swathe of men as they started across the open ground, but Boris had an answer for that. He tucked the butt into his shoulder, firing a short burst at the source of the gunfire.

The gunfire stopped, so the men who had dived for cover or hesitated started forward again. The Barbarians were shooting now, pistols and crossbows, and animals dropped or began to run around. Some of the men began shooting at them. “The men, not the fucking animals, idiot!”

The zoo’s machine gun opened up again, cutting down the leading Barbarians. Boris raised his weapon to answer but gunfire chewed lumps out of the trees, much too near. He dropped, wriggling into cover before cautiously raising his head as more men came past. He fired, a long burst because the rest of his warband were here now. He only had to keep that gunner busy until they ran over him.

It wasn’t that easy; Boris couldn’t stop the machine gun because several rifles were hunting him. He had to keep changing position, only firing short bursts, so a lot of men died crossing the pastures. Then the first Barbarians reached the line of defenders, so he came to his feet and charged forward. A score of men came with him—they knew exactly what Boris was going after. Those spies had given Sylvester everything—where the armoury was, how much ammo the sentries carried, and where everyone slept.

Boris slung the Army rifle before pulling out the special radio. “They’ve broken here so it’s open season, boys. Guess what I’m hunting?”

“Khan here. If you’re clear, Boris, I need that machine gun. That hunter bloke is holed up in a shed covered in skulls. There’s open ground all around him, so we can’t just charge. Between that bloody great gun shooting through everything and bloody poison darts, we’re bleeding.”

“We still haven’t taken the armoury, and the bloke with a tiger skin is forted up nearby. We could do with the Army rifle or AK. Oh, right, Python here.”

“Ivan. We’ve taken the gate, but they aren’t fucking broken this side, Boris. The assholes emptied the automatic before we got to it, chewed up the O’Sullivans, and now there’s another. I thought they were all supposed to be dealt with?”

* * *

Boris sneered at the radio and put it away, pulling his pistol and machete. No more fancy shit, spies and tactics. It was charge and hack now, machetes, muscle and numbers—the sort of fight Barbarians were best at. Conan would have told the other pussies, suck it up and get the job done.

By the time Boris reached his target he was reassessing the opposition, pleased the zoo were well outnumbered. A woman had just crippled one of his men before gutting another—she diverted a blow with a machete then stuck two foot of steel in him. She hadn’t survived six other men piling in, but now a man cut a Barbarian down before charging towards Boris.

Boris raised his machete, dropping his empty pistol to pull his knife. He blocked the blow, bringing his knife in from the side as he had scores of times, but this opponent had moved. Boris grunted as the man twisted and slid past, clipping the Barbarian’s helmet with his machete hilt. Not quite a machete, longer and more pointed, and only the plated vest saved Boris’s shoulder when it thrust.

The man switched targets, hamstringing a Barbarian with a slash, then nearly getting another one’s eye with a thrust. Someone smacked the bloke with a club, slowing him enough for Boris to drive his knife home, but the bastard scored again as he dropped. At least the slash didn’t have much strength, so it didn’t cripple his target. A machete came down to make sure as Boris pointed across the small square.

“There it is, our new brothel, already kitted out with beds.” The men with him cheered, running forward towards the long two-storey building. The info from the spies was clear. The single women weren’t armed, because the wog in charge didn’t believe women should fight.

The ripple of gunfire from the windows came as a complete shock, as did the bullet through Boris’s arm that spun him around and down. Others went down as someone pulled the Army rifle from Boris’s back and ripped off a burst. He dropped as more bullets came from the windows ahead.

Boris rolled into cover, fumbling the radio out. “The fucking nuns lied. We just got shot up by unarmed non-fighters according to the fucking map.”

He put the radio away, calling to his men. “Did anyone grab the machine gun?”

“I got it but it’s empty.”

“I’ve got more ammo, but I’m not wasting it on women. We’ll help Python finish the fighters first, then come back for them later.” Boris wasn’t stupid enough to run into the open again now he’d got back behind a wall, not against at least a dozen pistols. Too many, not one paranoid bitch with a hold-out weapon so those nuns had to have known. They’d tried to get the Barbarians killed. “If you see any of the nuns or that vicar, I want them alive. Crippled is fine, but still talking.”

“Definitely bloody crippled.” The speaker was looking down at a dead Barbarian.

Boris stood up, pulled his vest half-off and tore off his shirt sleeve, then took out one of the pads the nuns back home had supplied. “Here, tie this in place.”

Boris held the pad over the bullet hole while the man bound it in place with the shirt sleeve. The man was frowning as he tied off the cloth, and he finally asked, “The nuns lied? Is that why there weren’t any machine guns?”

“Where?” The man stared, puzzled, so Boris hit him in the chest. “Where were there no machine guns?”

“On the border. The guard was asleep but there wasn’t a gun or ammo. Someone said they’d found another the same. One of the sentries opened fire, but he was asleep when they got to him. His gun was empty, but there wasn’t any more ammo, not even empty clips.” The man looked worried now. “What happened?”

“A fuck-up, but we’re in among them now. We’ll come back for these bitches later, give them the choice of give up or burn. Warn everyone you see the nuns didn’t do the job right. We’ll ask them why later.” Boris grinned as he realised there’d be no Bitch or Garth to stop him having his own personal holy fuck-fest, or cutting the two-faced bitches into pieces afterwards.

Gunfire from behind, including an automatic, jerked Boris’s head around. It was coming from the woodland. The missing guns! Boris raised his radio, the special one from Sylvester that only contacted warband leaders. “We’ve been stitched, they’ve got behind us. Rally on the ready room and armoury. Once we’re concentrated and have their ammo, we’ll run over them, but we’re spread out now. They’re picking us off.”

As usual, once inside the enclave and through the last organised defence, the Barbarians had split up to hunt down the runners and grab some loot. Boris had done the same, going after the women, but this time it had been a mistake. The defenders were scattered, but were a long way from beaten, and his radio would only warn the warband leaders.

Boris had already found small groups or single Barbarians who’d been ambushed, killed and stripped of ammo. That still wouldn’t have been too much of a problem, but as Boris had just found out, this lot weren’t the pussies he’d been expecting. Some of the zoo fighters were killing Barbarians one-on-one with blades, or killing more than one.

* * *

Zookeepers:

The defenders weren’t organised, they were desperate but were forming small groups. They knew their way around the jumble of buildings, using that knowledge to ambush single Barbarians or small groups. It wasn’t going to be enough. Barbarians were still arriving, too many Barbarians, there were literally hundreds running around waving weapons.

Mahaan had sent a messenger to the other half of the enclave, the fields the other side of the Toppers, hoping they hadn’t been hit yet. He knew they would come if they could, with up to three machine guns. If the Toppers joined them, the relief force might drive the Barbarians out of the zoo, but by then it would be overrun. The invaders would have killed the fighters, so they’d leave with their loot—animals, weapons and women.

The only chance was to find a good spot to dig in, concede the rest of the zoo, then hope the Barbarians were more interested in killing than looting. “Call out to everyone you see, tell them to fall back on the crocodiles. Those walls are solid to keep the heat in. They might stop a bullet.”

“With luck the assholes will drop through the skylights.” Those were over the pools so the attackers would land among the reptiles—someone still had a sense of humour.

“Here, we’ve emptied the safe.” A cyclist passed a heavy package, but as he set off again a crossbow bolt threw him off the bike. Crossbows replied, dropping two Barbarians; the third ran until three fighters cut him off.

Beckoning to the newcomers, Mahaan called out to everyone nearby. “Search any Barbarians, take their weapons and ammo. Search the bike for more.” He broke open the package, passing out boxes, then pulled the crossbow bolt out of the dead cyclist. He’d misjudged badly. Without the border machine guns there weren’t enough bullets, enough bolts, or enough fighters. A loud boom could only be one person. “Change of plan, we all head for Takao’s hut.”

The building where Takao tanned hides was separate from the rest because of the stink, which meant he’d have a clear shot at attackers. The elephant gun would shoot clean through any cover less than a tree, so hopefully the ex-hunter could kill the Barbarians using automatics. At least four or five must have been captured, though Mahaan had only heard one zoo automatic and the two Barbarian weapons. The group paused, reloading or fitting bolts to crossbows before charging forward, cutting through the Barbarians and collecting stragglers as they headed towards the big gun.

* * *

Teddy knew his group were about done for—he just hoped someone had got away. The ammunition was nearly gone but the Barbarians just kept coming, more and more of them. “Shove that table over the hole.” The attackers had hacked a hole in the door, but a volley of crossbow bolts had caught the first three who dived through. Some of his fighters were cutting the bolts free of bodies but a couple had broken, while only one attacker had any bullets.

A crash heralded the Barbarians getting through a window, so Teddy threw himself forward, most of his training forgotten, just swinging. The Barbarians were thrown back but it cost more dead or wounded friends. A wardrobe was jammed over the hole, but the men outside were already hacking at it.

Voices shouted and the noise eased, then died away. Someone took a quick look. “They’re pulling back.”

“Retreating?” Teddy didn’t think he’d be that lucky.

“No, there’s people shouting and pointing. They’re heading somewhere else, loading crossbows so they’re expecting a fight.” The woman turned, wiping blood from her face but more trickled down. “What do we do now? Can we get away?”

“Not away, but we can find a better spot. Collect every weapon and bullet you can, fast. Takao is still shooting so we’ll go and join him.” Teddy looked around before tossing his tiger skin on the floor. The head was split in two, so it was a good thing he’d worn a helmet under it. “Strip any weapons and ammo from the dead Barbarians outside; then we start running and we don’t stop until we get there.”

* * *

Near the zoo’s main entrance, two men and a woman lay in cover, the survivors of the squad guarding the gates. Once they’d cleared the target, most of the Barbarians had run off towards the zoo itself. These three had patched themselves up, hoping they could get back into the fight.

Stephanie, the ex-big cat keeper, sniggered. “Got another.” She loaded another dart into her tranquilliser gun. “I’d perform a victory dance, but…” She gestured towards the splint and bloody bandage on one leg. The snigger could have been medication, though it wasn’t spoiling her aim.

Ivor, the bison keeper, pointed across no-man’s land. “Samuel, er, two-seven-whatever? Can you aim your rifle over there, to the side of the house with a bit of curtain hanging out through the window?”

“Samuel will do, we’re past formality even on duty.” Samuel, an ex-police marksman, looked through the night sights on his rifle. “Not that I’ve got any ammo left, even if Conan himself strolled across in front of me. Oh my, look at that. It’s someone I never thought I’d see again, but more important is who Inga has brought with her.” He moved the sights along the buildings, his smile growing. “Stephanie, how many Barbarians are left?”

“One I think, but I can’t get a clear shot.”

“If I stand up and shout, maybe wave my arms about, will that give you a clear shot?” Samuel couldn’t help the big grin, but kept his face turned away so the other two couldn’t see it.

“If you run that way, he’ll have to move to see where you’ve gone. Be very quick, he’s got a crossbow.” Stephanie turned to look towards him, scowling at the back of his head. “Now tell me why?”

“Because Inga has brought friends, and you’ll never believe what they’re carrying. We really should open the gates and invite them in.”

* * *

Barbarians:

Garth lay in cover, watching fields full of crops and animals. He’d been sent here because that was the original plan, a slap from Conan because the real loot was in the other half of the enclave. Conan had wanted Garth’s warband to bleed—the arse had still been pissed off about the flanking attack and Garth’s lower casualties against the Kinks.

According to the info, there were machine guns here, but none of these gunners would be drugged so Garth had waited for an edge. He smiled quietly to himself. If Conan had still been in charge he wouldn’t have dared do this, wait until the machine guns left for the other half of the zoo. Conan would have put him on a cross for being a pussy.

A voice from behind disturbed happy thoughts of Conan going into the garbage pit. “Have they left yet?”

“Not yet, Victor, but they’re gathering fighters so it won’t be long. Then we’ll run over what’s left and get the barbeque started.” Garth took the monocular from his eye, turning to grin. “Tell whoever is complaining that he can go now if he likes. We’ll make bets on how many bullets he can catch.”

“I’ll tell them exactly that.” Victor wriggled backwards out of sight, smiling because the boss had been in this sort of mood ever since Conan died.

Garth lifted the radio Sylvester had got from somewhere. Better than the usual little hand-held, but he’d only managed to buy seven—enough to contact the warband leaders, or Sylvester if the nun medics were needed in a hurry.

So far, Garth hadn’t spoken or the rest would want to know why he wasn’t attacking, but he’d been listening. There hadn’t been enough automatics among the sentries, which hadn’t stopped the attack getting in among the buildings but then it went pear-shaped. Everyone went off doing their own thing, as usual, then Boris started rabbiting on about being stitched, and surrounded. Cool Hand wasn’t answering but even so, it still sounded as if the Barbarians were winning.

“It’s a trap, there’s a shitload of fighters on bikes with lots of machine guns!” The last part was true—Garth could hear automatics in the background and they weren’t short of ammo. “Get the hell out, they’re running all over us.” Ivan wasn’t the sort to panic, so Garth reassessed. Maybe he should leave now, get back to the cars and catch this new force from behind.

“They’re in the woods as well, behind us. There’s a lot of them, with another machine gun. I’ve got a survivor here. He says they’ve killed the best part of a warband. I reckon Garth has bounced and they’ve come after us. That big cannon has just been reinforced—by two lots of zoo fighters.” Khan was a newbie, and maybe gun-shy from last time, so Garth cut in.

“Are you sure on the numbers, Khan? Nobody left from this side. There’s supposed to be three machine guns here so maybe they were moved?” Gunfire sounded behind him, but when Garth turned he couldn’t figure out where the attack was coming from. The zoo group who’d been going to leave had heard it too—they were looking this way.

Khan came straight back. “I’m sure there’s a lot of fighters, and at least one machine gun. They just shot the shit out of the O’Sullivans, then some of Cool Hand’s and Boris’s men, from behind like I said. Now another bunch of fighters have arrived, trampled right over the blokes I sent to cut off any runners. I can’t get near that big gun, and there’s too many poison darts and pistols for a charge. I vote to do what Ivan said, get the fuck out.”

Victor came up behind Garth. “There’s some men moving up behind us, trying for our motors. The guards are holding them for now.”

“They’ve only got to shoot the tyres out, then we’ll be stuck between them and three machine guns.” Garth took another long look before bidding all that lovely meat a regretful farewell. “Pass the word. We’ll run over whoever it is unless they back off, then load up sharpish and head for home. The other end is a shambles, so there’s no point in getting everyone killed.” He turned back to the radio. “Garth here. We’ve been pincered so I’m breaking loose now. See you at home.”

“Fucking pussies.” Boris wasn’t happy. “Fucking voting, this is what happens with a woman in charge. When we get back, it’s getting sorted.”

“I’m getting out while I’ve still got some men.” Python wasn’t waiting for a vote. “If you call me a pussy, Boris, you’d better be holding a knife.”

“We’ve got a lot of wounded, but the fuckers kept going instead of hunting survivors. They’re pedalling like fuck so don’t hang about or you’ll be too late.” From the shouting and the sound of engines, Ivan had found some vehicles. As the rest agreed it was time to bug out, because half the men were already leaving, Garth slid backwards to join his men. He was relieved when the attack on his transport faded away in the face of his hundred men. Even so he got the cars moving before machine guns were involved—those bloody things frightened him.

* * *

Toppers:

In the woodland, the Toppers had used up every bullet and fired off every crossbow bolt and arrow they’d got. Now they crouched among the evergreens or behind tree trunks, watching Barbarians streaming north, back to the border. “Aren’t we going to attack them, Toff? Finish them off?”

Toff reached up to tip his top hat backwards and scratch his head—the bloody thing made his head itch. “Since they still outnumber us at least three to one, not on your sweet life, sunshine. If any of them come in here among the trees, we’ll chop them sharpish but nice and quiet. Otherwise we’ll wait a bit, then take a stroll out there to finish off the wounded and loot all those convenient bodies. With a bit of luck we’ll also have a bloody great barbeque with those dead cows or whatever.”

He turned to scowl at the eager beaver. “Since you’ve got so much bloody energy left, I might insist you run home for the sauce and cutlery?”

“No problem Toff, big gob firmly shut.”

* * *

Zookeepers:

Inga was screaming at the top of her voice as she pedalled, trying to keep up with the maniacs in front. Curly and Bonnie already had a plan to deal with automatics, a plan that worked better with five of their own. They’d put all their rifles and the machine guns together, then when the Barbarians opened up, they’d buried the shooters in bullets. They’d done the same with an automatic, smashing the only serious attempt to stop them.

While the Barbarians were ducking or dying, the rest of the fighters in the two gangs had been on bikes, closing in as fast as they could pedal, shooting pistols as they came. The Barbarians had the choice of choosing which one to shoot at, and probably collecting a bullet, or running. Conan didn’t encourage running so most took cover or hesitated. By the time they’d realised how fast the bikes were closing in, they’d arrived, then it was too late to run. In a few mad moments at least half Ivan’s warband died, while the rest scattered.

Instead of chasing them, Bonnie and Curly headed for the sound of gunfire, hoping to save as many Zookeepers as possible. On the way they left a trail of dead Barbarians, caught tending wounds or looting. When the cavalry passed near the single women’s sleeping quarters, Inga turned away from Curly’s mob. She stopped when she reached the bodies scattered in front of the building, looking at the smashed windows and bullet scars on the walls. Barbarian bodies, but they had to have got inside because nobody had more than three shots. She knew she should keep going, look inside, but was frightened of what she’d find.

The doors opened and the first women came out, smiling and waving, laughing as they began to loot bodies. Inga swayed for a moment—pure relief.

* * *

The one-shots had been a secret, last gasp defence in case a small group of gangsters or a raid got through. The crude weapons weren’t expected to stop a proper attack, so if the attackers had kept coming they’d have won, but the volley had scared them off. The weapons were the single women’s answer to Mahaan’s reluctance to arm or train women, some cultural thing. The young, single women were paranoid, for a good reason—they were top of any gangster’s shopping list.

One of them remembered a film, gangs in America making a gun with tube, a bullet, a nail and elastic bands. Some of the women jumped on the idea, quietly scavenging pipe, springs, anything that might work, while others stole single bullets from here and there. Quiet, intense experimentation came up with practical versions, so nearly half the women in this building were armed. They’d only had three bullets each, because the weapons were kept secret so Mahaan didn’t take them. Now the women were taking proper guns from gangsters they’d killed—guns they wouldn’t be handing over to Mahaan or anyone else.

The smiling women surrounded Inga, explaining what happened or asking where she’d been. She shook her head, turning towards the wood, towards David, but hands pulled at her so she explained. The women sobered, persuading her to wait a moment while they collected better weapons from the corpses. As the group headed for the woodland, single shots marked their progress—women dealing with wounded Barbarians. More of them collected real firearms or crossbows, while the rest picked up machetes or clubs, and an axe.

* * *

The approaching shots brought most of the Toppers to the southern edge of the wood. Their leader, Toff, pushed to the front, where he could see a line of women advancing through the fallen Barbarians. Periodically one would stop, point down, and fire. What puzzled him was what they were shooting with. There were stubby little crossbows with the crosspiece near the back, or short lengths of pipe with a crude handle, but they all fired a bullet. The women were collecting weapons, which some started using.

Toff pushed a finger up under his top hat to scratch his head. “We killed those blokes so that’s our bloody loot, but they’ve got bullets and we haven’t so I’m not sure they’ll agree.” There were mutters of agreement, but nobody volunteered to talk to the women. Some of those with machetes were very enthusiastic when they found a wounded man.

A voice beside Toff interrupted the complaints. “Bloody hell, never thought of that.” Toff turned to the youth, who noticed. “We’re always after guns, but as long as you hit a bullet hard enough with a point, it’ll go bang.” He pointed to a woman stamping on something. “I’m guessing there’s a spring in the pipes, but theoretically they’ll work with elastic bands.”

“Forget the physics lesson, it doesn’t help unless…” Toff looked at him and smiled. “You’re obviously a fan and you understand all that physics stuff, so they’ll talk to you. Nip out there and explain the loot theory, that we’re entitled to a share because we killed them. You’d better disarm first in case they’ve got hair-trigger elastic bands.” The sheer horror on the face looking back at him was enough for Toff to relent. He turned back, calling out for a few women to help the diplomat. There weren’t many, but if someone was willing to fight, the Toppers weren’t a big enough gang to be picky about sex or which way they swung.

* * *

When the Barbarians pulled back, the dazed defenders around Takao’s hut couldn’t believe their luck. Most of the surviving fighters were dug in with a good field of fire, but ammo was low and there were still a lot of Barbarians. Now they crouched behind firearms, dart-guns or crossbows, or with machetes poised, as the last fighters turned and ran. None of them had any intention of chasing.

Mahaan heard the whooping, shouting and cheering, but thought the Barbarians had pulled back to regroup for a charge. There couldn’t be many other defenders left out there to distract them, but there weren’t enough bullets in here to kill all the rest of the Barbarians. “One more time. Hold fire until they’re in the open. Pick your targets, don’t miss.” The horde of cycles that came through the buildings were a total surprise. For a moment Mahaan was gobsmacked, then he began shouting. “Hold fire, hold fire! It’s Bonnie and Curly.”

* * *

An hour later, Bonnie, Toff, Curly and Mahaan shook hands before sitting down together to sort out the shambles. Koos wouldn’t be shaking anyone’s hands again, but Teddy might, thought it would be left-handed.

Once they found out the Barbarians had all retreated, the three neighbours collected ammo and more weapons before chasing after the stragglers. With nine automatics they’d become more ambitious, catching and killing larger groups that were too slow, usually because they were carrying wounded. Crossing the motorway, the avengers ran clean over the surviving O’Sullivan fighters, their enclave, and at least thirty badly wounded Barbarians.

Wiping out the O’Sullivans had been easier than expected. Sylvester’s original plan was to let the gang soak up most of the automatic fire at the zoo entrance, before the Barbarians stormed the defences. The rest of the O’Sullivan fighters were in the group shattered by the Toppers’ first volley. Bonnie, Curly and Toff left most of their fit fighters in the captured enclave, stripping bodies and digging in ready for a Barbarian counter-attack. After a rough count of bodies, the leaders weren’t sure Conan had enough fit men left, but wanted to coordinate with the zoo just in case.

Mahaan knew he wasn’t in the best of bargaining positions, but he still had five machine guns, plenty of meat to trade, and the fresh fighters who arrived with the automatics from the other half of the enclave. “There’s no point quibbling over most of the weaponry. There’s plenty still on the bodies and there’ll be more ammo from the same place. I’m guessing you want to keep at least one automatic for each gang?” He paused until all three nodded. “We’ll buy the rest back with a breeding herd each, including some milkers?”

Bonnie smirked, pointing north. “You can breed back easy enough, using the land near your northern border. After all, there won’t be rustlers.”

Curly laughed, some sort of euphoria because the worst had happened, but Conan bounced. “We can graze them on the O’Sullivan fields now they don’t need them. I just want Conan’s head on a spear to make this absolutely perfect.”

“I want to talk to those nuns, and that priest had to be in on it.” The heavily bandaged woman was backed by several others, all of them with hands on their weapons.

“Good news and bad. Someone got to the nuns and the priest. It might have been Barbarians or some of our people, but I won’t be trying to find out which.” Mahaan hooked a thumb towards a growing heap of bodies. “Some of the wounded talked. Conan was dead before the Barbarians attacked, so you can’t have his head. A woman stuck him with a knife.”

“Some of the O’Sullivan civvies reckoned the Barbarians were talking about a bitch, so maybe that’s who did it. I can’t see a woman taking over, but I doubt any of them will be as bad as Conan.” Topper glanced towards Mahaan, hesitating, then went for it. “We can clear some grazing but we’ve already applied to join you. We’ve only got one machine gun to swap anyway, so how about we skip all that, join up right now?” Toff turned to look Mahaan in the eye. “But I think we’ve served our probation, so equal members?”

When Mahaan nodded and held out a hand, Toff took off his top hat. He threw it towards the bonfire, then gave his head a good scratching. “Thank God for that.”

* * *

Catherine:

In the Barbarian enclave, Catherine heard the first vehicles coming past. They hadn’t woken her up—she’d tried to sleep but couldn’t, so now she was a bag of nerves. Opening the door, she braced herself for all the bragging about how many people they’d killed or the women they’d raped. When the vehicles went straight past, Catherine realise these were the ambulance vans, sent back first with wounded fighters who needed the hospital.

As she climbed aboard her pickup, Catherine saw the pickups and estate cars carrying wounded, too many wounded for the ambulance vans. The grim faces in the few vehicles that weren’t carrying casualties looked worried—none of them were bragging or cheering.

When she got out at the hospital enclave, a stretcher party came past, carrying a man who was moaning. Catherine put out a hand to stop the blood-spattered nun following them. “What happened?”

“From what they’ve said, a trap. They’ve lost a lot of men.” She glanced at Catherine, then back towards the arriving cars and vans. “Be careful, some are in a foul mood. They left a lot of wounded behind, stretcher cases we couldn’t fit in the vans.”

As more stretchers came past, followed by walking wounded, Catherine began to get an idea of the numbers. If a similar number had been killed, the Barbarians had been badly hurt, maybe shattered. Some of the unwounded men escorting the casualties, making sure their friends made it, scowled at her. Others smiled and raised a hand to greet her, but they were all too preoccupied with the wounded to talk to her. Sylvester arrived, escorting a convoy of hospital vans with big red crosses. As Catherine headed towards him, Garth arrived with several cars full of uninjured men.

* * *

Another van screeched to a halt, cutting off Catherine. Boris climbed out, spattered in blood and with one arm in a sling. He headed for the hospital, but spotted Catherine and swerved towards her.

“This is all your fault.” Boris came to a sudden halt as he realised how she was dressed, then scowled. He pulled out his knife as he started forward again. “Who the fuck said you could have clothes?”

For a moment Catherine was shocked, then sheer rage swept through her. She’d been through all that shit, then by some miracle lived through the challenge. Now this arsehole expected her to ask if she wanted clothes? Her hand plucked the little pistol from her sling and, as Boris’s knife came clear, she shot him.

Catherine aimed at his gut because she’d no idea if it would kick, or how accurate she’d be. She saw the splash of blood, but Boris kept coming so she pulled the trigger again. Then again and again because he was still coming—the fourth time was the charm. Boris had hesitated as each shot struck, slowed momentarily, but now he stopped dead. His scowl was replaced by an expression of sheer agony.

Boris had felt the bullets hit but figured his vest would stop them. She was using one of those little things nobody wanted, a pussy gun, not a man-stopper. Enough was enough, he’d gut her, then they’d sort out a proper boss. When the pain started it caught him by surprise, then it quickly spread until his gut was on fire so he looked down. When he saw the red patches, Boris realised his vest hadn’t stopped them because it was half open, hung around the shoulder with the sling—just like Bitch’s jacket.

Boris began to double over, still struggling to understand what was happening. He never saw Bitch take a step, or her boot until it hit him in the face.

Catherine’s training with Garth and Sylvester had taken over. Boris was too far away for a knee, but she was wearing boots now, so Catherine took a long step then swung the other leg forward and up. It hit like a hammer, jarring her, but Boris went over backwards and slammed into the floor—then stayed there.

Hands went towards weapons, but the smoking muzzle was still pointed their way. “Nobody tells me how to dress. Nobody lays a hand on me without my say-so. Now instead of arguing about my knickers, how about we get the wounded into the hospital?”

* * *

Some of the men still had hands on their weapons, but then figures moved up alongside Catherine and a man laughed. “We like Bitch’s knickers, and sense of humour, so maybe you boys had better be real careful what you say next.” Now there were four pistols and a crossbow, then a single-barrelled shotgun, but the small crowd of Boris’s men weren’t willing to let it drop.

One man pushed to the front, a hand on his knife. “You killed Boris without a challenge, just shot him down. Well fuck it, I challenge you. Boris was one-handed so you can fight the same way.”

There was only one way Catherine answered threats, and this time she had a weapon. “Get in line. If I get as far as you I’ll be well warmed up.”

“You can back the fuck off.” Garth crowded in, pulling the man back. “Warband leaders get first challenge, and you aren’t.”

“Boris is dead, so I claim it. So I challenge.” He almost pushed back, but Garth was a big man who’d got his position by being good with a knife.

“You might find others who want to challenge you for that.” Garth sneered at him. “That’s if Bitch bothers to rebuild Boris’s warband. She might just roll what’s left into one of the others, to make up the numbers.” Shock spread across the man’s face, and others nearby. “Yes, you stupid twats, we’ve lost maybe two warbands. Now you want to kill some more, start another bloody fight? Boris pulled a knife on Bitch. What would Conan have done?”

The answers ranged from shot him to put him on a cross, then a loud voice cut in. “I’d have shot him if he came at me like that, so how about we do what Bitch said and get the wounded into the bloody hospital?” Python looked at Catherine, then nodded to her bodyguard. “You fuckers should have shot the twat first instead of watching her arse. It’s your job.” With that he turned towards his men, telling them to get the bloody wounded out of the cars.

“Sorry boss. If you let me have the pistol, I’ll reload it.” The man sounded genuinely sorry. When Catherine turned he looked embarrassed.

She passed him the pistol. “No harm done, not this time.” He nodded, relieved, putting in a new clip then cocking the weapon before handing it back. Catherine tucked it away and looked around, wondering what the hell she was supposed to do next, but then realised she was doing it. Some of the wounded men definitely smiled when they saw her, while a larger group who were unharmed were watching her, smiling and joking among themselves. Walking wounded swerved to come past, nodding or calling out hello. When Catherine smiled at them, or asked if they’d be okay, they seemed happier.

She moved to the hospital entrance. As a steady stream of injured Barbarians came past, Catherine laughed at the requests for personal nursing from walking wounded, or patted stretcher cases on the shoulder, telling them they’d be all right now. Eventually the last Barbarian went into the hospital or headed off towards their main enclave and quarters.

* * *

Catherine hadn’t realised until then, but Sylvester had been waiting. He’d been doing some serious thinking on the way back, then some rethinking after seeing her chop Boris. “Could I have a word in private please, boss?”

“Back home.” She’d be private there, and better protected. Catherine climbed into her pickup, while Sylvester headed for his van.

When he tried to follow her into the house, a guard stopped him. “Leave your gun, machete, and your jacket out here.” All the guards were sharper now—they weren’t being caught out again.

“Not the knife?” That puzzled Sylvester because Catherine couldn’t stop a man with a knife, not in her present condition. The smiles from the guards were even more puzzling.

“If you feel lucky, go for it.” The man opened the door. “He’s here, boss.”

Sylvester found Catherine sat at the other side of a low table. He paused when he saw there were two other women in here—one with a scabbed and swollen lip, the other with a black eye and a big bruise on her cheek. The pair were bodyguards, armed with small-calibre pistols and machetes, and were wearing a small, plain version of the silk thing hung down the front of their jeans. Both wore tees, and plated jackets even if they were open at the moment. That had been quick work—then Sylvester realised every woman in the enclave would have volunteered to help make them.

Catherine glanced back at them for a moment, smiling. “These two weren’t happy in the brothel. They would really, really like to kill a man, but they’ve promised to hold off unless he threatens me, or either of them.” Her smile widened. “Their bullets have crosses cut in them, which seemed to work on Boris.”

Sylvester nodded cautiously to the women, but neither nodded back. When Catherine bargained to free twenty-five women from the brothel, she’d been trying to save the suicidal women, and the ones like these. They were both good-looking but neither was broken or scarred—Conan wanted to be the one who beat them into submission. All that had saved them was Catherine refusing to be ‘tamed.’ That meant they were still defiant, fighting back, when Catherine handed them guns. Sylvester was pleased he’d never visited the brothel.

“Conan wouldn’t let anyone use the small calibre pistols, said they weren’t real guns, but they’ll do the job. Buy jacketed bullets from Dealer, then they’ll go through plated jackets.” Sylvester paused, but nobody answered. “Good idea having bodyguards, but I’d hoped for private.” Neither woman moved. “Up to you, but it’s not the sort of thing that should be public.”

“If I blab, I promise to kill him straight afterwards.” That could have been deadpan humour, but the look in her eyes meant black-eye wasn’t joking.

“In that case.” Sylvester took a breath, because this might not go down well. “Catherine, I’ve found you a man, two actually.” He saw the anger in her eyes so he pushed on, quickly. “They’ll never touch you, but never tell anyone.”

“Go on.” All three women were on edge. The idea was to get clear of men, any man.

“Those guards out there expect you to choose a man sooner or later, hopefully one of them. If you don’t choose it’ll cause trouble, but you need trained guards until these women learn how to use weapons.” Sylvester paused until Catherine nodded, reluctantly.

“Yeah, I already worked that out.”

Sylvester nodded. “The two men I have in mind aren’t interested in you, or any woman. They’re a gay couple, very privately because the Barbarians aren’t exactly liberal. I trust them because they know if I tell the right people, they’ll be dead, and it will be nasty. They sleep in the barracks, so the rest of the Barbarians will think they’ve been eyeing them up, perving.” Sylvester stopped and waited.

He’d used these men to watch his back now and then, especially when he was doing things he’d rather Conan didn’t hear about. The pair of them spent their lives worrying about making one tiny mistake, so he thought they’d jump at a chance like this, if Bitch went for it.

“How would that work without them getting into my bedroom, let alone bed.” Catherine was past her first, automatic rejection. She knew her guards were all hoping to screw her, a status thing, but hadn’t found a solution she was willing to accept. She certainly hadn’t expected Sylvester to come up with an answer.

Sylvester looked upwards, towards the bedrooms. “Conan wanted somewhere big and flashy, so this house has four bedrooms. Two bedrooms can be used for bodyguards like these two. I’m assuming more than two of the women want a chance to kill a man?”

The short nod didn’t want diversions. “Five, but that could go up or down once they’ve all had time to think. Go on.”

“You take two bedrooms, each with a double bed. One for you and a stud, the other is for the spare, but these two men will be very happy if both are sleeping in one bed. They’ll make sure everyone knows you need two blokes to keep you happy, and they will be every bit as keen as these two to make sure you stay alive.” Sylvester nodded gently when he saw the narrowed eyes above the split lips. “Maybe not quite as keen, but they’ll die if the truth comes out.”

Catherine nodded as well, slowly, thinking hard. “No hand-holding or grabbing my ass.”

“You are Bitch, so if there’s any ass-grabbing you’ll be doing it. If you do they’ll smile and hope you don’t mean it.” He didn’t actually smile, but Sylvester relaxed as a real smile twitched Catherine’s lips. “Hell of a look, by the way. Are you putting the guards outside in skirts as well?”

“Breechclout is the proper name, we think. North American, think cowboy films. These two will wear a feather on a headband, and carry a shotgun on a sling. So will the other three once their plated jackets are finished.” Catherine thought Sylvester’s suggestion through again. It gave him a lever, information that could cause her trouble, but she could always shoot him if he tried to pressure her. “Okay on the men. Now how many of the other warband leaders will try to kill me?”

* * *

Intelligence, or assessing opponents and their possible reactions, was right in Sylvester’s comfort zone. “I’ve spent most of the trip back trying to work that out. Python could have been real trouble, but he fell into line after you shot Boris. Maybe because you shot Boris, either self-preservation or because he was going to end up fighting Boris sooner rather than later. Garth is relieved Conan is dead, and that his warband got off almost untouched. He’s got the strongest warband right now, until the survivors are redistributed. Ivan will be in the hospital for a while. Not sure about Khan, but he’s considered the new boy so he’s being very careful not to make waves.”

“Cool Hand?” Catherine paused, but carried on before Sylvester could answer. “What happens to Boris’s warband now he’s dead? Whoever gets the job will come after me.” She tried to remember exactly what Garth had said. “Garth reckoned the warband might be broken up.”

“Cool Hand is dead—his warband was really chewed up so there’s only a handful of the survivors that are fighting fit. The walking wounded can be used to fill vacancies in the other warbands.” Sylvester had been worried about Boris’s men. Catherine was right about whoever got the warband, but now she’d just suggested the answer. “Right now, Khan, Ivan and Python need replacements for their dead. Providing you get Garth and Khan onside, nobody will stop you splitting Boris’s band up. It might not have been planned, but killing Boris was a good move. The rest will be a bit more careful in future, but they won’t blame you for the defeat. Boris did, for the wrong reasons but technically it really is your fault.”

“I wish, but I can’t see why?” All three women smiled at that.

He’d spent some time analysing the defeat, so Sylvester had some answers. “The men were in the wrong mood for a fight. They’d had a day to get used to the idea Conan was dead, but were still wondering what the hell happened next. The leaders had agreed on a boss, you, but Boris and Cool Hand weren’t even pretending it was real. Then they had to bribe you to stand out there and act like you really were the boss, to get the blokes in the right mood and concentrating on the fight.”

Putting this into words was harder than Sylvester expected—Conan hadn’t expected motivations or analysis of morale. “You killing Conan was a real shock. The men thought of him as immortal, unbeatable, and that made them realise they could die just as easily. Even if they saw how it happened, they can’t help but think anyone who killed him has to be just as dangerous.” Sylvester waved a hand, dismissing the psychology, then slowly lowered it because split-lip’s pistol had twitched.

He waited a moment, then kept very still as he continued. “In the end it was the delay while we negotiated with you, organised the send-off, that did the real damage. There were three nuns and a vicar in the zoo, only one of them wasn’t a real nun. They’ve been running just ahead of the Barbarians, reporting to me until just before an attack, then moving to the next target. The real nuns knew if they didn’t keep spying, Conan and the likes of Boris would have a party with a dozen of these nuns. They wouldn’t have after the sister’s agreement over healing, but these three haven’t seen the rest for over a year.”

“Pity you couldn’t have let that slip.” There was an edge in Catherine’s voice, while her guards leant forward a little, ready.

“I didn’t fancy a personal cross.” Sylvester could see Catherine didn’t believe him so he pushed on, hoping to distract her from trying to work out the real reason, or just having him shot. “The nuns drugged the zoo’s ready squad, then the guards along one border, the one where most of the machine guns were kept. The gang opposite, the O’Sullivans, were part of our attack. Their spotters saw the signal that the guards were drugged, but the Barbarians were only just starting to arrive.”

Sylvester paused as Bitch nodded gently, but she was just telling him she understood so he kept going. “There was a delay while we explained about Conan, then while the warbands got into position. That was enough for someone over there to realise what was happening, but not enough to stop about six hundred men getting over the border, deep into the enclave. The most significant difference was firepower—the Barbarians didn’t capture any automatics. The machine guns on the border were missing or empty, while the two with the ready squad were in the zoo buildings, waiting and alert.”

“They stopped six hundred men with two machine guns?” Catherine wasn’t a military expert but couldn’t believe it, not at night when the attackers were past any proper defences.

Sylvester settled down to explain what happened, noting the narrowed eyes and pinched lips when he talked about Barbarians splitting up to loot. All three women looked happier when he emphasised that if Conan had been there, he’d have pulled them into line, another reason the defeat was down to Catherine. Catherine’s bodyguards were still on edge, so Sylvester concentrated on keeping his voice calm and his hands still, even when emphasising a point.

Eventually he sat back, very slowly, trying to see if Catherine had been diverted, if she’d forgotten her suspicions about the nuns. He still had one last confession, another diversion, but one that could mean real trouble for him, personally. Catherine shouldn’t be too upset about dead Barbarians, but he couldn’t be sure because they were now her Barbarians. “The Barbarians still had the numbers, but the zoo’s neighbours attacked from the flanks. That could be blamed on me.”

Sylvester waited, wondering which way she’d jump, but Catherine took the bait. “How was it your fault?” That idea had also taken the edge off her voice so her guards relaxed, but not much. Sylvester didn’t think either would relax properly near a man for years, if ever.

“I didn’t know the zoo had given their neighbours machine guns—they’d kept it very quiet. That was very trusting of them, but it meant the neighbours caught the Barbarians after they’d split up, hit them from both sides. They carved up Ivan’s, Boris’s and Cool Hand’s warbands, and the O’Sullivans, before they could react. The Barbarians still might have won if the neighbours only had their usual weapons, but the machine guns buggered the whole master plan.” Catherine wouldn’t mind the humour so he smiled. “I honestly didn’t think they’d dare interfere, and without automatics I doubt they would have.”

Sylvester almost reached into his pocket, then remembered that twitch so he looked up at split-lip. “I’m just getting a radio, right?” She nodded, barely, so Sylvester took it out, placing it on the table in front of Catherine. “This was Boris’s. They can’t be picked up by the usual radios, or the police ones.”

Catherine leant forward to pick it up, weighing it in her hand. “Handy. Go on.”

“Ivan called for help, said it was a trap, Cool Hand stopped answering, Khan had run into a strongpoint and Garth said he was being pincered. Python agreed with Ivan, it was a trap, then each warband made their own decision. It was a complete shambles, which meant some men panicked. When they ran, the panic spread until the leaders had to run as fast as the rest or be caught and killed. That’s a point. If someone tries rallying people around Boris’s name, point out he left wounded Barbarians to be killed.” Sylvester sat back, very slowly, while Catherine thought.

“Is that true?” She might be willing to believe Sylvester when it was stone cold facts, but that fitted in much too nicely.

“Near enough.” Sylvester almost shrugged—he hoped these guards eased off before he got himself killed by moving at the wrong time. “They all left wounded behind in the zoo. Once he reached the O’Sullivans, Boris was shouting, chivvying the fighters into cars to leave. The leaders didn’t have to do what he said, but their men were all mixed up. He definitely told some of the men to leave the badly wounded, stretcher cases that wouldn’t fit in cars, that they’d come back once they’d got more ammo. Total bullshit with all those machine guns chasing them.”

“I thought you said Garth had the strongest warband? Didn’t he say anything?” That was split-lip—Sylvester took note that the guards didn’t hesitate before chipping in, so they were probably advisors as well.

Catherine had a more immediate worry. “Am I supposed to send help?”

Sylvester shook his head. “All those machine guns will have trampled the O’Sullivans, so the wounded are prisoners or dead. I’m not counting on any of them being prisoners. Even if they were, nobody in their right mind wants to attack machine gunners who are wide awake.” A quick glance confirmed that, as expected, Catherine looked relieved. “Garth was sent to attack the other half of the zoo. He came straight back, never went near the O’Sullivans’ main compound or the wounded.”

“If the zoo ran over the O’Sullivans, will they be coming here?” Catherine thought four enclaves would have enough fighters—they wouldn’t need equal numbers with that sort of firepower. The Barbarians might still have the numbers, but a hell of a lot of the survivors were in the hospital or walking wounded. Catherine didn’t mind the Barbarians getting hurt, or wiped out, but she didn’t fancy being put on some other gang leader’s chain. Now she was the boss, anyone who took this place would want to show everyone he’d tamed the Barbarian Bitch.

Sylvester’s voice cut into Catherine’s thoughts. “No, there aren’t enough, not even the four gangs combined. The Zookeepers were badly hurt, they lost a lot of fighters when their lines broke, and the Toppers hadn’t more than fifty fighters to start with.”

Sylvester thought of the retreat, trying to estimate numbers. At least the Barbarians had retreated with their weapons; most of them hadn’t broken and panicked. Some had even picked up firearms from bodies or the wounded, for themselves but that also deprived the zoo of them. “There’s still over three hundred men here, maybe four with all the wounded. Garth’s warband is still solid. Khan’s weren’t hit by automatics, so they’ve got more men and less wounded than the others. He’s the newest warband leader, so they aren’t as well-armed.”

“How soon will we know one way or the other?” Catherine held Sylvester’s eyes, trying to look calm and confident. “I’ll get everyone on reloading firearms—just in case. Have we got reserves, ammo and spare firearms that can be passed out? We can take the decent weapons from the badly wounded, give them to Khan’s men?”

Sylvester nodded. That made sense and would remind the Barbarians someone was in charge, steady some of them. “The border guards should give us some warning. There’s spare ammo, and propellant so reloading empty brass is a good idea, then there’s more small calibre stuff in the armoury. Nobody wanted them, didn’t think they’d be any good, but the men will believe in them after seeing Boris drop.”

The wounded would have kept their weapons, which gave Sylvester an idea to boost Catherine’s backing. “Khan’s men will appreciate better weapons, especially firearms of any sort. Send men to collect from the wounded, but issue them personally so you get the credit. We can also pull some guns from the guards on the pacified enclaves. I’ll pass the instruction as soon as I leave. There’ll be time because there’s an enclave between us and the zoo. Following us through there will take negotiation and payment.”

Catherine scowled at the last part. “Are you sure? Whoever they are, they didn’t stop the Barbarians.”

Most of the gang knew their neighbours—now Sylvester realised Catherine wouldn’t have a clue. “Even Conan paid for passage through the Deff Leppardz. They’re not ambitious, but they’re well-armed with solid defences.”

Sylvester hoped the Deff Leppardz really weren’t ambitious, because Conan had been the reason a lot of nearby enclaves wouldn’t do anything to annoy the Barbarians. He had to get out there, remind them there were still a lot of Barbarian fighters, and point out Bitch killed Conan one-on-one and then chopped Boris. He’d warn them she might be even worse if she was crossed.

Strangely enough, the Barbarian fighters would help. The challenge was already being rewritten in their heads, with emphasis on Bitch making jokes beforehand, strutting down the road stark naked. She’d made Conan strip to his underpants, mocking him, sucking him in then when he left an opening, she made the killing throw. The sucking him in part came from comments by Ivan and other experienced fighters, about how Conan hadn’t taken Bitch seriously enough. Garth’s shooting was downplayed, while any description of Bitch stressed starkers except for a gunbelt, spitting on the body, which sounded as if she was a complete nutter.

* * *

Bitch’s voice broke into Sylvester’s plotting. “So now what happens? I’ll step down when the time is right, but there’ll be some guarantees. I’ll sure as hell have weapons, including a couple of guns.” Catherine glanced up and back at black-eye. “So will my personal guards, male or female.”

“Providing you agree to step down before you are actually fit to fight, with a few fighters so you can guard the hospital enclave, the warband leaders will wait. The Barbarians need time to heal, to come to terms with being beaten, so if you agree not to rock the boat too much you can maybe make a few improvements.” Sylvester thought Catherine seemed calmer now, so he gave her a way to save more women. “I thought you could offer to swap volunteers for some of the women in the brothels.”

She looked baffled, glancing back towards her guards. “Volunteers? Aren’t all the candidates in there already?”

Sylvester didn’t get time to answer—split-lip beat him to it. “No. Conan didn’t ask. He just chose based on his own opinion. I think the arse liked to break up families, pick out virgins and that sort of shit. There were three in our enclave I know were on the game, but he sent them to work gangs after the first night’s celebrations.”

He’d find out the guards’ names eventually, but Sylvester wasn’t asking right now, or even looking at them too openly. Instead he nodded. “The volunteers might not be as attractive, but if they don’t mind the sex most of the men won’t care. It’s a relatively easy life for someone who is willing. Plenty of food, good plumbing and baths, new clothes, and they’re safe from someone just grabbing them off the street. There will be a few volunteers in every enclave the Barbarians run, providing you can guarantee their conditions.”

Nobody answered, but now Sylvester was looking at Bitch again, at the whole look. “The smart ones will dress like you but with less clothes, or see-through, and a lot of the blokes will lap it up. That’s the difference with voluntary.”

“There’s women in the brothel have settled for that, somewhere they’re safe from the nastier bastards. The other blokes don’t like anyone messing with the ones who are willing, or don’t give trouble and dress up a bit. The nasty bastards sometimes rape women in the enclaves, another reason to stay safe in the brothel.” From her voice, and face, black-eye might understand but Sylvester hadn’t convinced her.

“I’ll give it serious thought, instead of my plan B. That was a bus with as many women and guns as I could cram inside, then run for the hills.” Catherine sighed, looking down. “I get to cover up if I want, right? These for starters, it’s bloody cold sometimes.” She gestured towards her chest. “I’ve already got two sleeveless tees that fasten up the side, but I dressed like this to say hello to the men. I’ll be wearing thicker blouses sometimes and jeans, maybe shorts, under this thing.”

“I’d advise keeping any clothes tight, but try what you feel will work, a skirt if you want. Between killing Boris and what your guards said, everyone should have realised it’s a bad idea to object.” Sylvester was still waiting for the explosion, but it wasn’t happening. “You seem very calm.”

“I’m lucky to be alive, on my own two feet instead of on my knees in the street, so every hour is a gift. I want enough power to keep it like that, with a chance to help more women, but I would refuse to be the boss Barbarian even if you offered. I’ve realised what I might do in the right circumstances, and I’d rather not go down that road.” Catherine shrugged, though her smile was forced. “I slipped for a moment with Boris, but I didn’t shoot anyone else so maybe the drugs are helping. Now how do I find these two hot men, on Tinder or what?”

Maybe drugs really were helping, because Sylvester had seen the pure rage that flashed in her eyes when she shot Boris. There’d been a hint now and then while they’d been talking, enough for Sylvester to be sure he didn’t want to meet that Catherine. “There’ll be more volunteer guards, so sometime in the next week you can announce you’re horny and grab one. Then after a couple of days, point out one isn’t enough for a real bitch and grab the other, entirely unconnected.” He held his breath as she thought about it, then nodded.

“Now you’d better go before someone thinks I’ve started with you.” Catherine stood as Sylvester did, holding out her left hand. “Thanks. Especially for the hint about maybe freeing women in other enclaves. I got both my sisters. How often did you meet Conan?”

“As often as needed, so if I think it’s needed, or you do?” Sylvester nearly left, but he’d just had what might be a brainwave. “Can I announce you’re splitting Cool Hand’s and Boris’s warbands to reinforce the rest, but they’re not to sort it out themselves? Tell them you’ll decide who goes where?” The suspicion was back, from Catherine and the guards—Sylvester wondered if it would ever go away. “If I let Garth and Khan know they’ll get a say, so they aren’t given troublemakers, they’ll back you. Then if you let me advise, you can split up the troublemakers. Just give me a day to work out who they are?”

When Catherine agreed, as long as she had a list of troublemakers, Sylvester nodded goodbye to the two guards and left. Now all he had to do was talk two gays into pretending to be a woman’s sex toys, then persuade four strong, independent warband leaders to let her apparently boss them about. He’d often thought life would be easier if he could trade Conan in for someone else. The Gods, or imps, or someone, were having a bloody good laugh at him about now.

Chapter 5
Options

Lost Lambs:

A small group of people in the north of Italy didn’t even know it was the first of April, though if they had, a couple of them might have tried to play a prank. One of them pointed to a road sign. “Venice? Fancy a gondola ride, Zrina, Branka?” Tez, the scruffy figure with a big rifle, smiled as the two young women among the six heavily armed men frowned, puzzled. “Gondolas are very romantic, ask hubby for a translation.”

Each young woman turned to the soldier who was now their husband. The marriages had been conducted by a village headman, so they were informal by British standards, but the women were definitely willing and considered them legal and binding. After a winter where they’d got to know the women socially, followed by a few weeks on the road as couples, the men were just as keen. The soldiers were now more than willing to tidy up the paperwork for the Army when they got back. Meanwhile a torrent of Croat mixed with English, from all four, settled on what a gondola was. Both women laughed when the romantic part was explained.

Branka turned to the first speaker. “Take one on donkey, Tez, for crossing to England. Two gon-do-la, you do not want to see romantic.”

The soldier, an SAS marksman, covered his eyes. They were all in a good mood because the sun was shining and they were on a decent road, well clear of any mountains. The corporal at the front, Stones, was smiling as well, at the thought of getting home.

Seven hundred miles was still a good hike, even on decent roads, but it was definitely doable. The two new ‘recruits’ had spent their lives in the mountains, tearing a living from the thin soil or herding goats, so they were perfectly capable of keeping up with soldiers even with a pack. The group might have to sneak through some back roads or cross-country, but they should be home for summer.

Behind Stones the two women carried on joking with Tez, but they’d stop once the lookouts switched and it was their turn. Four and four, they were taking turns, then nobody got bored or careless, missed something vital. Stones debated diverting towards Venice, but the survivors they’d found so far congregated in towns. Survivors would be suspicious of strangers—they might try to take the women or weapons.

The group didn’t need anything from a town—they were self-sufficient. Open country like this tended to be clear of survivors. That meant the wildlife and occasional abandoned domestic stock wasn’t wary, so traps or Tez’s bow filled the stewpot. Not just stew or spit-roast, not since the women had joined them. Some self-seeded veg had survived rampant weeds, which kept their diet healthy, while occasionally scavenged spices allowed Branka and Zrina to get creative.

The group slowed as a figure appeared from the hedgerow, signalling there were buildings ahead but nobody in sight. Stones beckoned the rest forward. “Everyone move up towards Dobbin, very slowly until we see buildings, then take cover. Tez, rest that rifle on a pack, you’re overwatch. I’ll spot, and back you up.” Stones was marksman class shooter himself, but not as good as Tez even when their designated shooter was hampered by a wounded arm.

A few minutes later, they could all see the roofs of a small hamlet. “I’m sending Dobbin forward to look for signs of life.” The corporal pointed as he spoke, to make sure the two new recruits understood. “Chips, forward, right side of the road, covering fire for Dobbin if he gets in trouble. Fakit, rear-guard, Branka right lookout, Zrina, left. Static, head out to the left, along the ditch. Find good cover where you’ve got an angle on the buildings in case there’s opposition.” Stones signalled the man ahead, Dobbin, to check for inhabitants.

The group shed packs, moving into position quickly and smoothly—the two women were already used to their jobs as lookouts. Neither had ever used a rifle, though both had pistols and knives if it got to close quarters. Branka took the donkey with her, securing it in the cover of an overgrown hedge. As the minutes crept by, nobody moved, everyone looking for any signs of life. The buildings looked deserted, but until Dobbin was close enough that wasn’t a sure thing.

Eventually Dobbin appeared, stepping onto the road to signal ‘all clear’ before disappearing among the buildings again.

“All clear, move up.” Stones stood, waiting for the rest to form up. He signalled for Static to stay wide until he was level with the hamlet, just in case.

The first few times this had happened, the two young women had commented about the time taken, but now they understood. Eight reaching England slowly was better than seven, or five, getting there a little quicker.

As the group split to search the buildings for anything useful, Stones reassessed their probable progress. There’d be more hamlets and towns now they were travelling through Italy and France, so maybe it would be early autumn before he got across the channel. Not a problem—that would still be in time for little Ed’s ninth birthday.

The inspection proved this was a good place to stay overnight, even if there was at least an hour of daylight left. He’d push scouts forward after dark, then if the road was clear they’d start off a couple of hours before dawn. Stones smiled at the sound of laughter, something else that was due to the women. There’d been precious little laughter during the long years of marching and fighting their way home from Kuwait.

* * *

40 Commando:

As the clocks moved past midnight, April the second would be a quieter day for most, although one Army officer expected storms. The first move by the authorities had been predictable. Orders were issued restricting the aircrew and all the soldiers involved with the arena mission to their barracks. The instructions wanted complete isolation, but the men had to eat with the rest of the battalion, so the news had spread.

Lieutenant Colonel Wheatley had thought there’d be an attempt at a cover-up, but expected a delay, a chance to look at the evidence his men had gathered. He’d had less than twenty-four hours—the collection was still being sorted and categorised. There would be a wealth of information on the various electronic media and heaps of paperwork, but he would never get to see it.

There was one piece of evidence nobody would get—the only people who even knew it existed were Wheatley and two trusted friends. After listening to a couple of wounded, medicated prisoners, the three men made a very unofficial late-night trip to a certain farm. The abandoned electric vehicles proved this was where Soldier Boy’s people had been captured, but there’d only been one stripped body on the manure heap. A grave at the back of the buildings gave up two more bodies, both riddled with bullets before they were headshot.

The surveillance clip showing Orchard Close’s salute when they’d burned their dead had spread through most of the armed forces. Despite several prisoners being certain Soldier Boy and Killer Queen had been killed, none of the three bodies matched the close-up on the surveillance. The lieutenant colonel decided that if the two had survived, they’d have a better chance of getting clean away if nobody was looking for them. He brought the two bodies back and buried them in a graveyard—but without markers.

He’d underestimated government paranoia about the rest of the evidence. By nine a.m. lorries were loading all the ‘military’ prisoners, including the wounded and the group of civilians who were regular arena fighters. The dead had already been taken away, including the civilians from the arena. They’d been brought back for a proper funeral, but someone didn’t want the bodies available for identification. The investigators insisted on the lieutenant colonel accompanying them around the barracks as they collected everything—weapons, paperwork, pictures, laptops, every scrap.

The investigators didn’t make any attempt to tag the evidence, or sort it, which led the officer to suspect the lot was heading for an incinerator. He hoped his men had managed to keep some back, enough to work out which senior officer or member of the government was responsible for the cover-up. The dead woman might have been running the arena operation, illegal fights to the death, but someone higher up must have covered for her. The Specials were definitely involved, but no regular Army personnel would ever be allowed to question them.

At least there’d be some information from the rescued civilian women. The investigators wanted to take them, but the commando medics swore every single one was too badly injured to risk movement. The young women had no objections to donning bloody bandages and faking agony or unconsciousness. The first investigator to question an injury had been subjected to a wonderful display of outrage that an amateur was questioning the medical opinion of a qualified doctor.

That memory was worth a smile as the lieutenant colonel worked on how to discharge the women without the government immediately arresting them. The only way he could come up with was for them all to marry soldiers. He could find men who could be trusted, to keep the ‘marriages’ platonic until things improved to where they could be annulled. He wasn’t as sure the women would trust his men enough to go along.

* * *

Hope Valley:

If the lieutenant colonel’s unofficial trip had strayed north to the Hope Valley no-fly zone, he might have seen Specials guarding groups of otherwise innocuous rocks. He would have been puzzled and curious if he’d seen the three guards around one jumble of rocks collapse. A group of men dressed to blend in with the darkness quickly checked the three Specials, moving them into recovery position. One retrieved the darts before injecting each of the unconscious men. “Two hours, tops.”

The others didn’t answer, just checked watches. “Rope.” Once the rope was fastened securely around a large boulder, the six men slid down and out of sight.

Down in the cleft, one of the men unfolded what looked like an umbrella without a handle, wedging it across the natural tunnel leading away from the bottom of their access hole. “Try it.” One of the five soldiers on the other side, inside the tunnel, turned on a small flashlight. The one outside checked the amount of light showing before adjusting one edge. “Near enough, sarge.”

Turning away, he climbed back up the rope, checking all around before coming out of the hole. Back at ground level he put on his ghillie suit, moving away from the rocks before wriggling down into the rough grass and bracken. Once he stopped moving, the soldier and his suppressed weapon more or less disappeared.

* * *

Inside the tunnel the leading soldier, a sergeant, flashed the light on and off twice. “Hello there, anyone listening? We are British Army, here to talk. We don’t want to kill anyone. Please answer.” There was no reply so he started moving forward, followed at intervals by the rest. For a while, nothing happened except the leader pausing now and then to repeat the greeting. When he stopped, he made a clear hand signal warning the men behind to stay back.

He flashed the light again, speaking louder this time. “We can see you’ve wired this tunnel. We are not the people who attacked you, though we would really like to speak to you about that.” Silence answered, so he moved aside for another man to come forward to carefully disengage the trip wires.

“Grenades, British Army issue.”

“Leave them there. We’ll put them back on the way out—a Special present.” There was a hint of humour behind the words. These men had seen too much of the Specials, but weren’t allowed to talk about it.

* * *

Using a map of the caverns and passages below the hillsides, the group moved on down the tunnels large enough for a person. Hammer and chisel marks showed where some sections had been improved. The next tripwire was very obvious, blocking the route just before a choice of two viable routes, but the leader made no attempt to disarm it.

When he repeated his previous message, this time there was an answer. “What did you want to say?”

“Would you like to get out of here, however many of you there are? We’ll get you away to somewhere safe, where you can talk to British Army officers. We’ve only got ninety minutes, then the guardians back there will wake up.”

“Cut their throats, job sorted.” From the voice, he wanted to do the cutting.

Personally, the sergeant agreed, but that wasn’t the mission. “Not our job this time. The idea is they wake up before their relief arrives, so nobody knows you got away. Who are you?”

“We’re Soldier Boy’s Riot Squad, what’s left of them. How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

That answer was perfect, solid gold as far as the mission objectives were concerned. “I’ll show my ID, and won’t ask you to give up any weapons. I’m Sergeant… no, I’m Ron, and I’ve seen a little too much of what the Specials get up to. This time we’re hoping to catch them red-handed, something solid. Proof that the officers as well as the men have been breaking laws.” The soldier almost held his breath, hoping he’d read this man right, that the chance for revenge would overcome caution.

A female voice cut in. “Have you got Bluetooth?”

“Yes, why?”

“Accept whatever you get offered, then take a look.”

That was a spectacularly bad idea, even turning on the phone was, but the whole mission was black and past risky. “It’s on. What is it?”

“Pictures. Watch, there’s twelve.”

The sergeant signalled for one of the others to collect the photos as well, but was puzzled at first by a room, then generators and heavy machinery. The heap of personal effects triggered his first feeling of alarm, but by the time he had the last picture, three blackened skulls in ashes, he wanted to be sick. He’d seen war, and bodies, but those personal effects had included children’s toys, wheelchairs and Zimmer frames. “Belsen.”

“Hope Valley cement works. We blew the shit out of it and tried to burn it, but the ash and bones are still there. Good enough?” There was a definite challenge in her voice, but the sergeant could hear how nervous she was. One wrong word and this one might open fire.

“Better still with the actual witnesses. I swear to you, here and now, even if the brass keep this all hush I’ll make sure others see these. The rest of my unit at least.” He looked at that last picture again—one of those skulls was much smaller. “Where are the cement works staff?” Sergeant Ron was too good a soldier to go off-mission to top the bastards, but just for a moment he was tempted, and if they were on the way home?

Enough of that showed in his voice for Tish to recognise. “Nobody there, but the collection depot is at Chapel-en-le-Frith. A drone would find it, easily.”

So why haven’t you, the voice was asking. “This is a no-go, no-fly area, a training ground for contractors, but I’m sure there’ll be interested eyes looking now.” The sergeant paused, because this was what he needed, solid proof the Specials were breaking the law.

The crime was worse than anything mentioned in the mission briefing, so the brass hadn’t expected evidence of cold-blooded extermination, a massive war crime being perpetrated in the English countryside. He should take the pictures and leave, but Sergeant Ron would rather get the people as well. “I’m sending a man back with the pictures, so if this all goes to hell someone will get out. Now what will it take to persuade you to come as well?”

* * *

Persuasion took a little while, but eventually the sergeant carefully made the traps safe before going forward, unarmed. While he’d been speaking there’d been more of the tunnel rats arriving and departing. Now he found four, two wearing bandages. One, the man who’d been negotiating, introduced himself as Wade.

He was sure of the answer, but Sergeant Ron asked. “This is all of you?”

“No. You don’t get to find out how many, or any of their names. Two people are coming with you, with three other refugees.” This man, wearing a balaclava, reached back. “No funny moves, they’re just cats and a rabbit.” One at a time he brought two cat carriers and a larger one forward, naming the occupants. “Grimalkin, Sandy and this is Rocket Man. Grimalkin belongs to Soldier Boy’s sister, Sharyn. Rocket Man is the great-grandaddy of at least half the white rabbits in the enclaves near Orchard Close.”

Wellington, the man under the balaclava, was hoping Harold and the rest got home. If so, the animals would tell them someone got out of the caves.

The sergeant thought fast. Even if the brass wouldn’t go for it, he would get the animals out of here. If he could get the okay, delivering them wouldn’t be difficult. “Okay, but no note.” He almost asked if the recipients would recognise them, then saw the names written on the carriers. “I’ll take two of them to my men, then come back for the last one unless you two bring it?”

“I can’t, but he might have a spare hand.” The young woman held up a familiar metal ball. “Just in case you’re trying to take us alive. No pin, so if you’re recruiting for a brothel, hard luck. I’m Tish. I’d shake hands, but…”

“Later, maybe. Pleased to meet you, Tish.” The sergeant put the comment with her age, and the fact that under the grime she was a pretty lass. He made a private vow—if the brass kept this quiet, then this time it really was up to the sergeants to organise the Army. Maybe he’d deal with the animals ‘off the books.’ Something to think about on the way home. “We’d better hurry.” He saw Tish glance at the disconnected wires. “Don’t worry, someone will put that back—and the other one.” This time there wasn’t any humour in his voice.

* * *

Soldier Boy:

Even if a drone flew over the huge lorry park, the row of seven Army lorries had disappeared. Faded blue canvas from other lorries had been spread over them to disguise shape and colour, then the refugees had moved well away. The encampment was now spread out, hiding underneath lorries. Helicopters might detect the body heat of people inside a lorry, but not underneath the bed with vehicles parked alongside. Covers taken from other lorries were folded up to provide padding, while hanging a few up created some privacy. Even Daisy and Harold had been persuaded to move, but now strangers came to see the pair.

“I’m Sal. You don’t know me, or Nikki, Danica. We want to know if we can make our own drawing. Heaven ones, like those you left in there?” She pointed towards a canvas-sided truck. The pictures inside were arranged across the floor, because neither Daisy nor Harold had any way of hanging them up.

“Special happy places. They’re made from all the love we sent them, everyone sent them. Everyone is there, from my daddy and Toby to Casper.” Daisy sounded defiant, because some people in the caves had questioned her bringing all those pictures. She’d put them in her pack, then the soldiers had put them in the lorry with the other stuff. “Not heaven.”

“Yeah, sorry, someone said that. It’s just, well, we’ve got people as well, and it would be nice if they were all together.” This young woman put her hand up to the scabbed gashes down her cheeks. “I’m Nikki.”

Harold looked around as other strangers crept beneath his lorry, his private place—too many people, too soon. He didn’t want their names, or to remember their faces, or they’d be in his dreams when he couldn’t save them. “Not here, don’t draw them here. Draw what you like, then if you want to put them in there you can.” He looked at Daisy. “We’ll collect them all when we move.”

“When are we moving?” This man glanced back. “The others said you’re Soldier Boy, their leader. Our jailors said you were dead.” He opened his mouth to mention Killer Queen, but thought better of it.

“Those fighters said you trained them. Can you teach me to use this?” This woman was older, but there was one of Liz’s sabres in her hand and plenty of fire in her eyes. “Twenty of us have survived the arena once, ten men and ten women, but none of us is trained.”

“Not a leader, not now. See Patty, she’s the head Demon. Now please?” Harold pushed with his hands. They backed off a little then Emmy and Tessa were there, with Patty, breaking the crowd up before ushering them away. Harold laid down again, letting his mind drift, going over and over it all. How he might have got more people out, or picked a different place to set up, or moved out sooner. All the ways he could have kept Mercedes alive, and Cleo, and Mika, and all those others.

* * *

Harold’s big sister wasn’t going to wait until there was a life or death moment to pull her brother back into the land of the living, not this time. “We’ll give them a couple of days, him and Daisy.” Sharyn glanced to where both dogs were now awake. “Then Daisy should take Angel, see how that goes.”

Tessa nodded. “Amber worked for Casper.”

“That’s not healthy, for either of them.” Umeko looked towards the truck with the pictures.

“Coping mechanism, we all need one.” Patty looked down at the remaining fingers on one hand, her face sombre. “Pity we haven’t got a perimeter. After Holly, Harold used to walk around at night, guarding the walls.”

“Then he wanted to train all the women to fight, but it took him weeks to recover enough for that. We can’t afford to wait.” Emmy’s eyes narrowed, looking at all the new refugees. “We’ve got a lot of women, and men, and some of them have killed at least once so they’ve got past the first hurdle. We’ve got plenty of weapons, but they’ll need a lot of training?”

“Give Harold a few days, then find half a dozen of the prettiest ones who want to learn to fight. Get them to ask, say they’re worried about being captured again. Harold knows what will happen to them, what might have happened to them already, so he’ll teach them whether he wants to or not.” That would help keep them alive, divert Harold from doing something fatal, and stop Daisy going crazy again—so why did Sharyn feel guilty?

She’d overheard enough of Harold’s nightmares, especially after friends died, to know he’d be tearing himself apart. With all the dead—on top of losing Mercedes—Sharyn thought she might not get her little brother back this time, not unless she buried her conscience. She could use Daisy to help Harold, then if Harold recovered, he was the one person who might make Daisy feel safe again.

She sighed, turning towards Wills, her seven-year-old son and Harold’s nephew. “At least I can look after Wills without worrying about Daisy. She’s stopped talking about going back for Casper, and she’s probably safer with Harold than anywhere else. He’ll go alien killing machine if anything threatens her.”

Patty heaved a sigh as well, nodding as she looked towards the killing machine in question. “Yeah, that’s not so funny these days, but still reassuring. How long can we give him?”

Patricia looked across at all the groups under lorries, trying to make some sort of assessment. “A couple of days, but then we’ve got to think of moving. Sooner or later the Specials will think of checking these lorries, and those cans won’t feed us forever. The weather is holding, but we need proper shelter before a good storm floods this place. Sooner or later we’ll need a village, someplace I can find more medicine.” She smiled briefly. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Once we are sure the search has died down, we’ll decide if we go home, or try again.” Sharyn wanted to go home, back to Orchard Close, but wasn’t sure everyone would. Some of these new ones had different homes they’d want to go to, while others had no homes any more, but hopefully there was time to discuss it properly.

* * *

Orchard Close:

Sharyn would have recognised the scene in the ruins near her old home. Cars full of armed people, many of them women, were forming an assault force that included some familiar vehicles. There were two vans with rocket launchers behind hatches, each towing a four-rocket multi-launcher; Raphael the armoured turtle towing a Napoleonic cannon; a heavily armoured pink lorry called Big Bertha towing an all-steel, spring-assisted catapult; an armoured Humvee flying the Union Flag and towing a smaller catapult, and a small armoured truck called the Tank with paintwork offering the choice of peace or death, sporting a swivel-mounted tube on a tripod in the back and towing a rail wagon coil-spring-assisted bolt thrower.

Sharyn might not have recognised some of the heavy weapons, the result of a winter making preparations for the eventual Army attack. She would have recognised some of the fighters, but would have been surprised at which ones were now friends and allies.

“Ready, Mathias? Not going to nip back for a good luck kiss from Gayle?” Gemma laughed when the ex-Geek rolled his eyes, tolerant after a winter of teasing about the crush he’d had on the dentist.

“I’m waiting for you to realise what a good catch I am and pounce on me.” That was a recent development, jokes about Gemma’s avoidance of any relationship. She’d started them, her own way of dealing with the past. “You’d better be quick, now all these Barbie Girls are here.”

Several women fighters, some with blonde wigs, whistled or made offers. Despite the serious reason for this convoy, there was almost a party atmosphere. Part might be knowing that this time they weren’t mobilising to deal with a direct threat—this was the start of a new policy.

Over the winter, serious discussions between gang representatives had decided that, when the Army came, the defenders didn’t want stabbing in the back. Since many of the Orchard Close fighters were refugees from abuse, and the Barbies had a zero-tolerance policy, the first candidates for attitude adjustment were rapists.

The nearest example, the Geek Freeks, had a temporary pass because they were still technically allies. The gang had stopped ‘recruiting’ women after some very strong hints, and a few bodies, followed by a block of fighters deserting to Orchard Close. Even so, there was a growing pressure for the Barbie, GOFS and Orchard Close leaders to insist that involuntary occupants of the Geek bedding store—their brothel—were released.

Nobody had any doubts about today’s mission. They’d even have allies, from what used to be the General’s headquarters as well as the Professors and their allies. The target, the Ironmen, were the nearest equivalent to Bloods still in the south-east of Birmingham.

The gang were to the west of all those involved, so they’d never had any direct contact, but they’d traded with others. The independent enclaves in the area protected by the Orchard Close alliance had been establishing contacts, forming trading links. While doing so, they had collected a lot of information on the other enclaves in the area. Since most of them had been liberated from the worst types of gangs, they hadn’t much tolerance themselves, so they’d volunteered information on any possible targets.

* * *

Ironmen:

Midmorning, the Ironmen border guards could hear strange radio messages, short phrases with no context. They had no idea who was sending them or why, just that the last coherent message was “Operation reforge, execute.” Every channel on the usual short-range hand-held radios was immediately overpowered with loud heavy metal music. Not just the radios, the same music blasted out from the vehicles heading towards their barricades.

Shortly afterwards, messengers were cycling or driving frantically back towards their main enclave, where the startled leaders tried to make sense of it.

“A pink lorry, a round thing painted like a tortoise, that truck off the TV, an armoured Humvee, and another three plated trucks. It’s that Soldier Boy. Why the hell has he picked on us?” The leader, Iron Man, threw his steel-reinforced motorbike helmet onto the table. “We’re nowhere near him. How come our neighbours let them through without a word?”

“I thought he was dead?” The man in green armour turned as the door opened. “What you got, Red?”

“Here. A messenger brought this over the border, across the rubble, not down a road.” The red-armoured fighter held up a mobile phone and pressed play.

“Arthur here. I got two options, radio silence and stand aside or become a target. They’ve got rockets and bloody machine guns so you’re on your own, Iron Man. Personally, I’d run like hell.” The face on the screen was familiar, the self-styled King Arthur who ruled Camelot, a neighbouring enclave.

“Can we run? From the messages, all the roads that will take a car are blocked.” This speaker had blue armour. “Can we negotiate?” As the five men argued about what the visitors might want, another messenger arrived.

He’d used a motorbike, so he was the first to bring a phone from the newcomers, but the message probably meant there were more on the way. The others might be phrased differently. “This is the alliance against abusive shitheads. You can stand trial for rape, murder and general bastardy, or we’ll just kill every arsehole carrying a weapon.” The headshot of a woman wearing a blonde wig expanded to show two more women and what might be a man, a heavily armed giant wearing a long blonde wig. The picture kept expanding to show heavily armed, exotically dressed women in blonde wigs, then a lot more fighters in front of a pink armoured lorry towing a big catapult.

“Oh shit, the Barbie Girls. The big fucker must be Ken.” The man wearing green armour looked towards the door. “No chance, I’m running.”

“We can line up the women, offer to shoot one every fifteen minutes unless they fuck off?” The black-armoured man gestured at the phone. “If they’re worried about the women they’ll back off.”

“They’re the Barbie Girls, dipstick. They’ll shoot the bloody women themselves to get at us. Green’s right, but first we get rid of the coloured armour.” Ironman narrowed his eyes. “Call in five fighters, tell them to strip off their gear, then dress the bodies in this stuff. Nobody will notice five anonymous fighters drifting off towards the border.”

A messenger burst in. “Some twat told them to fuck off, so a turtle thing with a blade shoved the barricade aside and shot everyone in sight. There’s a bloody army coming from the south-east.”

Blue looked around at the rest, then back at the man. “Take off your gear, weapons and plated jacket, then you can go back unarmed to talk to them.” A couple of minutes later the five of them dragged the body through a door out of sight. “We’ll nobble the next four messengers, then scarper.”

“What about answering those phone messages?” Red looked at the smiles, and nodded. “Yeah, silly me, the border guards might slow the fuckers up a bit.”

* * *

Sexual Liberation Juggernaut:

Over the next fifteen minutes, vehicles with blades pushed two other barricades aside, while three others were blown apart by high-speed iron, explosives or large rocks. Fighters moved forward, slowly and methodically, advancing along the roads with covering fire, primitive artillery and armoured vehicles. The defenders died or ran.

Two of the roads met at a small enclave with low walls, not real protection. An elderly, inoffensive-looking man picked up a loudhailer. “Any fighters please step forward, without weapons or protective clothing. Anyone found carrying a weapon will be executed. All prisoners must be escorted to the wall and released, unharmed.”

Four men with metal plates on their clothing looked out at over a hundred fighters. They threw out their weapons, taking off their jackets before coming out with their hands on their heads. “What happens now?”

“Now we collect the rest of your fighters, then ask your prisoners and residents if they want to press charges. Rapists or murderers will be executed. The rest will serve five years hard labour for aiding and abetting.” The old man looked towards the buildings. “Any prisoners? That includes women or men held for your amusement.”

The four men flinched before one answered. “Not here, they’re in the Citadel, the main enclave.” He looked around, but it was too late to run—he’d never even reach the old geezer to take him hostage. “Who are you? Are you taking over?”

“The Professor. We will leave your enclaves to rule themselves, peacefully. We are here because it is time we cleaned up our city, by burying all the filth if necessary.” He turned, heading back towards his car. The prisoner shivered. The Professor seemed a fairly harmless old duffer right up until the last sentence, when the four of them realised he really didn’t give a shit how many he had to bury to get the job done.

As the four men stripped to their underwear before climbing into a van, a group of men and women went into the enclave. They would explain that the residents were now free agents, then offer advice on how to set up some sort of governing body. The rest of the invading force moved on.

* * *

Just outside the Citadel, a larger enclave surrounded by a tall, thick wall of loosely bonded brick, a young woman sighed. She lifted her eye from a rifle’s telescopic sights. “Damn, I’d bet on them using hostages.”

“That’s them? Are you sure?” The older women next to her smiled. The man nearby, also cradling a large rifle, rolled his eyes because that pair would bet on raindrops running down a window.

“Oh yes, Iron Man, Black, Red, Blue and Green themselves, but they’ve mislaid their fancy gear and weapons. Just five innocent unarmed guys walking quietly off into the sunset.” The first speaker slid a round into her rifle. “We’d better shoot them before someone else identifies them and beats us to it. I’ve got the tin man.”

The man glanced at the head and shoulders picture on his phone. This wasn’t a spur of the moment operation. “Bagsy Black. The black knight is always a baddy.” The man put his eye to his sights. “I’ll count to three.”

* * *

Two hours later the main enclave, the Citadel, was surrounded, but negotiations were stalled. Ten minutes of concentrated mayhem followed. A cannon, catapults of different types, rockets and high-speed metal bars demolished the three gateways and two strongpoints, then hundreds of fighters advanced onto the fields.

As the defenders manned their walls, upwards of fifty rifles killed nearly half of them in a few seconds. Bursts from machine guns, with occasional accurate rifle fire, kept the survivors ducking or dying as the fighters advanced. There was a brief pause to make one last offer of quarter. By then the survivors could see that all the nearer attackers were well-armed and armoured, carrying pistols and sometimes shotguns as well as blades. Weapons were thrown over the walls, then anything white was waved hopefully.

Fighters swarmed through the breaches as the survivors knelt, weapons on the ground and hands on their heads. Gemma, Chandra and Beach Beetch in her leather swimsuit led the women fighters into the headquarters building. They already knew what they’d find. Gemma had mixed feelings about staying in there, reassuring the captives it was all over—they were free. She wanted to help them because she’d been here herself, but she also wanted to watch those bastards outside when Prof told them about the trials and sentences.

Some of those collecting prisoners weren’t satisfied with this crop. “Too easy, we could chop these quick then clean up another one today.” Tell had kept quiet as the rest of his gang, the Geeks, abused women, but now he’d left them he had an almost religious zeal when it came to hunting abusers. The well-armed woman with her arm around him, once one of the abused, had something to do with his conviction.

A man with a ginger goatee, Vulcan, the GOFS warchief, patted Tell on the back. “Then we’d lose people because the snipers wouldn’t be in position with pictures of their targets, and the attack wouldn’t be properly co-ordinated. One dead is close to a miracle, and only a handful of wounded, all of them Genoese fighters. Wait a week or maybe two while we get set, then we’ll do it again.”

He pointed to the lines of prisoners, agitated now that Prof had finished speaking. Some were considering making a break, but it was much too late for that. “We’ll get the trials over first—and the executions—then persuade the residents we really aren’t taking over.” A hand wave indicated an armoured Humvee. “I’ll be visiting the neighbours, to explain they should keep their thieving hands off or else lose them. I’m looking for an apprentice, because Gof won’t let me go until I’ve trained someone up. You can join me if you like?”

“No thanks, not this time. Marcy wants to see the executions.” She wanted to be in the crossbow firing squad, but Tell knew there was a long list wanting a chance to execute one of the bastards. Local volunteers, those just freed, would get the first chance. It was stage one of the Mercedes rehabilitation programme—if the victim was up for it they got to skewer their rapist, then watch him die begging and screaming in a pool of his own blood and piss. Even so, if enough of this lot were found guilty, Marcy might get her turn.

* * *

Cabal:

In a bunker deep beneath the Lincolnshire countryside, the real government of the UK was holding an emergency meeting. This time there were two vacant seats. The chairman brought them to order, then pointed to one vacant chair. “I thought you were going to get Maurice released, Joshua, just long enough to shoot him if necessary?”

“The shooting part is easy enough. His current captors would do it, though several people would prefer hanging him. Our problem is to get him clear, or kill him, before he opens his mouth.” Joshua scowled at the second empty seat. “Though first I have questions, like what the hell they did to persuade Apache pilots to blow the hell out of allied troops.”

A man in RAF uniform, Faraz, the wiry, intense liaison with the RAF, broke in. “I’m not surprised a pair of pilots snapped. Those people have equipment that is designed to get through jamming to ferret out transmitters or the source of stray electrics. That means they overhear or see all sorts of disturbing snippets. Maybe Vanna was careless with her coms and mentioned getting rid of witnesses, or said what she intended doing with the wounded. I want to know where she found the weapons the Apache used.”

He stabbed a finger at the chair that should have held Vanna. “I’m not exactly surprised that weasel Maurice hid badly needed munitions, but Vanna knew our people in London are bleeding because they haven’t got Hellfires or guided CRV sevens. Even a guided training round would open the concrete over that Phalanx, and could probably deal with those Reiver ram-tanks.” His eyes passed over everyone at the table. “If there’s any more tucked away, I want them for the main push.”

“We’ll send word to the city centres, find out what Maurice stashed in there. We can pull out anything useful for you, Faraz, as well as any guided anti-tank for the foot soldiers.” Joshua thought for a moment, then smiled. “Replace them with surface to air, laser or wire guided so they can be aimed at any target, like armour. The payload won’t hurt a tank, but any sort of missile will get rid of any reservations the gunners or soldiers have about targeting civilians.”

He rather liked that idea, because Joshua wanted to minimise the number of Army personnel killed. “Send some into London if Maurice actually managed to get any agents placed. Get our agents to use them against the Army on the blockade. That should help the soldiers get over any qualms about shooting at civilians.”

Faraz shook his head. “Not London. If the rebels get hold of them they’ll shoot down the mercenary planes and choppers supporting the assault.”

“Are we ready for that? The attack on London itself?” Owen the chairman asked but several others leant forward, interested in the answer.

Faraz looked at Joshua who shook his head, then continued with his report. “The Gatwick Salient is clear, but it’ll take weeks to extract the damaged armour from the last assault. The assault squads were looking for demo charges, IEDs, the usual, but didn’t think big enough. From the size of the explosion, we think the defenders filled the voids under floors, maybe even cellars, with industrial explosives. They must have poured some of it in there weeks ago. It wasn’t triggered until the armour advanced to blast a way into the last bunker, then the whole area went up.”

He glanced at an empty chair again. “Pity our espionage expert didn’t notice. I hope you can recruit more mercenaries from Europe, Boris, especially armour. That last hosanna from Gatwick wrecked too many of the lighter armoured vehicles, and killed or wounded a lot of men. Even vehicles without crews would help—damaged vehicles or spares. Most of the main battle tanks survived, but there are a lot out of action because they can’t repair the worst of the damage.”

The slim, dark-haired man at the other end of the table, a career diplomat, shook his head. “There are no more coherent military units in Europe, not that I know of, and definitely no functioning main battle armour. There may be broken-down or abandoned armoured vehicles here and there, but nothing mobile. Collecting them, or any useful equipment, stores or ammunition from anywhere except the coast will need a major incursion. The best idea is to launch a series of small operations, land everywhere there could be spares or ammunition and pick up whatever is there. You could take recovery vehicles to collect any immobilised armour. It won’t be a quick job.”

“We have time. The current repairs will take a couple of months at least, and the soldiers need time to heal.” Joshua shook his head, not at all happy. “We’ll have to train crews as well, hopefully people who have operated armour or at least tracked vehicles.”

Boris perused a file before continuing, reluctantly. “There are groups with light armour or military weapons, including some ex-military personnel, but they aren’t really military. The vehicles will need overhauls, and I wouldn’t rely on the fighters to stick with a plan. This type would go chasing off after any hint of loot.”

“So recruit them, then once they are tucked up in a barracks, gas them and give our tame mercenaries the weapons.” Grace rarely contributed to military discussions. She was more interested in keeping the work camps and brothels under control, but she needed new allies. A hard-liner, dedicated to wiping out the undesirables as fast as possible, Grace had allied with the two disgraced members, especially Vanna.

Normally, she would have ignored Henry, the farming manager, but now she reached out to him. “Henry probably has a better read on the enclaves than Maurice ever gave us. Recruit warm bodies from there. Either from these useful enclaves he is nurturing, or skim the right type out of the more violent enclaves.”

Henry looked surprised, then thoughtful. He wanted to save some residents of the cities, and this was a golden opportunity. “Not the more stable enclaves; they might join the rebels. We’ll recruit them when they have few other options, then use them in Europe.” Heads around the table nodded—they’d discussed that option before. “There are people in the violent enclaves who will jump at the chance to get out, killers but not lunatics, the right type to join the military contractors. Who will be running them now?”

“We’ll use up the current crop of Specials in London.” Joshua looked around the table, challenging anyone to defend the bloody maniacs. They’d been needed to round up civilians and man the extermination facilities during the first mass culling, but now they’d become a barely controlled private army, with armour.

Nobody argued so Joshua continued. “They have basic military training, enough to use them for the spearhead in London. Let the first defences, the ones that will cost us experienced mercenaries, take out obsolete armour and second-rate troops. I’ll get those training around Evesham to the London perimeter straight away, so we can check their vehicles. When we need an extermination centre re-opened we can recruit new personnel from the Mart guards.” He turned to Henry. “Actually, you could get the right sort of people from the cities, then we’ll bring in Mart guards and process them as well.”

“As long as you leave enough lunatics in the cities to provoke the Army when the time comes. Grace should take over the Mart guards, maybe rotate them with her work camp guards. That would give us a read on them, find suitable special facilities operatives.” Owen, the chairman, wanted some contractors kept well clear of the Army and Joshua.

Joshua wasn’t aware of the final solution, using the contractors to deal with any Army units that couldn’t be corrupted, especially those with curious or obstructive officers. He turned to Grace with a diversion to close the contractor discussion down. “How is the other recruitment coming along—the officer brides?”

* * *

Grace almost laughed because of the first reactions from the women. “Plenty of volunteers to marry an officer—or anyone, if they get out of the brothels or camps. We could extend the system to find wives for the senior NCO’s we’ve recruited, a nice reward for them. The main delay is the time in hospital to fix any injuries properly, and some need quite a lot of cosmetic work for the scarring. The really pretty ones have all been in at least one gang brothel, or the camp inmates have passed them around.”

“Will that be a problem?” Owen curled his lip in distaste. “The idea is for our favoured officers to be pleased at getting a pretty young wife. A scarred veteran who has been passed around several gangster brothels won’t be well received.”

“They’ll be pretty again once the surgeons are done, then we’ll explain that pretending to be innocents is in their best interests.” She shrugged because she didn’t care what the women thought as long as they obeyed. Grace thought the best solution for her camps, once the inmates were no longer useful, was either gas or poison. “They’ll be very willing—and relieved at only having one client, one that washes occasionally. After their previous treatment, these women won’t complain if their new hubby is a bit rough. I doubt they’ll consider childbirth worth complaining about.”

“Good, that should stop some of the complaints about the single officers never getting a chance to fraternise with young women.” A thought struck Owen—if only the loyal officers scored, it could cause unrest. “Maybe we can provide some extras for the other officers to compete for. I agree with working on something similar for NCOs in time, but let’s get the first stage over.”

Owen turned to the diplomat. “Boris, find European gangs or settlements with heavy weapons or any sort of armour. If necessary we’ll commandeer the actual hardware as Grace suggests. Recruit personnel as well, gangs that include ex-military personnel, then we’ll split them up. Ex-military can go into the mercenary units, where they’ll be knocked into shape. The rest will become work camp guards, or we can give them some quick training and send them in to die with the Specials.”

“So who will direct our espionage?” Henry didn’t want the job, but he didn’t want another Maurice either. “Perhaps it shouldn’t be one of the spy community this time? That hasn’t worked out too well so far. I can continue watching the cities for a short time, but then I’ll need to concentrate on farming.”

* * *

Looks went around the table, a succession of nods agreeing—spies seemed to get too caught up in their own cleverness and hide information from the rest. Ivy, who was responsible for making sure the Marts were supplied, and pacifying the owners when they weren’t, was also looking for new allies. “Gerard has done a good job organising transport, but he has it running smoothly now. He could pass that to a subordinate, just keep an eye on them?”

All eyes turned towards the youngest of them—the only one under fifty.

“Perhaps we have overlooked you because of your relative youth, Gerard.” Owen nodded slowly. “As Ivy said, you have performed well, taking a relatively minor role without complaint. I seem to remember you making some very pertinent points now and then, when we strayed off-track. Do you think you could manage to deal with our spy community?”

“Perhaps, if you wish.” Gerard wanted to grab it with both hands, real power at last, but this could be a poisoned chalice. “Could I start with London and the surveillance outside the cities? I’d be grateful if Henry could keep running the agents inside the cities, at least until I have had chance to dig out all Maurice’s little schemes.”

That would get Henry on-side, Gerard thought—then he remembered who had suggested him. “If I could rely on you, Ivy, to let me know of any problems with transport, just in case my subordinates are reluctant to pass them on?” Ivy nodded, smiling. “In that case I’ll get straight on it. What about the snipers? I’m not a military man.”

As Gerard expected, Joshua jumped in. “I’ll take them over, phase them out. They aren’t snipers, they are undisciplined murderers taught to shoot.”

“They’ll phase themselves out. The brainwashing burns them out very quickly, but we need deniable executioners sometimes.” Owen might need them to deal with Joshua when his beloved Army was dismantled. “Move the facility from Chapel-en-le-Frith, put it in a work camp.”

He smiled at Grace, a dedicated hard-liner who wouldn’t mind killing anyone who might be a problem. “You can keep an eye on them, Grace. Slide the bodies of any failures in with the usual wastage. Would you take a look at the procedure, see if you can speed it up a little? I don’t care if they’re zombies as long as they shoot when told.”

Joshua sat back, satisfied because the maniacs would be out in the open, not tucked away in a secret facility. The Army had the right men to sneak into a work camp and wipe them out if necessary. “In the meantime I’ll try to prise Maurice loose of the Army, then Gerard can use some of his new employees to extract any little secrets.”

“Any more advanced munitions for a start.” Faraz was still livid about that. “Accurate information on where that Apache crashed would help. It definitely isn’t in the reservoirs.”

“The command post staff in the staging depot might know. I’m sure they’ll be very keen to help once I’ve spoken to them.” Joshua sighed—the pictures he’d seen of the casualties, especially the burns, were horrific. “They might even be able to tell us what the hell was going on. I hope we flush out those hiding underground, alive to get their viewpoint as well. Nearly three hundred men dead or wounded. A lot of them will recover physically but they’ll be no good in combat after that fiasco.”

“A real waste. Even if they aren’t proper soldiers, we could have used them to lead the assault on London.” Boris smiled because there was one silver lining. “At least that Soldier Boy is dead, along with most of his army, or this might have turned him into our own personal Robin Hood or Hereward the Wake.” A round of agreement or nods followed—they were all relieved that problem had been dealt with.

With the re-allocation of responsibilities agreed, the meeting set into organising the transference of power and the other more mundane details of running a clandestine government.

* * *

40 Commando:

As the Cabal meeting finally broke up, an Army officer, Lieutenant Colonel Wheaton, was heading for a very different one—one that might end his career. His commandos, including himself and the other officers, had been appalled by what they’d uncovered. Finding the notorious arena had been a shock, but it was the dead civilians, followed by finding the abused women, that had affected the soldiers the most. Discipline had definitely slipped, even among some of the officers. Lt Col Wheaton didn’t think his men had shot slavers who had already surrendered, but they were definitely a bit quick on the trigger, and slow with medical aid.

He might have got away with that, and the number of dead men in uniform, considering the circumstances. There were civilian women and children who’d been backshot, sex slaves, no unit flashes, and the ‘soldiers’ were carrying gangster-type weaponry. Some were definitely Specials, possibly deserters but the records weren’t clear. The whole Army was having trouble policing the friction between Specials and professional soldiers, with loaded weapons pointed in some cases.

Lt Col Wheaton was honest enough to know his own obvious reaction might have encouraged his men to administer their own justice, but at worst that would cost him rank. What might cost the lieutenant colonel his job, get him drummed out of the Army, was killing top brass, the sort who reported to the government. The aircrew were off the hook; he’d taken care of that in his report. His orders had been strongly worded while the ‘victim’ had been disguised as a corporal, a fleeing suspect. The battalion commander had stressed that if he’d been in the chopper, he might have done the same.

He could even have lived with spending time in jail, but he couldn’t get rid of one nasty suspicion. A big showy trial, starring a certain Lieutenant Colonel Wheaton, might be used to let the guilty parties sneak off into the shadows.

* * *

Bracing himself as the guard opened the door, Lieutenant Colonel Wheaton marched in, stopped and saluted. “At ease, stand easy. For the benefit of anyone who is so crass as to ask, Henry, you are now receiving a right royal reaming for letting your command get out of control, resulting in an accidental blue on blue.”

The brigadier sat, gesturing to a seat. “Sit, please. The first helicopter was civilian, piloted by civilians who’d had a quick course on military procedures. They have now disappeared—very inconvenient. It seems we should look closely into whether we should give such people access to heavy weapons in the future. There will be the usual dog and pony show, strictly military without outside reporting, which will come up with a list of lessons the Army will learn from this sad breakdown in communications.”

The officer paused, but Lt Col Wheaton knew there had to be more so he waited. The brigadier smiled before continuing. “You will be censured, which will be erased from your record and possibly replaced with a medal after the revolution.”

“Sir?” Lt Col Henry Wheaton didn’t think his superior was in the habit of getting blind drunk, but couldn’t come up with another answer. “Revolution?”

“Possibly not. A barracks lawyer has suggested that if we can prove the King really is being held against his will, we are in the clear.” The brigadier held Henry’s eyes. “But to be sure of that, someone will have to spring him from Edinburgh castle. If he isn’t actually locked in, that will definitely be illegal.”

This time, when the brigadier paused, Henry chanced a question. “Is someone in particular being lined up to find out?” He wondered if 40 Commando were being pencilled in for the job, the price for papering over any irregularities in the arena operation.

The brigadier’s smile widened for a moment. “Not yet.” His face sobered again and he raised his voice. “Corporal?” When the man came in he pointed to a row of ten empty easels. “Bring them in, please.” While the corporal placed a large board covered in cloth onto each easel, the brigadier put a mobile phone on the desk in front of the lieutenant colonel. “The reason I agreed to 40 Commando being confined to barracks was to stop you sending some or all of them into the Hope Valley.”

“Sir?” He’d really considered it, once the occupants of the armoured limo and surviving escort Land Rover had been questioned.

The brigadier pointed to an easel as the corporal took off the cloth. “Do you recognise that picture?” Lt Col Wheaton recognised the building—the converted coach-house was beside the driveway leading to the arena buildings. The Union Flag at half-mast, with SOLDIER BOY R.I.P. splashed across the front of the garage in red paint, was a complete surprise.

“I recognise the building, but not the flag or message, though I had heard he was dead.” Wheaton had his doubts. Just for a moment he almost admitted that he’d broken the curfew, and that dead or alive, the man in question wasn’t where he should be. The brigadier’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“That is a parting shot from your men. Since the follow-up crews saw it, I would guess that picture is halfway around the British Army by now.” The brigadier turned to look at the picture. “It’s a shame, really. He was a decorated ex-corporal, so if the pyres surveillance tape was released, he would have made a fabulous liaison officer for dealing with the enclaves. That’s assuming we are ever in a position to approach them without being shot as traitors. Now look at the rest.”

The corporal worked down the line, exposing more pictures. “The first eight came from this phone, but the last was taken last night, by special forces.”

The series was graphic, ending in a night-time view of a big sprawling industrial complex. The three skulls in the preceding picture told the story. “A death camp?” One detail was missing so Henry asked. “Where?”

“Hope Valley, a smoking gun. We extracted this phone with two surviving eyewitnesses—Soldier Boy’s people. They’d already decommissioned the ovens, with prejudice, but there’s plenty of evidence left. Now I will explain properly. My first confession is that I haven’t really been ignoring all your memos, Henry.”

* * *

The shell-shocked lieutenant colonel ended up with a cup of tea, but he wished it was brandy as he found out the truth was worse than he’d imagined. He was relieved to find that some upper brass were very unhappy, mutinous in fact—something was very wrong at government level. Unfortunately the rot had spread to the Army command and some units, so there was no united front, and some government critics had disappeared.

Orders from on high had demanded A Company’s prisoners be turned over to Specials. Now the lieutenant colonel found out that several had been sidetracked, and were being unofficially debriefed by Army personnel. If anyone asked about them they would be pronounced MIA, presumably burned along with the building. The Army would eventually have to turn the mystery captive from the limo over to government representatives. He seemed to be a government spook, allegedly a high-ranking one, according to some. As such he couldn’t be kept for long, but while he was locked up he couldn’t cover anyone’s tracks.

There were several highly ranked officers looking for the truth, but mystery snipers, disappearances and courts martial had made them wary of actually reaching out to each other. Even now, the lieutenant colonel wouldn’t learn any names or meet anyone else.

The reason 40 Commando had been confined was to leave the field clear for small, unofficial teams of special forces to infiltrate Hope Valley overnight—to find out exactly what had happened. They’d confirmed the ash-field and found another, and ascertained that the fields were a car park—some victims had driven themselves to their funerals. More teams were going out tonight to check Chapel-en-le-Frith, which was apparently a holding centre for victims. The first reports had insisted there must be survivors in the cave systems under the hills—Specials were guarding every known exit.

Teams were sent to get into the caves unseen—but every entry was guarded. Three teams had darted guards to gain access, finding booby traps or new blockages. One had brought back eye-witnesses, people who had seen civilians being executed by Specials and buried in unmarked graves. The witnesses also explained the origin of the new civilian snipers. The two young people swore the government had agents within cities, to encourage the worst gangs to kill moderates. They’d captured one, and he’d confessed.

That news had led to some decisions. Carefully chosen Army personnel would be reaching out to ex-comrades now behind the wire. Some would receive assistance to keep their communities safe, but that would be a slow careful dance to avoid these agents. Hopefully, there’d be confirmation of the government interference, if necessary by snatching one of these agents.

* * *

Henry was given more information about the results of his own operation at the arena. He’d recognised the name of the woman who had been incinerated, but further investigation had run into a black hole. She was an enigma, a nonentity before being brought in to command the military contractors dealing with civilians, an appointment made without consulting the Army. Now it seemed she had been orchestrating the mass murder of civilians, possibly masterminding massacres in the arena, and organising the black-market distribution of snuff films.

Prisoners claimed the captive spook was in charge, so perhaps he was her subordinate, but so far he wasn’t talking. He might be expecting a rescue—there was growing pressure to turn him over to the authorities. Government officials had also demanded all the other evidence, the phones, computers, weapons, clothing and paperwork. They’d managed to claim a substantial amount, but not all of it. Teams were working on the rest, hoping they’d kept the right parts. Henry offered what he’d retained, and clandestine access to more witnesses, the women.

Even if the claims made by the Reivers weren’t totally accurate, something at government level was very wrong. Now the lieutenant colonel had to pretend he didn’t know any of it. There was enough evidence to show government involvement, but a cabal that had hijacked Parliament would be ruthless in suppressing any opposition. Arranging to show the right people, then organise enough resistance in Army, RAF and Navy units to prevent a sudden purge, would take time. Part of the delay was to make sure only the right people were told.

There was a race on, to complete preparations before the Army was ordered to invade London. Others would attack first, but the mercenaries had lost too much armour in Scotland and Gatwick. They couldn’t clear the capital, even with the Specials helping out. The government would try using them first, but they would need the British Army eventually.

* * *

Lieutenant Colonel Wheaton spent the trip back to his command, under-manned because he’d been rather vociferous about various shortcomings, thinking very hard. He was sure the majority of his men would happily round up contractors, especially Specials, or just shoot them if asked. There’d been rumours and general unrest but the arena had hardened attitudes, especially when it came to the rescued women.

He’d dismissed the idea when he first thought of it, but then several officers and senior NCOs came up with the same solution. The simplest way to stop the rescued women being arrested once they had ‘recovered’ was to make them Army wives. Those who had mentioned it agreed the marriages would be complete fabrications—most of these women wouldn’t want any relationship with a man for years. Now, if both the men and women were willing to keep up the pretence, Henry would give his unofficial blessing.

Opposing the government was a totally different proposition, so he couldn’t just tell his men the truth, or not all at once. He began to go through them in his mind, especially the sergeants. The NCOs would be crucial—they would have a good read on which men could be trusted to keep a secret. One blessing of a small command was that it wouldn’t look odd if he spoke to other ranks personally.

Henry needed a copy of those pictures—he was sure those would persuade even the most sceptical. If necessary, commandos were supposed to be sneaky, and new pictures of the ash-field would be just as shocking.

Soldier Boy and his Killer Queen would help. Dead heroes founded legends, which the brigadier thought could be very useful if steered properly. The lieutenant colonel thought a live legend, or enough doubt to suggest it was possible, would work even better. He had pictures of the actual bodies left at the farm, to prove they weren’t the right two, but he’d just encourage doubt for now.

He also had one item that would prove he’d been close enough to know the truth, a swordstick found in the burning house. The SAS knew all about that stick, so a sighting should convince them the owner was still alive. Henry could think of a lot of ways to build a legend, but he had to make damn sure none of them led back to him. As for the secrecy about the exterminations, the rest of the conspirators could do as they pleased—Henry had some personal friends he’d stake his life on.

There was a certain Captain Kernow who would be interested in the real story of Soldier Boy’s last stand. Tolly, his lieutenant, could spread the word through the lower ranks of officers and senior NCOs. Henry smiled briefly. The NCOs would deal with spreading the story themselves once it got started—the sergeant grapevine was a legend itself. When the brass started pushing on doors, some would already be unlocked.

* * *

Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital:

Henry had no idea the government had already introduced their own version of arranged marriages. The Cabal’s brides for officers recruitment campaign had plenty of candidates. All the recruits were willing—so they had no qualms about moving into a modern medical facility to ensure they were fit, healthy, and beautiful. Most hospitals had been looted or burned, but Army units had secured this whole complex before the mobs reached it. Someone had realised that most large hospitals were being overrun, and had acted quickly.

Originally a national health and educational hospital, the sprawling complex on the outskirts of the empty, derelict town was now the main Army medical facility. That also made it the perfect place for a clandestine medical operation. First class staff and equipment were installed in a wing, then isolated before the staff found out exactly what they were meant to be doing. Some objected at first, but after seeing the first grateful patients, were soon doing their very best.

“What’s this one in for?” The surgeon looked at the face on the operating table. “Full treatment, officer’s wife material from the look. We can’t do much about her hair, but she can dye it.”

“Pure white—she’s not an albino so maybe it was shock. I hope she lands a good one.” His assistant peeled back the covering to disclose a recent deep wound that had been roughly stitched. “Another one who had a bad time somewhere, more than once from the old scarring.” She put up the pictures, glancing down at the patient. “No broken bones, not even her nose so her face won’t need cosmetic work. Hairline crack in her skull so probably concussion, but time will deal with that.” She looked down at the sleeping face, shaking her head. “I’d be unhappy about this, fixing up young women so the officers can share them out, but at least it’s for marriage. She’ll be happier raising babies than living in a city.”

“She might have come from a work camp, in which case she’ll have volunteered for one of HM’s officers like a shot. There’s evidence she’s had some competent surgery as well as that amateur stitching, but the facilities must have been basic. Nothing we can’t put right.” The surgeon chuckled, even if he had his own misgivings. “Going by the young women who will be bearing them, the next generation of forces officers will be incredibly good looking. Right, let’s get any internal problems and serious wounds out of the way, then the cosmetic team can get started.”

* * *

Dealer – Orchard Close:

There was one person in Birmingham who had information about Soldier Boy—or strong rumours at least. Supply, his controller, had heard dozens of stories about where and how Soldier Boy and Killer Queen might have been killed, all of them agreeing Specials did the deed. Even so, there hadn’t been one single definite identification by someone who knew what they looked like. At least one soldier or Special must have taken a picture, while the swordstick or medal were the sort of trophy someone should be bragging about, or selling on the black market. Dealer was sorely tempted to tell some people what he knew, but he worried about his masters hearing about it.

If they knew Harold could be alive, the likes of June or Pat’s John in Orchard Close might stop a disastrous backlash when the fighters heard about the deaths from elsewhere. The reaction to finding out the circumstances of the alleged deaths might be worse, regardless of who it came from. Dealer had a feeling that if some of those in Orchard Close knew the Specials had killed a lot of their friends, they’d look for payback. There’d be an outbreak of dead contractors, border guards, then possibly something more ambitious to punish the Specials. Those fighters were capable of striking targets well outside the wire.

Enough deaths, even if they were only mystery long-range migraines, would end with the contractors insisting on burning an enclave. Then the rest of that alliance might decide they had nothing to lose. They would lose, eventually, but Dealer wouldn’t bet against a few getting as far as the peaceful villages of Lincolnshire. By then they’d be bitter, desperate to lash out before they died, so the likes of the Barbie Girls might not care if the inhabitants were unarmed.

The resulting witch-hunt would be looking for a scapegoat—possibly a certain loose-mouthed Dealer and his family.

Visiting the zoo distracted him from Soldier Boy. Dealer wasn’t surprised when he sold out of medical supplies and had to send for more. The shock was that the zoo hadn’t just survived, they paid in O’Sullivan gear from the captured enclave, and looted Barbarian clothing and weapons. The whole area was alive with rumours about the woman who killed Conan with a knife. The killer was allegedly swaggering about wearing a gunbelt and nothing else, which was definitely hardcore, even in the city.

* * *

He’d had a week to think about it before Dealer’s convoy drew up at the Farm. When Dealer went inside for the pre-dealing discussion, June was the only person from the Coven; the other two were younger and on edge. He didn’t even have time to speak.

“Is it true? Did the bastards kill them all?” The young woman would have been attractive if it wasn’t for the sheer rage and hate on her face. “The guards on the bypass said they’d all been wiped out—Harold, everyone. They called two of the gardeners across just to tell them.”

Dealer looked at June, but she looked angry as well—whichever idiot guard had decided to have some fun deserved whatever was coming. Dealer tried to stop this becoming a complete disaster. “I heard some were killed, but not all of them.”

“That’s it, we may as well go out fighting.” The young man was as angry as the women but calmer about it. “I’m Nate and this is Gemma. We’re Riot Squad, not Coven. You don’t usually see us, but we had to know.” He turned to Gemma, the young woman. “Bridie, Mia and Cy, then round up as many trainee snipers as we can. We can get the lot.” A very nasty smile spread across his face. “At changeover, double up.”

“They’ll burn your enclave.” Dealer shut up before he got involved. At least his personal bodyguard David wasn’t here, so there’d be no report going back to a spymaster someplace. Unless these two were coming to the actual trading, where they might say too much. “Don’t even say things like that, not where people can hear.”

“We know there are spies.” June paused, looking thoughtful. “But why would you warn us?”

“I didn’t, so I hope you won’t spread that sort of rumour.” Dealer looked at each in turn, hoping they’d get the message because he couldn’t, daren’t, spell it out.

“One of yours has a loose mouth.” June nodded when Dealer didn’t answer. “So tell us what you know, officially.”

* * *

Dealer wanted to refuse, but the thought of all these people burning when the helicopters dropped their kegs, or artillery crashed down, was too much. “This is all rumours, all right?” The terse nods were impatient. “A big force of Specials found your friends in Hope Valley.”

He paused, but nobody reacted so maybe they hadn’t known where Harold had gone. Dealer realised he should pass a warning, because he was absolutely certain at least one border guard would be dead very soon. “That might have been through a tracker in an automatic weapon taken from a Special or a contractor, a border guard. The Specials had a lot of casualties, including armour and possibly aircraft, but some of your friends got away.”

“Who? How many?” Gemma was on the edge of her seat, while Nate’s grip on his knife hilt was white-knuckled.

“Rumour, right?” Dealer waited for three terse nods. “The Specials are saying they definitely killed Harold and Mercedes, but nobody positively identified the bodies. There’s very good pictures of both of them out there, but nobody has come forward to say they saw those pictures and the bodies, a firm ID. There’s no confirmation either of them survived, but the report might be a mistake or someone bragging.”

He took a breath because nobody had blown. “A real VIP Special was definitely killed, top brass, then your friends broke some prisoners out of the arena. They got away while the commandos were cleaning up and putting out fires, literally, then disappeared.”

“What do you mean, disappeared? How, with modern surveillance?” The puzzle had taken some of the anger from Gemma’s face.

Dealer shrugged, wishing he could give them some certainty. “Nobody knows. A neat trick but every rumour says the same—between fifty and a hundred including children, gone without trace.” He shook his head, smiling because he’d heard some very angry people ask the same thing. “They left in a convoy of lorries, which have disappeared as well. There’s a lot of annoyed or embarrassed people who would like to know how.”

* * *

“What is the arena?” Two people looked at Gemma, then back at Dealer, puzzled. Much too late, Dealer wished he’d edited that part. By the time he’d explained prisoners fighting duels to the death, and melees with untrained men and women forced to kill to survive, even June looked ready to start a war. He’d tried to skim over the worst, but Gemma had guessed there was more. She pushed until Dealer admitted many of the fighters were partially clothed women, then that Specials ran the place and the commandos had liberated sex slaves.

Nate had a solution. “Perhaps we should show them some real combat, send out a couple of squads to burn a Specials’ barracks. We could shoot the rats when they run, live-fire practice? Or since they like personal combat, nip in at night to show them some close-up sword practice. We should strip them down, give them a sword, then let women in armour kill them. We can sell you the videos, Dealer?” Gemma was nodding but June looked worried—and rightly so.

Just saying no wasn’t going to work, so Dealer tried logic. “Then there’ll be helicopters with night sights. Eventually they’ll catch one of you alive, maybe wounded, and whoever it is will eventually talk.” He shrugged, but feigning indifference was a waste of time. He was being sucked in, choosing a side, something he’d sworn to never do. “They’ll find out the raiders came from here, and burn the place.”

“Good point, operational secrecy.” Gemma nodded to Dealer. “I’m guessing you’ve got someone outside, someone you care for, so you’ll want to stay squeaky-clean.” She smiled briefly as Dealer searched for a reply. “You never react to any flirting. The Barbies reckon that David is definitely up for it if he got a chance, and five of the rest are interested.” Not too surprising as some of the Barbies were pretty, but the blatant flaunting and taunting seemed spontaneous. Dealer was surprised to find out they’d been deliberately assessing his guards—and himself.

“A wife and daughter. They are safe, living in a village.” He left it at that because none of these three were stupid.

Once again Dealer was surprised because it was Gemma, probably the angriest, who turned to the other two. “Not a word about what was said in here, or the bastards will kill them.”

“Done, but we’ll remember what you said about consequences, Dealer. Thank you.” The nasty smile appeared on Nate’s face again. “There’s more than one way to skin a contractor, or a Special.” He took a deep breath, making an obvious effort to relax. “I’ve got a thousand questions, but that wouldn’t be fair so we’ll leave you to get on with dealing. Thank you.” The two fighters left. Dealer was relieved when Abraham and Kathleen, two of the Coven, came in with Kathleen holding the usual list.

Dealer would have understood more if he’d heard the conversation after he left. The residents had thought that if everyone with Harold had died, then returning the cats and Rocket Man was a taunt. Now the animals must be a message from whoever had escaped—to say they were still alive. Harold must still be working on a refuge, but moving about so he couldn’t look after pets. The leaders agreed—they’d pass that message to their own people and the allied gangs, but would keep it low-key.

* * *

As Dealer carried on with his usual visits, Roller of the Hot Rods was his usual urbane self, more interested in dealing than rumours. Both the GOFS and Barbies had questions. They’d heard rumours about Soldier Boy—now they wanted to know if they matched any rumours outside the wire. Dealer restricted himself to suggesting Orchard Close were nearer the wire, so they might have heard more.

Remembering what Gemma said, he watched the women reacting with his men. At the actual dealing Chandra was wearing the usual two strips of cloth, not quite laced together up the sides to show she didn’t have underwear. She kept twisting or bending to almost let David see behind the clothing, and he was definitely interested. It occurred to Dealer the Barbies might be planning a snatch, luring the men out of sight to grab the automatics. They’d be out of luck—there were too many horror stories for any of these men to be that stupid.

Ken was bragging about fixing bloody rapists, starting with the Ironmen, which might be why Dealer sold a lot of ammunition to the Geeks. He kept expecting to find their compound sacked, because none of their neighbours liked them.

* * *

Over a week later, a report arrived at the city centre that Dealer understood better than anyone else. The twenty-three border guards from three guard posts had been ambushed well away from the wire, coming off duty. They had been wiped out by a hail of crossbow bolts, accurate enough to kill them instantly and silently. Pistols, bayonets, ammunition, boots, helmets and body armour were all missing, and the bolts had been dug out of the bodies. Their transport and the automatic weapons with their trackers were left with the bodies, along with a small Union Flag on a wooden shaft, planted in one body.

Three days later, Dealer heard a rumour going around the enclaves that the attack had been Soldier Boy. Nobody inside the wire should have known there’d even been an attack. The next time he saw Supply, Dealer was told there’d been attacks near three other cities, allegedly by Soldier Boy. There were two people claiming to be him, in Manchester and Leeds, and the one in Leeds had a Killer Queen.

Supply thought that slavers and smugglers were passing the rumours city to city, then chancers were using the names to get recruits. That meant the stories would spread everywhere behind the wire, then back out through the Mart guards. As far as Dealer was concerned, the main point was that he and his family were off the hook.

Even so, he increased preparations for a sudden move, without saying a word to his family. He daren’t risk either of them saying the wrong thing to a friend, and wouldn’t have been surprised to find out his home was bugged. At least all the Barbarian gear on sale meant he could pack away another two plated jackets, more ammunition and another machete. Swapping gang souvenirs with soldiers, Rambo knives were a favourite, procured enough MREs to feed his family for a week. He hoped that would be long enough for an initial search to ease off.

His descriptions of Bitch the Barbarian kept his family, and any surveillance, amused. Dealer was relieved that she wore clothes, but not many. He noted that in spite of that, and the way her female guards dressed, none of the gangsters made a single crude comment. That suggested she frightened Barbarians—not a happy thought. Dealer had always been worried Conan would kill him on a whim, but despite the hype Bitch seemed more balanced.

Bitch bargained hard for medicines, paying most of the bill with coupons, her own coupons because she’d won a bet. That was definitely different, as was paying in cash instead of using loot. Dealer finally met the nun who ran the hospital—she was allowed to order specific drugs for next time round.

As April slipped by, Dealer prepared himself for the slaughter, rape and bragging when the Last Prophet conquered Sutton Park.

* * *

Soldier Boy:

Two days after refusing, once again, to train anyone to fight, Soldier Boy was being blackmailed, bullied and inveigled into doing exactly that. The young woman with the four long, scabbed wounds down her face had her script, but she didn’t need to act. She meant every word.

“I don’t know if you remember me. I spoke to you after the escape, then two days ago. My name is Danica, Nikki. Some of those people said you taught them to fight.” She rushed on before Harold could say no, as he had before, pointing at her face. “Do you know how I got these? I objected to warming some bloke’s bed. I tried escape, then to fight him so he did this. If I’d met you a year ago, I’d have gutted the bastard.”

“Too late. I’m sorry.” He was, even though Harold knew it did no good to train them. He’d trained scores, made them truly dangerous, but they still died.

“It’s not too late for these other women. Not even for me. The next time I see someone mauling a woman I want to kick him in the balls, then pull a knife like that lass has and cut him.” Nikki pointed to the child sat next to Harold, hugging a Doberman-Labrador cross. The knife on her belt was more like a short sword, not the bayonet she’d had last time, just after the escape. “I want to carve him up, see how he likes it.”

It wasn’t working; she could see the denial in his eyes. Nikki couldn’t understand it—everyone said he was a stone-cold killer, sudden death with blade or gun. Her hands twitched, wanting to grab him, to shake him, make him understand. “Even if I died I’d take him with me, I might even get a couple of his mates, but it’ll never happen because I can’t fight. Your niece, a nine-year-old child, did better than me. That corporal said she nearly killed one with a crossbow, then got a knife into him. He counted her as a fighter and me as disposable meat.”

“You could teach me properly as well, Uncle Harold. Then next time I can save Casper.” Daisy knew she couldn’t actually save Casper, not now, but Harold understood what she meant. She could save Wills, or her mum, someone she cared about.

Daisy pulled out the Rambo, which really did look like a sword in her small hands. “This is too big for me to stab like a knife, but you can teach me to use it like a sword. Aunty Ru said if you did, she’d teach me to use a knife, a smaller one. Aunty Patty has promised to help me with my crossbow, so I don’t hit the armour next time.” Nobody had to give Daisy a script. She wanted to kill all the scroats who’d taken away everyone from her daddy all the way to Casper—four long years later.

Three more young women had ghosted closer, pretty ones, all looking worried. Danica pointed to them. “Look at them, Soldier Boy or Harold. I don’t care which one you are, I want one of you to teach them, so they never see the look on their boyfriend’s or family’s faces when they turn up looking like me.” She knelt so her face was close, stabbing her fingers at her cheeks. “Everyone flinches, or looks away. Here.” She grabbed his hand, pulling it to her face. “What man will ever kiss this? Or want to wake up to this view in the morning? At least let me do something about it!”

She stopped, shocked because Harold hadn’t pulled his hand away, repulsed. Instead there were tears in his eyes. “Exercises. You need exercises first.” The words were faint, and rough because Harold hadn’t really spoken for a while, or not out loud. Mostly it was one or two words to answer Daisy. In his head he’d apologised, again and again, to his dead, to the faces he knew and remembered. Now he knew he’d remember this face, so he had to try and keep her alive. “Machete, hit a piece of wood.”

When he tried to clear his throat, Danica thrust a bottle of water into his hand, her face alive with hope. Harold warned her, knowing it wouldn’t stop her—it never did. “Hard work, hours of hard work, days, weeks.”

“I can do it, I swear.” Danica almost kissed him, then remembered her face. Just for a moment she’d forgotten, so maybe if she trained hard enough she could forget again. “Machete and wood. Will you show me?”

Harold slumped because she’d done it—she’d broken through, and now he knew he would train her. He would train Danica to be a better killer than she ever imagined, even though she’d still die. That way she could make them pay for it, like the others had, all those others. “You’ll make them pay.”

Others were crowding forward, but it was too late to stop them now because they’d watch anyway. Then they’d get it wrong and some scroat would kill them, so he had to train them properly. Tears were streaming down Harold’s face now, tears for all these young women and men, grief because once he’d trained them they’d die. They always died.

* * *

The women were pulled back by Patty and Emma, Umeko and Tessa, eased away so the veterans could explain. He’d said yes, so Harold would do it, but right now he needed peace. Any trainees had to get fit before he started training, or they’d never keep up. The first exercise only needed a piece of thick wood and a sword or sabre. “Here, inside this lorry so I can show you.” Patty looked at the seven women and four men who’d followed her. She’d seen that look before—they’d suffered, or someone they cared about had died or suffered. There’d be more volunteers once these started learning.

Patty was sure there’d be at least twenty—those who’d survived the arena by killing other innocents. They wouldn’t want to be in that position again, fighting for their lives with no idea of how to use a weapon. “This is a sabre and this is a sword, both much better at killing than a machete. Emmy uses a sword but I use a sabre. It was designed for me. The sword is based on Harold’s swordstick, but that’s gone now.”

“So why can’t you teach us sabre?” Danica picked the sabre up, swishing it. She tried the sword. “The sabre is a bit lighter, and has a curve and more of a point, but the sword is longer. What difference does it make?”

“They just suit different styles. I can get you started with a sabre but I can’t teach you properly, two-handed. Harold taught me sabre and Emmy sword, so he might tell you you’ve picked the wrong one. Believe him.” Patty showed her left hand, with the missing fingers. She used the hand to pull out a slim metal rod with a long thick section to make a grip, and a wider section to weight the other end. “Harold will teach you to use this in the other hand. I can’t hold it properly, as you can see. He’ll teach you to use this in the other hand as well.”

Patty’s right hand unsheathed her Rambo fighting knife, nearly seventeen inches of sharp steel based on the film version. She flicked it towards the side of the lorry—the sharp, heavy blade punched right through the thin metal, only stopped by the hilt. “You’ll learn to use a knife with either hand, but how well you throw depends on you, personally. The best of us could nail a man down the length of this lorry, instant kill.” She paused—Mercedes wouldn’t be doing that again.

“What about guns? Then we don’t need a sword or a knife.” This man swished one of the slim swords. “This doesn’t seem heavy enough.”

“Try hitting a lump of wood as hard as you can for an hour, then you’ll be pleased it isn’t heavier. That sword will stop a blow from an iron bar or machete, slide between the plates on armoured jackets or tear out a throat. We’ve got four sniper-class shooters here, five with Harold because he taught us that as well. We can all kill with a sword when the ammo is gone. No short cuts. If you want Harold to teach you, it’s all the way. Don’t piss him about or I’ll smack you stupid.” For a moment the man almost said something, but then he remembered what he’d been told about the small, dark-haired woman.

“Demon, I remember now. Sorry.” He swished the sword again, thinking about swinging it for an hour. He daren’t ask because he was suddenly sure Demon could do just that, even with that damaged hand. Several of the others asked questions after trying both blades. They took turns to hold the metal rod, heavier than it looked because the steel tube was filled with lead. This one had a sleeve for her damaged hand, so she didn’t lose her grip.

“You’ll all wear one of these.” Patty tapped her heavy, steel-plated jacket. “From when you wake up until you sleep, until you don’t notice the weight when you are fighting.” Several turned to look at Daisy. “Yes, that child lives in the same thickness of armour, for exactly that reason, so don’t complain.”

Within half an hour Patty had them hacking at blocks of wood taken from low-loaders, but she warned them to switch hands before getting blisters. When both arms were tired, they could all meet Wamil, the physical training expert. None of the trainees were reassured when they were told they would exercise muscles they’d never known they had. Several looked happier when Patty explained that the exercises would also teach them how to kill a man with their bare hands.

Patty left them deep in thought, but still hitting lumps of wood. She smiled because Daisy was chopping along with them, using her Rambo. She’d still be chopping when the rest quit, which should make them try harder. Patty’s face straightened. It was time to stop moping—she would have to get back into training, sharpen up herself.

* * *

Five days later, Harold finally came to see his sister, officially. She’d seen him when the whole group moved to an abandoned village, and he’d spoken to her when she’d collected Daisy or brought her back—this was different. “I need you to keep Daisy here when I go.”

“Go where?” Sharyn started to stand up, but he raised a hand to stop her.

“Not like that—just on a mission. We need weapons, ammunition and firearms, especially ammunition. Enough for some practice.” A vague wave indicated the other eighty-three, the rest of their group. “If there’s a fight we’ll be shot dry in minutes. Then even if I train everyone with blades, the scroats will pick them off one by one.”

“Where are you going to get ammunition? You can’t attack an Army depot; that’s suicide.” Sharyn thought hard, but the only other option was… “A convoy? They’ll call for help, then a helicopter will follow you back here.”

“No, not a convoy, or not one of the big ones on the motorway. They are going too fast, and there are too many, with too many radios to silence. We’ll go after a smaller, slower convoy, one we saw in Hampton in Arden, on my first scout after my head cleared up.” Harold stopped, letting the memories and grief wash over him. Mercedes had led that patrol, with Mika, Sophia—all those other young women—all gone now. All except Roxanne—she’d been there, and remembered where it was.

He pulled himself back out of the mental black hole—Harold was getting a lot of practice doing that. “That’s where Roxanne went. She’s trying to get a schedule for them. There were only four lorries with one armoured car. The armoured car parked up to let the lorries past, with the hatch open and the officer’s head and shoulders sticking out.” Harold sighed because he knew this would cause trouble. “I’ll take people like Patty and Umeko, with a few trainees, but Daisy will want to come. I’ll teach her to defend herself, but I won’t take her into a fight.”

“Even though that’s what she wants. She’s like a lot of others, me included. She wants blood price for our dead. I’ll keep her here, as long as you promise you’ll come back. No stupid risks.” Sharyn got up, walking over to hug her little brother, hard. “Boots polished, armour cleaned, welcome back little brother. Tell her you need her to watch over Wills and Eddie, and me.”

She pulled back far enough to look him in the eye, but she could see he wasn’t really back, not like before. There was no spark, no passion. Even though he worked himself ragged training the newcomers, pushed them to their limits again and again, Harold was only doing this because he should, because his conscience drove him. Sharyn paused, then confessed something a mother never wanted to. “She won’t believe me, but she might believe you.” For long moments Sharyn struggled, because she didn’t want to say the rest. “If you want her to truly believe, find her a gun. A pistol, single-shot will do.”

“Are you serious? I’ve been telling her no because I thought you’d go crazy.” Harold shrugged because of why he’d expected his sister to blow her stack. “Daisy won’t shoot anyone by mistake. She carried that little crossbow for almost a year, and never let a bolt go by mistake.”

“No, but she didn’t hesitate when she had a real target. Daisy is really bitter about that crossbow not killing the soldier, though to be honest I’m glad. They might have shot her.” Sharyn had thought hard about the pistol thing. “Without a pistol she won’t believe she can guard us. Just having something that will go through a vest will make a big difference to her, stop her worrying about it happening again. With luck she’ll never need it, but she’ll sleep better.”

“If I can get in the way, she’ll never even need the knife.” It wasn’t really worth a smile, but it was their joke. “Alien Killing Machine if necessary.”

Sharyn bit back a comment about how he was nearer to a machine than he’d ever been before. “They can be very reassuring. I’ll brace myself for the storm.” Though Sharyn realised she didn’t have a vital piece of information. “When are you going?”

Harold shrugged, he didn’t know. “Once Roxanne has seen two convoys, we’ll assume the third will be the same timing. I’ve got plenty of training to do while I wait.” There was some suspicion in the look, but Harold wasn’t sure enough to ask if he’d been set up, or confident he’d spot a lie. He was sure Sharyn knew about his nightmares, and they’d definitely eased off since he’d started training the refugees. They still came back at night, his sacred dead, but they approved of what he was doing.

Sharyn watched him go, worried because her brother wasn’t back from the brink, not yet. He was putting on an act, pretending he’d recovered, but he was still churning Hope Valley and the escape over and over again, blaming himself. The training wasn’t faked—he was deadly serious about that, but Sharyn understood the occasional comment that passed others by. Harold didn’t think it would save the trainees in the end.

Sharyn hoped that eventually their own belief—and Harold having to pretend he believed in them—would eventually pull him back.

* * *

Sexual Liberation Juggernaut:

Among the Orchard Close alliance, the success of the attack on the Ironmen had led to a fortnight of frantic activity. Another three enclaves, with the surrounding satellites that paid tribute, woke up to a change of management followed by a rash of executions. Only one gang objected to the Sexual Liberation Juggernaut, as the Barbies christened the armed column, passing through their territory. News about their abrupt change of management spread across the south-east of Birmingham.

Another message was also spreading—it wasn’t conquest, the Army weren’t taking over. The liberated enclaves were left to rule themselves, democratically. None of the heavily armed men and women would interfere in how an enclave was run as long as nobody got in their way—unless the enclave sexually abused either men or women. A few enclaves had a quick change of policy, which left no obvious targets, but some of the liberators had their tails up now.

The wiping out of so many gangs the previous year had not only liberated their brothels—it had removed the threat of being ‘recruited’ that had been hanging over hundreds of women in satellite enclaves. Most of the young women had been relieved to get on with their lives without the threat of abuse, but some went further. Over a hundred young women, and a smaller number of young men, had spent the year since then training. Now they’d put that training into practice, killing some personal demons along with the flesh and blood monsters. Flushed with success they wanted more, they wanted to clear the whole city, and were willing to shed their own blood to get it done.

Despite their enthusiasm, the most militant might never have been able to get backing, but some respected veterans had unfinished business with the scroats out there. Better yet, they were the sort of people who could go straight to the top, to the likes of Vulcan the GOFS warchief.

* * *

Nate still hadn’t managed to get enough payback for Beverley, not from the right people, so he had a suggestion. “Four enclaves next to the motorway to the north pay that Prophet nutter to leave them alone. They’re still being raided by somebody, so we should offer protection.” He scowled because all the gangs making up the General’s army, the men who killed Beverley, had been dealt with except the Prophet. “The raiders look a lot like the Prophet’s men, but without the crosses. If we happened to be waiting, we could find out exactly who they are?”

“It’ll have to be more than a raiding squad. Those Children of Cain were serious fighters, strong, well-protected and well-trained. The Riot Squad might have trouble one-on-one.” Gemma hated saying that but it was true. If the Children of Cain hadn’t retreated, they might have stopped the counter-attack. “We can’t use the men from Genoa, Julius’s men. They are meant to defend these enclaves, not charge off to clean up the city. Without them we might spoil a raid, but that doesn’t mean we can stop the scroats escaping back across the motorway.”

Vulcan looked at their intense faces. He was sure there’d be some attempt, with or without official sanction, so he’d better make sure it wasn’t a disaster. “Then do it properly, and quickly before you’re needed in the fields. Ask Prof to loan you a portable thrower then take a strong force, a hundred at least, all volunteers. You can set up in the ruins near an enclave, one that’s keen on getting these raiders slapped down. Take food and water, then keep your heads down, invisible except for a few scouts watching possible targets. When they turn up?”

Watching the anticipation on their faces, Vulcan remembered being part of the rampage after the General was defeated, wiping out all the gangs involved. Some part of him wished he could go as well. “I can’t come with you, I’m too official. If I was seen it would start an official war and the gang leaders haven’t okayed that.” Vulcan turned the map around, pushing it towards Tell. “You could organise the whole exercise, to see if you’d like my job? It’ll be a challenge. No cannon or turtle, nothing distinctive. If that sort of thing is missing, people will wonder why.”

“With the number of volunteers we can raise, we won’t need them, or the Tank, or Bertha or your car, Vulcan. Maybe a rocket launcher, or a bolt thrower from Orchard Close?” Tell thought through the weapons available. “Married life seems to suit Galileo—he’s produced a litter of baby catapults. They’ll throw a smallish rock or a couple of pipe bombs a hell of a distance.”

“Some of the Professor’s lot might come with us and bring a rocket launcher. There’s definitely some Barbies and GOFS that will come, veterans to stiffen the rest. We’ve all got scores to settle with the Children of Cain. We’ll take lots of rifles, and bikes so we don’t have to stick to cleared routes. Then we can cut off the raiders. While the scroats are taking cover, we’ll have time to bring up the heavy weapons.” Nate’s fist came down hard. “Corpses of Cain. Slain Cain?”

“I’m all for that.” Gemma and Nate looked at each other—they both had dead to avenge.

The Barbies were onside for a different reason. “When Patton and the rest of the Bloods ran away, the convoy included some of those bastards with the crosses.” Beach Beetch looked up at the tall, broad man next to her. “We’ve often wondered if Patton joined them, and he’s just the type to be raiding. If you can confirm he’s there, we might be able to persuade the rest to launch a proper attack. My hubby has a mace with Patton’s name on.”

Logan nodded, he’d lost a lot of friends in that attack. “Pity Harold isn’t here. Him and Mercedes have scores to settle with that lot.”

“How about we fight under a Union Flag? The Barbies will still have some.” Gemma grinned, pretending to wave a flag. “We don’t have to actually say if they’re there or not? There’s still one flying over the house in Orchard Close, so even the really thick perimeter guards will get the message.” Around the table, heads nodded, slowly at first but then more enthusiastically. They all wanted to wind up the perimeter guards. Better still, if word spread Harold had come home, the assholes out there wouldn’t be looking in the right places.

* * *

The Last Prophet:

The thirty raiders crossing the motorway were joking and giving each other high-fives. Patton swerved across to Jephthat. “No real casualties, so we can hit another one in a few days.” He grinned, holding up a crate full of plastic bottles. “Pity we couldn’t rustle the goats, but the milk will fetch a good price.”

“Too obvious, Golden Boy would notice a flock of goats in your back yard.” Jephthat looked around the laughing men, all carrying extra weapons or something that would sell. “Not really a big score.”

“Because we hit a few herders, but that’s not the point. We killed fifteen including seven fighters, and the women will describe us. They’ll definitely remember us, so if we do it again their enclave will stop paying the Prophet. Then we can do the job properly.” Herod had brought a goat, a dead one so the raiders could have extra meat in their stew tonight. “That’s if the pussies have the balls to complain to the Prophet?”

“About what?” Patton pointed at his vest. “No cross. Sorry guv, not guilty.”

“We won’t have time for another raid.” Jephthat didn’t have to fake being sorry—the raids had been a lot of fun after a miserable winter. “When we go after the Park, His Holiness and the cross-licker will want to know how anyone who is already wounded got injured. These will be part-healed sparring injuries, but fresh wounds would be harder to explain.”

“I thought we were waiting for Easter?” Patton had been counting days.

“All the nagging must have had an effect. Easter starts Friday according to the latest revelation, so that’s three days earlier than we expected. Then Lilith pointed out we should attack a couple of days before, because the prophesy said we’d celebrate at Easter so we have to have won before then.” Jephthat had been saving the news, and the big grins all around made it worthwhile.

“Lilith is getting soft, did someone get into her knickers?” Herod glanced back towards the raided enclave. “We could bring her next time, then if someone mistook her for a captive?”

“Stop lusting after her, it’s only because she’s off the bloody menu.” Jephthat frowned, then glanced at Patton with a smile. “She’ll be on the Park attack, along with the Prophet, so if someone spikes her drink at the party afterwards, Herod?”

“She’s a prophetess, so it’ll be her own fault if she doesn’t see it coming. Now everyone calm down or the rest will hear us coming home, then we’ll have to give up the loot.” Patton slowed up, heading towards a shed. “We’d better get our crosses on like good little Children.”

Chapter 6
Happy Easter, Children

Last Prophet:

Patton was finally happy—the Children of Cain were gearing up and moving out. Better still, Lilith had come up with a very precise vision, one that described exactly where Sutton Park had their fighters.

The sketch of the vision looked suspiciously like a map drawn by a spy, one who was peeking through a hole in the wall while Sutton Park decided their strategy. Patton figured the Last Prophet or Lilith got a camera in there, or turned someone high up in one of the Sutton Park gangs. Just as well because all that extra training, and the extra numbers from the small enclaves Sutton Park absorbed, had evened the numbers.

A voice bellowed behind him, but it wasn’t aimed at Patton. “Move you assholes, or you’ll get my boot.” Patton’s Host, the reborn Bloods once he’d got them all properly trained, were happy—the fifty men and youths ahead of them weren’t. That was down to another revelation, but it wasn’t a bloody angel whispering in her ear. Patton was sure Lilith must have her own version of Rhys, the General’s spymaster, tucked away someplace.

God had decided that the Chosen, the poor bastards who dug the fields then paid rent for the privilege, were to have their chance to earn glory. They’d certainly get a chance at the afterlife, a near certainty because the two hundred and fifty would be going in first, fifty in front of each Host, bullet or machete magnets.

“You’re at the front you stupid shit, that’s why you’ve got a fucking machete.” Atlas, Patton’s second, was on the job. Only the front rank had a machete, then if they were killed the next bloke picked it up. The trouble was, none of them fancied the front rank so they kept easing back.

At least they’d all got plated jackets, sort of. Just their ordinary clothes with metal plates fastened to them, some of it so thin Patton could sneeze through it, but at first glance they looked like genuine fighters. “Pick that fucking club up and hang on, or the next time I’ll jam it up your arse so you can’t drop it.” The youth picked up the length of roofing timber with the end thinned and rounded to make a grip.

Behind the stumbling, complaining, reluctant mob each actual Host, with the extra fighters they’d recruited, was up to a hundred and twenty. That was six hundred, the same as Sutton Park, but most of the Children of Cain were better fighters one-on-one. The problem had always been the losses getting to grips, which would have made it a close fight without all the human shields.

Patton was careful not to sneer at the Last Prophet, up on a Land Rover watching them march out, with ranks of heavily armed fighters behind him. Today the Prophet’s Guard, fifty absolute fanatics, would join the attack. When Patton tapped his driver the jeep set off, keeping pace with his Host. He looked at the drawing Lilith had given him, hoping it was right.

According to this, Sutton Park had placed four hundred fighters in a fortified section of ruins, on the border where the Hosts daren’t try to bypass them. There were another hundred in the small enclaves on each flank. They’d armed fifty residents in each of those enclaves, because they only had to hold for a short time if the Children of Cain attacked along the flank. Then the rest of the Park fighters would arrive and hit the Host from behind. The four hundred in the middle were to do the same, hold on until the two flanking forces came in.

It was a pretty good plan against six hundred, one that might have worked without the extra suicide squads. Nine hundred would run right over the middle force, then split into five to take every gang’s home base. When the flank forces arrived, they could surrender or watch their families shot one at a time.

As Lot’s Host dropped in behind his, Patton saw the reason the Sutton Park main force would be smashed—the rocket launcher. That had gone into hiding as soon as he arrived, and stayed there, in the Prophet’s own enclave where no spy or chance raid would find it. Now the ten rockets would blow a hole through the middle, scare the rest shitless, and the Hosts would trample them.

That would leave the Sutton Park enclaves helpless. Patton’s Host would be heading for the Hard School to teach them a lesson. Even if there were a few guards, they’d have no chance, then Patton would show his new Host how the Bloods partied.

* * *

Sutton Park:

The rider on an electric motorbike was waved through the Sutton Park guard posts, towards where the gang leaders had been living for the last week. Jumping off, he waved a digital camera. “It’s today, and there’s bloody hundreds of them.”

“Okay everybody, positions. It’ll take them an hour at least to get here.”

“Just a minute, Odin. I’ve had a delivery.” Jer had known the Children were coming for nearly an hour. He’d also known about the bullet magnets, but he’d needed time to talk it through with the rest of his group. They’d come up with some conclusions, which Jer really hoped were the right ones. If not, the gang leaders would never trust him again, but they’d probably be dead anyway. He took a deep breath, then took off his long jacket.

“Shit Jer, you want to join the Army?” Shiner laughed, then it faltered as he saw the three stripes, the belt with a holster and pistol, and a bayonet. He pointed at the other weapon on Jer’s belt. “Where did you get a Gurkha knife?”

Jer smiled, pointing to his face. “Gurkha. The midwife gives us one as soon as we’re born, instead of a teething ring.” All round him men and women were putting hands on weapons, but several laughed at the joke, relaxing again. “I’ve retired from the Army, Shiner, but I kept some of my toys and right now you need them.” Jer waited to make sure nobody actually drew a weapon. “I’ve also got the Prophet’s plan of attack so we need to reorganise, quickly. No twitchy fingers please, I’m going to take it out now.”

“I’ve heard that before. I hope it’s worth the build-up.” Hangaku gave a little curtsy as several people laughed, then she shrugged. “Sorry Jer, automatic reaction. Now what have you got, pretty please?” The queen of the Yakuza still looked rattled, but she was rallying.

“This is what was just issued to each of his Host leaders.” The sheet of cardboard had the Sutton Park positions marked, how they’d be set up to meet the Children. There was also a big arrow that went right through the middle block, then split in five to take out the home enclaves, which was the Gurkhas’ best guess at the Hosts’ battle plan. “There’s at least eight hundred coming, and someone gave them our positions. Once they’ve smashed through the fighters, they’ll walk over what’s left in your home enclaves, then guess what?”

“Families out front, shoot one a minute. The flanking force will surrender, so will any survivors of the first battle.” Angel looked at the sketch, then down at her shotgun. Her face hardened. “Who told them?”

“I don’t know, not yet. We’ve got someone inside one of their Hosts, high enough up to see this as soon as it was issued. He’s not high enough to find out things like that.” That sounded better than torturing the occasional captive for information, then guessing. Jer took another deep breath. “I can tell you how to stop them, or your best chance?”

“Go on.” Shiner glanced towards home, and Chelle—he couldn’t help it.

“Defend your home enclaves, because if you do, you’ll have extra help. Another twenty in each, on average. They’re armed and trained.” Jer waited for someone to reach the wrong conclusion.

* * *

It was Shiner. “You were going to lead a rebellion, chop us?” He hefted his mace. “Chelle said there was something about you parkies.”

“With twenty in each place? Not likely. We thought there was a spy, so we wanted to have an extra surprise.” This time Jer was confident the gang leaders would like what he showed them. “Gaje?”

“Sarge.” As the leaders turned, Gaje opened his coat with one hand as he brought up his slung Army rifle with the other.

Jer cut in before anyone reacted. “We’ve got three Army automatics, some ammo, and men who are experts at using them. That’s me, Gaje and Kabir, one for each of three gangs to help them hold their home base. You’ve got the two you took in the raid, which I reckon will deal with some of the extra numbers at the other two enclaves.” He turned to Odin. “You can use your Army rifle, or give it to a professional. You can always stand by him with a pistol if you’re worried?”

“Would it make any bloody difference?” Headmaster looked from the rifle to Jer’s kukri, remembering a suspicion he’d had on the big raid. “The three dead men in a car, you stopped the alarm getting out of the garrison town. The mystery idiot who blew himself up, along with half the ready squad?” He started laughing. “Did that sentry actually go to sleep?”

Slashing a hand across his throat, Jer smiled—mostly in relief because Headmaster was laughing, not going for a gun. “Guilty, but we weren’t sure how you would react to us and didn’t want the Prophet to find out. Unfortunately, we don’t have any more grenades.” Jer finally saw Kamal signal; the spy was on the move. “You’d better decide quick, trust me or go for the original plan.”

* * *

Headmaster nodded, still smiling. “You already had your chance if you wanted us hurt, so I’m in.”

“Unless you’re going to turn at the last minute, sell us out to the Prophet?” Though Angel’s voice didn’t really believe that.

“British Army, remember, and we have families living here. You really think we’d let animals like the Children of Cain get near them?” Jer needed them moving, so he could divert Odin. “You haven’t got long if you’re going to reorganise. Tell all the other civvies, those not in your compounds, to run for the small enclaves to the west.”

“The messengers already went out to clear the smaller places, so they weren’t used as hostages. What if the spy tells the Prophet we are re-organising?” Headmaster looked in the direction the Children of Cain would come from. “They’ll change their plan.”

“To what? They have to beat you five somehow. Now the only way is to attack your homes, walk through everything you throw at them to take the buildings and families. The Prophet could hit one enclave at a time, but that’s a lot of men, a long, unwieldy column travelling through ruins. You could use the cover to hit them from both sides, a volley then fade away, again and again. You’d bleed them badly before it ever got to machetes. To be honest they still might win, capture your homes, but it’ll cripple them.”

Jer looked the other way, towards the smaller, forcibly allied enclaves. “Then with luck the guards you left in those enclaves, with the extra civvies you armed in the flanking enclaves, will finish them off.”

“Sod it, I’m in. I never did like leaving our families more or less unprotected.” Shiner looked from Jer to Gaje. “Who do I get?”

Gaje saluted Shiner, finally smiling. “My family is in there as well, Shiner—with Ganju’s and Asif’s. Ganju will help us defend your place with his service pistol and knife. Asif is a genuine Army sniper. He’ll be out there with his rifle, sneaking about trying to kill the Prophet, their shooters, and the Host leaders.”

“Good enough for me. Chelle is going to give me hell. She always said we should have brought in bricks to build a wall.” Shiner started shouting for his men, or the ones he’d need to round up the rest. “Let’s get everyone home, with all the ammo we can carry, then I’ll explain the change of plan.” He headed for his car. “Come on Gaje, you can explain to Chelle.”

“Hold up.” Hangaku was frowning, thinking. “We should have a signal. One thick column of black smoke means all the Children hit one compound, come and help. Anyone who isn’t being attacked heads for the smoke? No, that could mean we’ve been overrun, too late. Smoke with a couple of the fireworks we got for signalling?” There was a quick round of agreement.

“Now which one of your lads is coming home with me, Jer?” Angel frowned, looking around. “No fair, no soldier girls, just boys. Hey, that means we’ve got our own Soldier Boy, like the bloke in the rumours, only we’ve got one each. The Prophet is stuffed.” She began to shout and point, sending her fighters home, and the other gang leaders followed suit.

* * *

“You’ve got Kamal, Angel.” Jer intercepted Odin. “I need you to come with me, no questions. It’s really important.”

“Right now?” Odin looked around at the chaos as everyone abandoned their plans.

“Tell your seconds the same as Shiner did, get everyone home then you’ll explain.” Jer pointed in the direction of Asif. “This way.”

“Through here, across the drainage ditch.” Asif pointed to a plank bridge, one that would be taken up before the enemy arrived. He handed Jer an Army radio. “Prakash has eyes on, so don’t transmit or you might give him away. Head down that path. I’m going to get dressed, see you later.”

“I doubt I’ll see you.” Jer smiled at his usual farewell to the sniper. Nobody saw Asif until he pulled the trigger. He turned, handing the radio over to Odin. “You listen so you know this isn’t a set-up. It’s Nepali so repeat it to me or keep it near for me to hear, then I’ll translate. Do not transmit. Unfriendly ears.”

As Jer promised, the gibberish was directions, until the sergeant stopped. “He says he can see us. You should keep very quiet while you sneak up to the corner house on the left, and peek in through the big window.”

Odin looked at the house, but didn’t move. “Why, the house is a ruin?”

Jer nodded, drawing his knife and putting a finger to his lips as he started forward, very quietly. Odin pulled his pistol before following. Jer beckoned him past, pointing without looking, so the gang boss peeked in then quickly drew back. “Frenchy?” He barely breathed the words. “With a radio?”

The puzzled look hardened as he realised what she was doing. Odin started forward but Jer stopped him, leaning close. “Questions, later.”

A quick jerk of his head agreed, but Odin still wanted to kill her. Partly because of the sheer embarrassment when the others found out, but mostly because she’d set up his gang, his people, to be killed and their families terrorised. He’d been completely suckered. She’d been in his bed, and on his knee at most meetings, while all the time Frenchy had been telling the Prophet every move. He switched his pistol for a knife—she could still talk if she was crippled.

As they waited, Odin began to worry Frenchy would go for a gun, but then he smiled, leaning in next to Jer. “I’ll wait back there. When she comes out I’ll walk around the corner, tell her I’ve been looking for her. When the bitch comes to meet me, get her alive.”

Jer nodded. He’d sprung the plan change suddenly, in public, in the hope Frenchy had a way to get in touch with her contact in an emergency. He wasn’t sure she’d have one, not until she’d slipped away; then Odin was the one to convince. Otherwise he’d defend her, and the gangs didn’t need an argument right now. He stepped back behind the corner of the building, so Frenchy would walk right past on the way to meet her lover, and waited.

It worked perfectly and once she was caught, Prakash nipped in to retrieve the evidence, the radio. Frenchy didn’t even try to deny it; she just shrugged, then maybe a minute later she dropped in her tracks. “Guess she didn’t fancy the questioning.” Odin sounded relieved, so maybe he hadn’t either. “Thanks Jer. Sorry.”

He needed Odin’s head in the fight, not beating himself up, so Jer gave him an out. “She fooled Headmaster first, worked her way up to the top of his gang. If she was a professional, trained, then amateurs never stood a chance.” Sharpening his tone, the Gurkha sergeant pulled Odin back to the current problem. “Prakash is your soldier because he doesn’t have a rifle of his own. He has his own pistol, as well as the one you gave him, but we’ve trained someone to use that if you’ll let them.”

When Odin just nodded, Jer gave him the rest. “We also liberated some weapons and vests while scouting, but not enough, so those twenty extra fighters are properly trained but only partly armed. I’d suggest using them under Prakash because they’re used to that, but you can take direct control if you wish. Listen for any contact on that spy radio, but I doubt it’ll happen.” Odin nodded again and left, deep in thought.

Jer collected his rifle then set off for the Yakuza, wondering how Hangaku would react to advice. He was hopeful—the Yakuza leader seemed to be both smart and practical. Her gang had helped capture the automatics, but Hangaku gave ‘hers’ to Angel because the Valkyrie was more used to shooting. The Gurkhas had assessed all the gangs and leaders—and they considered the Yakuza the strongest. Not in numbers of fighters, though Hangaku’s policy of accepting both men and women meant they ranked about third—the Yakuza’s real strength was their hidden knife.

Hangaku was considered soft by some gang leaders, because she made sure her ‘civvies’ were well housed and fed, but as a result they considered themselves part of the gang rather than being ruled by them. Some of the unarmed workers had even been trained to use weapons, but the Gurkhas weren’t sure how many. Jer didn’t know if Hangaku genuinely cared for her civvies—she was definitely ruthless enough to have wooed them deliberately.

As he travelled, Jer kept an eye open for Asif, but the sniper would have his party dress on now. The only way he’d be seen was deliberately, but Jer was hoping Asif could let him know how the Prophet’s army reacted to Frenchy’s message. If he saw the Prophet himself, the sniper would kill him, then with luck the rest would abandon the attack.

Jer would have felt a lot happier if he’d known Frenchy wasn’t contacting the Prophet, and her control didn’t have a way to contact Lilith while the seer was on the move. The controller wasn’t even sure what he’d do if he could, because whatever happened he’d be in the shit. The Easter prophesy had been a good idea at the time, but then he’d been given different instructions—to stop the attack. Instructions from God couldn’t be changed that easily.

* * *

Asif:

Asif was in his happy place, sneaking around looking for the ungodly with what even his wife consistently referred to as his girlfriend. He’d used a rifle like this before the upgrades to fifty cal, but this wasn’t actually his Army weapon.

The Army had phased out the Army Accuracy International AWM sniper rifle before the crash, during the period the government back home was reversing and scrapping race relations laws. He’d known his family could be targeted, so Asif had taken some precautions. Snipers were sneaky as a default, so liberating this rifle and a substantial supply of Lapau .338 Magnum rounds hadn’t been too difficult. Getting everything home took help from several friends.

Asif had been married long enough for his wife to get the real situation past the censor, so when the Army cutbacks started, he’d taken early discharge and come home to help out. Their small community of Gurkhas had ridden out the first chaos, then the conquest of the Park, without openly interfering. Now they’d agreed it was time to come out of the shadows, to stand up and fight. Asif smiled to himself, because in his case that meant going into the shadows, and definitely not standing up.

Parking his electric motorbike and shrugging on his ghillie suit, Asif disappeared into the ruins, ghosting towards the Children of Cain. Passing the Park’s original defence line, strengthened sections of ruins meant to look untouched from the east, he found the Prophet’s scouts. He let them pass, holding fire until he had more valuable targets. A couple of shots meant the scouts had found the defences—Asif hoped the gangsters had listened to Jer and there weren’t many defenders.

Watching the first attackers, Asif couldn’t find any targets, people obviously in charge. Most looked terrified, with several diving into cover at the first shot, but shouting from behind drove them forward. Rifles began to fire towards the Park defenders, which was what Asif had been waiting for. He killed four riflemen, puzzled when the advance stopped instead of charging forward.

The four lines of fire and flame that appeared, lancing out one after the other to strike the strongpoints in the centre, came as a complete shock, as did the explosions when they struck. With a roar, the centre of the Prophet’s army surged forward towards what would be shattered, demoralised fighters. There were only a couple of shots in reply, which reinforced the impression. After a short delay, two more missiles struck the flank strongpoints, one near enough for Asif to see the amount of damage.

When he laid his sights on the impact site, Asif was reassured. The gangs had listened to Jer, so there were only a couple of bodies.

The attack was washing right over the empty positions, which should give Asif a chance at the commanders, but he had to turn it down. Jer and the gang leaders had to be told about those missiles. As he broke contact, running back to his bike, Asif worked through what he’d seen. Only one point of origin, with a brief pause between each, then a longer pause before the last pair. It had to be a quad launcher or one with a four-shot magazine.

Asif leant over his bike, heading for the nearest enclave. That was his home as it happened, but he hoped he’d have time to get to them all.

To his surprise and relief, Gaje and Ganju were with Shiner, and so was Chelle. She insisted Shiner send the message to all the rest. With a mock scowl she pointed out that since he’d kept hidden from her, Asif’s job was to keep hiding until he could shoot that bastard Prophet. Now he had another reason to hide—she wanted him to shoot the bloody launcher crew as well. Shiner, Ganju and Gaje agreed, so the sniper headed back towards the Children of Cain with a clear conscience.

Now he just had to guess which enclave the Prophet and the launcher would attack. Asif thought they’d be together, so he had a one in five chance of being right.

* * *

Last Prophet:

Patton looked at the three bodies, less than one per rocket. So much for the bloody vision—there weren’t any defenders here. These fighters were only meant to stop the Hosts driving straight through, make them organise and launch a proper attack. It didn’t really matter if they’d known about the launcher or not—the ruse had spoiled the Prophet’s big surprise.

Now there were only four rockets left, so at least one home enclave was going to sting. “Jeppy!” He beckoned to the Host leader, who headed across so they could talk privately.

“Watch the bloody names, idiot.” Jephthat gestured at the bodies sprawled nearby. “And what else you say. People might be listening—not just the Prophet’s people.”

“Yeah, I get that, but to be honest it doesn’t matter now. We have to go after the home enclaves.” Patton scowled—the bloody God bit had fucked it all up again. “What matters is that we can’t hit them one at a time, because Lilith’s fucking vision saw each Host take one. Now I’m worried about where those bloody rockets will be used. Since we supplied them, I’d rather not bleed so ass-lick can make his life easier.”

Patton glanced across towards Jehoram, who was waving his arms about, shouting orders. “If he gets my men killed to give his Host an easier time, there’s going to be a nasty accident involving stray lead. Possibly for that fucking Prophet and Lilith as well, if anyone starts talking about crucifixions.”

Jephthat knew that wasn’t an idle threat. He didn’t mind if Jehoram got a lead aneurism, and was just as keen on making sure his own Host didn’t bleed more than they had to. “Come on, we’ll talk to Lilith. The visions showed Jephthat going for the place with the mobile homes and chalet things. There’ll be no wall, there isn’t enough brick there to build any sort of barricade. A crossbow will go through the walls, so no strongpoints, which is probably why he chose it.”

The sneer towards the Prophet’s second in command summed up Jephthat’s opinion of visions. “Oops, sorry, no, it’s because Lilith’s vision showed him conquering them, so it’s just God’s will.” The death of Abimelechk along with his mostly fanatical Host had left Jehoram the only original son, and his Host the only one consisting mostly of believers. The influx of Patton with his Bloods, then other recruits from enclaves outside the conquests, had led to almost open irreverence among the other Host leaders.

* * *

Jephthat got Lilith away from the rest, but she wasn’t convinced until Patton lost patience and butted in. “We should use the rockets against the toughest targets. Otherwise, those Hosts could be chewed up, which could lead to disaster.” He looked her straight in the eye. “Shit flying everywhere, it could hit anyone. I doubt even a prophesy or vision would see it coming, so a seer could catch a bullet or a brick.”

Lilith opened her mouth, to threaten him with being nailed to a cross if she was scratched, but the words died in her throat. The alleged seer wasn’t stupid—she’d survived four years as an agent, unscathed in a gang where women were considered disposable amusement.

Now she realised something several unlucky people had found out over the years. If Patton or his men were threatened, he’d deal with the threat regardless of the consequences. She was lucky. Most people found out too late that either the ex-Bloods leader wasn’t actually afraid of dying, or he didn’t think anyone was up to killing him. Either way, threats simply didn’t work.

“That is a good point, Patton. The vision was wrong about the unbelievers waiting in the centre for us, so we’d better not take chances. Do you have any insight as to where the rockets would help most?” She ignored Jephthat’s wide eyes—this was between her and Patton.

“Probably the places with strong walls, to blast a hole. Two rockets at each to be on the safe side.” Patton shrugged because now he knew she’d pick the Hard School, the one he was attacking, as one target. He didn’t care about the other one.

“That Yakuza bit… woman has built a proper wall around her place, interlocked brick, but rockets would blow the gates in.” Jephthat smiled when Lilith turned to look at him. “Since there’s only us three here, I don’t hear anyone arguing.”

Lilith got that one. Jephthat had heard Patton threaten her and seen her back down, but his silence could be bought—the price was two rockets. “I’m not a military expert, so I’ll take your word for it. Let’s hope the attacks succeed.” In other words, you’d better make sure this is the right decision.

“Let’s hope the Last Prophet agrees, and that Jephthat doesn’t persuade him different.” Patton couldn’t see how she could pull a vision or prophesy out of her ass in the middle of a battle.

“My problem, yours is to take those enclaves.” Lilith was back on balance—this was her comfort zone. “Which one needs the rockets first?”

“Patton’s, the Hard School. The Yakuza will think they’re safe, so they’ll stay put while we snipe at them.” Jephthat wasn’t risking random lead or bricks by being greedy. “It’ll give me more time to get my assholes organised properly, so we can hit as soon as the gates go down.”

“I’ll get mine over to the Hard School enclave, so I can work out the best place to make a hole.” Patton turned away and left, but Lilith held her sigh of relief until Jephthat was out of hearing.

* * *

She braced herself as she walked across to where, as expected, Jehoram was assuming he’d get the rockets. The Prophet had no bloody idea, so he was nodding to all the bullshit. “When are we moving forward?” Lilith stumbled, just a little, recovering but after another two steps she staggered again, catching at the Prophet’s arm as she fell. She’d have a couple of bruises, but that was better than a brick to the head.

Rolling her eyes back to show the whites she thrashed about on the ground, on a patch without too much rubble. There was no need to suffer needlessly. “The fire, the flame, oh the wonder! Death to the unbelievers! I see Lord, I see your messengers, coming in glory to scatter the heathen.” She kept mumbling and thrashing a little longer, letting it die down to occasional twitching, then laid still for a few moments with her eyes closed.

“Quickly, bring water. Lilith is having a vision. Jehoram, your coat for her head. You, yours as well, to cover her.” The Prophet was really excited. He didn’t usually get to see the actual trance—for two reasons. One was that Lilith couldn’t be arsed to go through all this, but the other was that visions made the Prophet touchy-feely, specifically Lilith-touch-and-feely. “Here, give it to me.”

Lilith felt her head lifted, then water was trickled into her mouth while someone threw a coat over her. She coughed, not totally faked as some water got down the wrong pipe, before opening her eyes. “What happened?” She looked around, alarmed, then relaxed with a big smile. “Oh, I remember. It was glorious, total victory, the unbelievers scattering in panic as the Faithful stormed forward.” She sighed happily, waiting, and the result was even better than expected. It was Jehoram who spoke up first.

“What was that, Lilith? A true vision?” The arse knew she could be bought, but he also believed she sometimes had the real thing. This was the first time he’d seen one, and he was obviously impressed.

“It was, but I’m not sure exactly what it meant. First was a schoolroom, but Satan was at the front, teaching. An angel’s fiery sword tore a gash in the wall, then I saw another angel, riding down with smoke and flame all around him. The angel blasted a big hole in the wall, so even as the schoolchildren grew horns and pulled out weapons, they were torn and burned. The Children of Cain poured through the gap, hacking them down. I wanted to see all the unbelievers die, but the vision changed.”

She pretended weakness, struggling to sit up until both Jehoram and the Prophet helped. With a sigh of resignation, which the other two thought was relief, she leant against the Prophet. He put an arm around her, ‘accidentally’ getting a firm grip on her breast under the coat that covered her, but that wasn’t unexpected.

The Last Prophet wouldn’t lay with a woman—he was too pure and holy, and most of the time he never gave a hint of frustration or attraction. Even so, he definitely lusted after his priestess, though he tried to hide his groping. Lilith suppressed a shudder as his other hand slid up her leg, hidden by the coat, then kept sliding up and under her robe. His voice spoke in her ear. “What was the rest of the vision Lilith, what happened next?”

“A gate and our enemies, shooting at the Children of Cain as they tried to break through. Then two angels came down on fiery steeds, shattering the gates and the ranks of the unbelievers. The Children of Cain charged through the flames, over ground covered in broken swords, those Japanese things.” Lilith drank water before turning to look up at Jehoram. “You know more about the enemy than I do, so I will need your help to interpret what I saw.”

For a moment he looked suspicious, but then his shoulders slumped. Either Jehoram believed her, or recognised a losing hand. “I believe it was guidance, the best places to use our remaining rockets.” He turned to bow towards the Prophet. “I was in error, Holiness. We should use the missiles against the Hard School enclave and the Yakuza. The Yakuza’s leader carries a Japanese sword, as do some of her top fighters.”

He frowned, thinking hard, genuinely trying to understand the exact meaning of the vision. “The difference, striking a building then a gate, might mean nothing, but we should consult the Host leaders for their interpretation.” The suspicion came back and he turned to look, but neither Patton nor Jephthat were in sight. “I will ask them.”

When Jehoram strode off Lilith relaxed, drinking more water before allowing the Prophet to help her up and into a seat in his Land Rover. His hands were everywhere, but it kept the crackpot on-side so she acted as if she didn’t notice. Lilith fervently hoped the bloody weirdo kept pretending it was accidental, never actually tried to strip or screw her. Her control, the government agent who gave her instructions, had told her to bang his brains out if necessary. No chance, or not unless it was a direct order.

Lily had been rescued from imminent gang rape in a work camp. She’d been given some training, then told her name was now Lilith and she was a secret agent. It wasn’t optional—if she ever messed up, she’d be put back in the same hut with the same men. Lilith didn’t care how many people died, or how many other women were raped and killed, as long as it was never her. She’d occasionally wondered if she’d been set up, but it didn’t matter. If she was put back in that hut the men wouldn’t care why—they’d pick up where they left off.

Gradually Lilith recovered, from memories rather than the vision. All around her the mass of men was splitting into five, a slow process because they’d become mixed up during the charge, but speed didn’t really matter. The enemy knew they were coming, and they would probably guess where, but the Host had the numbers and the weapons.

Some of the slow reorganisation was reluctance, and this time it wasn’t all from bullet magnets. A good few veteran fighters, and several leaders, had realised this fight would be very different. The biggest difference was numbers—the Hosts usually outnumbered their enemies at least two to one, often more. The machine guns and rifles from all the Hosts usually combined, which kept the enemy’s heads down as the Hosts charged home. This time, one Host would be managing without a machine gun at all. Another problem was that the usual barrage of last-minute pistol fire wouldn’t shatter the defenders—there wouldn’t be enough in any one place. Instead of burying the defenders in numbers, then chasing the runners, the Hosts would be in a real fight.

There weren’t even enough rifles to suppress enemy shooters—Sutton Park’s raid had stolen enough to almost even up. They’d also taken two machine guns, so the usual mass charge at the wrong defensive barricade would get a whole Host killed. The Host leaders would have to treat each target differently, use their fifty disposable men to exploit any weaknesses so they could get to grips. At close quarter the Hosts would win against similar numbers, but this wouldn’t be a massacre.

Lilith didn’t know enough to be sure of the odds, but she couldn’t contact her control for instructions. It would create a real shitstorm if she called it all off now, but if the Hosts were chewed up or defeated she might end up back in that hut. The likes of Patton and Jehoram still seemed confident, so she let it ride and hoped. Once Sutton Park was conquered, there’d be time to rebuild the Hosts. There wasn’t any other serious opposition in this section of Birmingham.

* * *

Asif:

Asif hadn’t reached the Hosts because he’d made his decision. One in five chance meant he could wait anywhere, so he only moved far enough away to cover those attacking his home. The rockets and Prophet should be at the back, but if not, he’d head for another enclave. Once he’d found and neutralised them, Asif would head for home, with enough ammunition to kill half the attacking Host.

Next came the part Asif had learned to manage, waiting for hours without losing track or dozing off, but relaxed enough not to get stiff or tired. It was harder this time, and not just because he didn’t have a spotter. His wife was in the Skin’s enclave, along with Gaje’s, Ganju’s, and the rest of their small group of ex-Army Gurkha, Gurkha wives and widows.

Eventually, the vanguard came past him, a rabble, the bullet magnets. Asif smiled happily as they ignored instructions, crowding towards the gaps in the deep, cold, muddy irrigation and drainage ditches. If the rest of the Children followed them, they’d come out in a tight group, then Gaje could chop the bastards down with nice economic bursts. Asif had spent enough time up to the crotch in that same cold water to sympathise with their reluctance, but real soldiers or dedicated fighters should maintain their lines.

The rear of the Host came into sight but there was no launcher or Prophet. Asif could see a consolation prize—the Host commander, the elder son of Cain. As his sights settled on the target, Asif cursed quietly to himself. He had a verbal description of the one who had Kubal hunted and killed, and this might be Jehoram, but what the man held was more important. That was an SA-80, an Army automatic, which would shoot straight through the walls of the mobile homes and chalets.

Putting his revenge to one side, Asif calmed himself. He’d only get one chance to wreck the weapon. The man he wanted to kill would hide but Asif put that out of his mind, waiting patiently until the vehicle stopped. He eased a little more pressure onto the trigger.

The rifle flew off the man’s lap but although he looked, Asif couldn’t see the damn thing. He couldn’t see the leader either. He was somewhere behind his vehicle, but from the reaction of all the men nearby, this was the one responsible for Kubal. Just as they had then, all the men in earshot had abandoned their mission and were running towards the shooter—or in Asif’s general direction because they had no idea where he was.

“Not this time, asshole.” Asif wasn’t near enough for them to worry him—in fact he waited in case himself lifted his head to look. Jehoram didn’t peek, but someone threw the rifle away from the vehicle. “Temper, temper.” That was as good a confirmation as he’d get—the .338 Magnum round had knackered the receiver.

Asif slid back from his vantage point before running, doubled over, for his bike. Odin’s enclave was the nearest, then the Hard School. He hoped he was in time to stop the rockets launching. Even as he rode, Asif kept wanting to turn back, to shoot as many as necessary to break the attack on his home, but he had to trust Gaje and Ganju—and Shiner.

* * *

Shiner:

The Skins were more ready than they looked. Shiner called out to his men as the first attackers paused at the last line of ditches. “One volley lads, pistols as well to show how many we’ve got, then first stage get moving. Gaje is going to give them a bloody shock in a minute, so we’ve got time to do this right. The rest of you, slow them enough for us to get set, then we’ll cover you.” He paused, waiting until the first attackers braved the cold water. “Fire!”

The volley didn’t kill many but it hit enough to send the Prophet’s bullet magnets diving for cover; then over half the Skins crawled away from their positions. They headed for the lake that prevented any attempt at surrounding their homes, and the boats that used to be hired to tourists. Now the boats would get the Skins across to the woodland on the other side. The fighters paddled or rowed hard—they all had to get across in time to hide before the Children came near enough to see between the buildings.

* * *

Gaje wasn’t with the defence line, the cars blocking the gaps between homes. He was ahead of them in one of the original rifle pits, where he could hit the Children hard while they were bunched. Ganju, in the next pit, laughed and pointed. “I’m really glad that worked. I was frozen digging that lot.” Both of them watched as the first fighters came cautiously to their feet after the volley, but instead of advancing they followed the edge of the drainage ditches.

“Asif was right; those don’t look like the recruits we saw.” Ganju had done his share of scouting, so he knew the Children of Cain recruits had been eating well and working hard, building muscle.

“They look like they’ve just started training.” Gaje looked down at the four clips, a hundred and twenty rounds. “The trouble is, I haven’t got enough ammo for all the bullet magnets and then the rest. I’m going to hit the magnets hard once they group, try to panic them, then I can save the rest for real fighters. That hunting rifle will be more accurate than I at longer range. Concentrate on anyone trying to organise them, then the real fighters.”

He turned further, to a youth laid under a nearby home. “Go back to those with rifles. Tell them not to shoot at the big group. I’ve got those, so kill the ones further back, those with more weapons.” The youth nodded before wriggling backwards.

* * *

Jehoram:

Among the advancing Children of Cain, there were several veterans shouting at the bullet magnets, but the civilians weren’t keen on the water or spreading out. “Someone get forward and tell them, get in the bloody water. There were a lot of guns firing, so we need cover for our fighters when we have to cross over.” Jehoram swept his binoculars across the enclave, keeping down in case that sniper was in there. “Lilith was sure the machine guns aren’t here?”

“Yes Revered One, the stolen weapons are with the Vikings and Valkyries.” The man was a good fighter, highly ranked, but Jehoram was in a foul mood after losing the machine gun so it was best not to take chances with titles. He watched the veterans trying to organise the untrained men, then saw some fall as rifles began firing. “Revered One, their real shooters, those with rifles, have revealed their positions.”

“That was prophesied. Send our riflemen forward to kill them.” Within minutes the two sets of long guns were engaged in a deadly duel. The shooting slowed the advance even more, as the front men ducked or flinched at every shot. “Since the cowards insist on crowding together in the centre, send the rest of the Host to charge up each side.”

“It will take a few moments, Revered One.” The aide got away from there as fast as possible, determined to join the attack rather than go back. It took a few minutes to reorganise—then the two blocks of sixty surged forward, slowing almost immediately as they had to wade, then climb out of the deep ditches.

Veterans urged the fighters on, but they weren’t that keen on wading either. “Come on, hurry up, you’re sitting ducks. Move, move.”

“Here, we knocked this down with a car.” The men had a small tree, not wide enough to walk along but a running man could use it for one step. Others were bringing branches or fence posts, anything they thought might help them to get across dry.

* * *

Sutton Park: Shiner

“Here they come.” Gaje laid his sights on the nearest group, those pushing through the bottleneck between ditches. He used up half a clip, following that with two short bursts to the flanks. He cut down several of the better-armed men lining the water’s edge, helping comrades out onto the bank, disrupting the rest. There wasn’t much point firing twice at the centre group—all those who weren’t hit were lying on the ground anyway. He raised his voice. “Rifles, keep hitting the men on the bank, ignore the shooters!”

Gaje wasn’t hopeful, but the Skins believed in their new soldiers. It wasn’t easy to ignore the people who could actually hit and hurt them, though enough of them concentrated on the Children along the banks of the ditches to force them into cover. “Come on Gaje, enough, or you’ll be swimming.” Ganju scrambled out of his dugout before diving behind the low brick wall supporting a chalet.

Gaje fired one very short burst from his second clip before following, reluctantly—he’d hoped to bleed the attackers a lot more. The main Host weren’t being diverted, though self-preservation was slowing them up. A bullet skipped off the concrete path nearby, so he concentrated on getting to the water as fast as possible.

* * *

Jehoram:

The two men were seen, briefly, as they left the rifle pits, so for a moment some thought the Skins were breaking. “After them, they’re running.” The veteran ducked because the rest of the Skins were still shooting. He turned back to shout at the supporting riflemen. “Hit them you blind bastards. They aren’t even shooting at you, so stop pissing about.” Turning back towards the objective he ran, crouched, towards the bullet magnets.

“Move now, or I’ll shoot you.” He shot one without waiting, then another, in the gut so they screamed. “Run, or I’ll shoot you all.” More frightened of their own allies than the machine gun, the first few stood and ran, followed by the rest when the machine gun stayed silent.

As the terrified amateurs pounded across the open grassland, the rifle fire gradually petered out and the attackers took heart. So did the real Children of Cain as more crossed the water safely. Usually the firing increased as the attack came nearer, because those with pistols began to open up. The first few reached chalets, kicking the doors open, then one turned back to shout. “Empty, it’s empty.”

With a roar, the rest charged home. The charge slowed as men spread out, kicking open more doors. Still there was no gunfire, no crossbow bolts—nothing. The main force were losing their caution, with some now four or five homes deep, and then one broke in a door but reeled back, coughing.

“Look out, gas, don’t shoot.” As he shouted, a short burst of firing broke windows—then a few fire arrows, with some Molotovs, sailed through the air. Only four homes exploded with anything close to the hoped-for violence, lashing the nearby Children of Cain with broken glass, splinters, and if they were near enough, with burning liquid.

Men screamed and dived for cover, half a dozen other homes burst into flame, and the whole advance faltered. Not for long, as most of those nearest the explosions staggered to their feet. Many would need medical attention later, but for now most of them could fight.

“That’s all they’ve got, finish them.” Even the bullet magnets charged forward now, cheering because they’d survived, though the cheering stopped as more firing broke out. Only in four places, but the four men killed several each, wounding others as they emptied their pistols at point-blank range. Once again the amateur Children threw themselves into cover, before being driven out and sent forward again.

“Suicide jobs, why the hell did they bother?” Voices called, then a few shots rang out so the veteran ran forward until he could see the water. “Cease fire, stop shooting you bloody idiots. They’re too far for pistols or crossbows.” The swimmers were almost at the other side of the lake, with the boats, crude rafts and ropes into the trees showing how they’d all crossed so fast. The Skins had never meant to stand. They’d bled the attack then got away, and there was no way to follow them across the water.

Not all the Skins had escaped. Several bodies with crossbow bolts in them were on the shore or floating, but there weren’t enough considering how many Children they’d killed. Now the last few swimmers were splashing through the shallows, and the veteran heard engines beyond the trees. As he turned, to send for the cars so the Host could follow, rifles opened up from the trees on the other side. Moments later he heard the machine gun. “Suckered.” That was his last word, or thought.

* * *

Sutton Park: Shiner

Across the water, Shiner had already sent half his men to what was once Kurt’s enclave, where the women and kids were trying to fortify the two rows of brick houses. He called to the men still paddling ashore. “Come on, come on. Get through the wood, then you can sit back, enjoy a taxi ride. Chelle will have dry clothes and a hot drink for you. Quick as you can, move it!”

The men would soon warm up, working on blocking gaps with their motors and then anything they could find. At least he’d still got enough men to make a stand. Shiner heard some of the vehicles set off, taking those without firearms. The rest would leave soon, but first there were some Children of Cain to kill.

Shiner’s knuckles were white as he gripped his pistol. He knew those men now floating in the water, or laid dead among the caravans and chalets. He’d had a beer with them long before the bloody crash, taken the piss out of them, swapped insults and jokes. Now he’d had to sit and watch them die, knowing he couldn’t save them. He couldn’t even shoot back until the Children’s veterans were sucked forward. He’d heard the outburst of firing as the Children came through the chalets—more of his friends dying, those who’d left it too late to run.

He might still lose the fight, or die, but Shiner vowed that if he lived, he’d hunt down every last asshole in a jacket with a cross. No running off to start again—he’d follow them as far as he had to.

He saw the first heavily armed attackers running into sight, shouting at those trying to loft crossbow bolts across the lake, or trying to hit his men with single-shot pistols. A few better pistols fired, but not enough. The next arrivals were what Shiner had been waiting for, real veterans, heavily armed and armoured, punching men to get their attention.

“Fire!” Shiner raised the .45, using up half a clip before he lowered it again. He’d practiced enough to know he’d got the range right, but actually hitting one of the bastards was a matter of luck. He knew it was mostly to make himself feel as if he was hurting them, but Shiner could hope.

The Gurkha’s rifle fired a short burst, scattering a group and leaving several down, some thrashing about in agony. Ganju fired again, at another group, Ganju not Gaje because the other Gurkha had a bullet in his leg and was being carried to a car. Shiner could see the veteran Children of Cain diving for cover—too late for some. His riflemen had remembered their orders, so the scattering of dead over there were mostly heavily armed. The Skins’ rifles fired again and men fell, but now they weren’t the right targets.

He wanted to keep firing, to kill every last bastard in sight, but the Skins needed their ammo for the next attack. Reluctantly, Shiner lowered his pistol and raised his voice. “Cease fire, stop shooting. Come on everyone, get in the cars, get the hell out.”

“There’s still plenty of targets, Shiner. We can kill them all.” A couple of rifles fired, but only one man went down, and now the first of the Host’s rifles fired back.

“Even you can clobber one of those useless shits with a club, Luther, so save the ammo for the real fighters.” There were a few arguments but more rifles were shooting back, while the targets were hiding, so eventually the last of the Skins were heading for the cars. Shiner waited as his men trickled back through the trees, still watching the bodies floating in the water.

Eventually they’d all left, all except his bodyguards. “Come on boss. Chelle will bend my ear if I lose you.” Shiner sighed, scrubbed at his eyes, stood up and trudged wearily towards his car.

Now the Skins had to do it all again, but there’d be no tricks or escape route this time.

* * *

Jehoram and Patton:

Behind him, Shiner left an Elder Son who was almost incandescent with rage. Despite that, Jehoram couldn’t charge after the enemy, he had to wait until the wounded were treated and the vehicles were brought through a gap in the trenches. By that time the scouts had brought him the bad news. The Skins had forted up in brick buildings, with rubble and vehicles blocking the gaps between them.

“Send a messenger to the Last Prophet. Tell him… No, wait.” Angry or not, Jehoram wasn’t going to start rumours that Lilith was fallible, that her vision was wrong. She’d be less than happy after he’d paid for this vision, to make sure his Host attacked the caravans instead of a wall. Jehoram sent a carefully phrased note, explaining the vision had stopped short. It had shown his Host charging through the buildings, and the fire and killing fleeing Skins, but most of the enemy got away. Now the Skins had a stronger position, and a machine gun, so he needed rockets or more men.

* * *

Patton:

Patton had no problems, or none he couldn’t fix. He was pissed off the Prophet’s veterans were going to follow the rocket launcher to the Yakuza. It wasn’t because they weren’t helping his Host—he just thought it was stupid keeping fifty well-armed veterans out of the fighting. One last glance at the rough map of the buildings behind the wall, allegedly drawn from a vision, then he went to see his fifty bullet magnets.

“You lot think you’ve got a rough deal. Well tough shit, you have, but it can be worse. If you don’t charge all the way through the gap in the wall, if you slow up my men or get one killed because you ducked, I’ll cripple you. Then I’ll strip you, and leave you to crawl off to die of starvation. Get it?”

They got it. Patton knew he was scary in his plated jacket, carrying a machete, but right now he was also flanked by Atlas and the three biggest men he could find in the Host. He pounced forward, dragging a random man out of the crowd. “I saw that look, you don’t believe me. Atlas?”

Patton tossed the man backwards, glaring at the rest while the victim screamed and begged, then just screamed as he was finally stripped and Atlas hacked at the backs of his knees. A hot iron stopped the bleeding, then one of the others dragged him away by a crippled leg, half-conscious. “Anybody else fancy that? You’re better off getting shot because you’ll get a doctor.” After another glare along the line, Patton pointed towards the enclave. “When you hear the rockets explode, you start running, and you make fucking sure I don’t catch you.”

One of the Host had been waiting for that—he signalled the launcher crew. The two rockets launched within seconds of each other, blowing holes through the perimeter wall either side of a house. Nine rifles, all that Patton’s Host had, opened up on the house or the walls near the holes, while Patton raised his machete and lunged at the bullet magnets. So did the hundred and twenty men behind him. “Go, run, move it because I’m right behind you!”

The Host only paused long enough to give the runners a decent start, then charged. Ahead of them rifles fired from the enclave and a few of their human shields fell. The two who just tripped were clubbed with a mace or the flat of a machete—they’d get a good kicking later. The rest ignored the cloud of smoke, the firing from ahead, and the bullets cutting some of them down. The devil was at their heels, waving a bloody great machete.

* * *

Sutton Park: Headmaster

In the centre of the enclave, Headmaster turned towards the explosion and the rising smoke, quickly followed by another in the same place. He called to a nearby group. “Kabir, take your squad to stop line three.” Kabir ran off with the twenty men, carrying his Army rifle. They were heading for the barricade raised to stop a breakthrough getting deeper. Kabir had nine clips because Headmaster had kept the five from the raid, hoping to capture the rifle eventually. Behind Kabir’s squad, Headmaster looked around, waiting to see if there was another explosion. He fervently hoped everyone remembered what to do.

Asif’s message about rockets had led to a quick reappraisal of the defences. The enclave walls had been split into six sections, then cars and demolished buildings used to form a barricade of sorts between each section, with another to block any strike for the centre. Anyone along the section of wall hit by a rocket should abandon their position, run for the barricades, then keep the attackers pinned in that section.

The rifle fire continued, then a few pistols joined in so the Children were getting near the wall. When the firing died away it meant the defenders were running for the other barricades, so the attackers were nearly at the breach and there’d been no more explosions. “Just one breach, lads. Come on, let’s chop the bastards.” This squad cheered, following Headmaster along the same route as Kabir.

* * *

Patton:

Patton was pleased to see there wasn’t much firing from the wall—he’d caught them with their shooters still spread around the enclave, not concentrated to stop him. The firing fell away as the bullet magnets got closer, but Patton guessed what they’d done. That was smarter than letting the attack roll up the defence, but any quick barricade would be easier to storm than the original wall.

Patton charged through the gap, swerving to run inside the building between the breaches. He found three of the Host already in there. “Just one, boss, had a bullet in him so he couldn’t run.”

“Come on then, loot later.” The three followed him as Patton headed for the middle of the enclave. Heavy firing broke out, followed by the chatter of an automatic, and ahead of him men reeled back and dived for cover. One of Sutton Park’s automatics was in the wrong place. Lilith’s spy had screwed up again, unless all the changes were because the spy had been caught and interrogated. The reason didn’t matter now—Patton would just have to adapt.

“Move to the sides, flank that bloody machine gun. Come on, keep going, don’t give them chance to get set.” Patton looked down at a wounded man. “When the riflemen come through this gap, send them to shoot that machine gunner.”

Half a dozen bullet magnets ran back out of the street ahead, stopping when they saw who was waiting. “Yeah, hard luck. Head that way, we’re going around that gun.” They really shouldn’t have looked relieved. Patton was going to use them as cover to get near the next barricade, then use his own automatic.

All across one-sixth of the enclave, men on both sides died in savage firefights; then a barricade gave way and the Host flooded into the next section. Moving through the chaos, Kabir used his Army rifle to break groups as he hunted for the Host’s machine gun, while Patton avoided the other automatic, sending riflemen to hunt him down. The front line flexed and flowed, surging one way or another as the two weapons or a concentration of fighters tipped the local balance.

The one line that stood firm, despite sometimes paying heavily in blood, was the one keeping the Children of Cain out of the centre of the enclave. The third time a bullet nearly killed him, Patton handed the machine gun off to one of his old Bloods, a man he trusted. Patton preferred fighting with a machete and pistol anyway. Now he hoped to catch that gunner out, or break into the centre and outflank everyone.

* * *

Asif:

Asif hid his motorbike, creeping forward until he could see the Host closing in on the Vikings. There was a half-hearted exchange of rifle fire, but the Children of Cain were in no hurry. As the sniper eased his way around the perimeter he found out why. No rocket launcher or Prophet, but as sniper targets went it didn’t get much better.

Lot had finally decided where to attack, and had called his squad leaders together. All Asif knew was that he had an obvious leader with six subordinates. Finding a good spot, he waited for his breathing to settle, then slid the first round in.

Five shots later the two remaining targets were hidden, really hidden unlike the two who’d only thought they were in cover. There were men heading his way, in the direction the shots came from, but as Asif eased back he hadn’t been actually spotted. He would normally have come in from a different angle to finish off the command, but right now stopping the rockets was more important. He set off for the Hard School, arriving to find the attackers already pouring in through two breaches.

That left two choices. Asif knew that the Yakuza had the strongest enclave so he headed for the Valkyries, on the grounds they’d be in the most trouble if they were the target.

* * *

Peter and Gregory:

Behind Asif, Lot’s two surviving subordinates understood the situation perfectly. The leadership of the Host was up for grabs, and the Last Prophet expected them to take this place. Peter, sometimes called Saint Peter when Lot was taking the piss, glanced at the Elder Son’s body. “Every Viking building is a strongpoint so none have enough fighters, and the defences are last-minute. We should hit this one with most of the Host, over a hundred. Forget that shit about a reserve squad and taking the buildings each side so we aren’t flanked.” He smiled at Gregory, the other surviving squad leader. “Saint Peter and Pope Gregory together, can’t fail.”

“Advice from the Pope. We should get all the rifles to shoot the shit out of the place first, then when they split to shoot at the places to each side, we all charge.” Gregory was relieved—and not just because he’d survived. Regardless of who got the top job, he got on okay with Peter, so there’d be no more back-stabbing. “Hey, do we get to split Lot’s share, and the other four?”

“Yeah, but only if we take this place quick enough, before some holier-than-thou asshole comes to grab the glory.” Peter turned to look towards the parked vehicles. “We’ll win quicker if we use the cars, tell a bullet magnet to crash into the doors and windows. I’m pleased Lot thought of it.” Both smiled, because nobody was supposed to waste working vehicles like that but they could blame the dead man. “Now let’s get it done before Himself turns up. Keep the surprise for a counter-attack, yeah?”

Gregory nodded, though neither moved. They wouldn’t until they were bloody sure that murderous bastard sniper had left. Calling out, the new Host leaders beckoned to apprehensive veterans, who dashed across to get their orders, then split up to get the rest organised.

* * *

Sutton Park: Odin

There’d been some shooting and alarmed shouting among the attackers for no apparent reason. Odin felt hopeful, but then the shooting died away quickly without any obvious effect on the horde of fighters out there. The Vikings were spread out between eleven buildings—the old tourist information office, the café, and various shops, displays or storage, with the two-storey Sutton Park admin building in the middle. Odin had sent all the non-combatants to the smaller allied enclaves, so he didn’t have to worry about them. Now his problem was that he didn’t have a decent defence line, so he’d tried to fortify the strongest buildings.

When the Host’s rifles all started shooting at the café, it caught the defenders by surprise. “Get over there with the rifle.” Odin gestured but Prakash hesitated.

“I’ll go if you insist but I’ll be too late.” Sure enough, there were shouts and cheers from the attackers, then the roar of engines as six vehicles came down the track. As they came past a dip in the ground, attackers surged out of cover, running after them.

“Hit those bloody cars.” Odin might have been shouting at his riflemen or Prakash—both tried but it was too little, too late. Two vehicles slewed out of line and stopped, then a third car swerved, clipping one of them but shunting it aside and straightening up. By that time it was too late to stop the rest. Four cars disappeared from view but the sound of shattering glass and the screams of the injured were clear enough.

“I haven’t got a clear shot.” As the charging men came closer, their objective masked them from Prakash. The defensive firing from the building had begun to recover, as defenders took weapons from those killed by the rifle fusillade and the cars, but then the attackers were near enough to unleash a storm of pistol and crossbow fire. The crack of firearms gave way to the clash of steel mixed with the shouts and screams of close combat.

* * *

Peter and Gregory:

Four cars struck in rapid succession, punching through three of the five windows and the double doors, one ending up inside the building surrounded by smashed tables and chairs. Most of the defensive fire cut off, then although some resumed, there wasn’t enough time for the defenders to reorganise. Although the weapons in the remaining windows took a toll, it was mostly bullet magnets who fell. The main body of the Host arrived almost intact, a hundred fighters storming through the rooms, killing anyone still fighting. A few defenders tried to retreat to the next line as they were supposed to, but the attack was too quick—none made it.

Peter pointed at the next building over, away from the machine gun. “If we park cars in the gap, they’ll stop anyone shooting us from the other buildings when we run across.”

“Good thinking.” Gregory quickly chose drivers, with a back-up in case they got shot. “Go back, get more cars. Tell the riflemen this side to concentrate on that machine gun, but the others have to keep shooting at the building.” The drivers ran back across the open ground, easy targets but anyone with a gun was shooting at men with guns and crossbows.

When more cars came forward, the Viking rifles waited for them to get closer to be sure of breaking the engines. Instead, the drivers swerved across the grass, forming a ragged line from the captured building to the next in line. Pistols fired a volley, then the Children of Cain charged across the gap—too fast for the outflanked defenders to reorganise for more than a token defence.

* * *

Sutton Park: Odin

“Pull back, get out, get out.” Odin wasn’t the only one shouting because it was all going to shit. The defence lines weren’t actual lines, the buildings were staggered so the one now under attack was nearer the inner defences than its neighbour. Even as some defenders tried to fight, others came out of the back, either running across the open ground or jumping into the cars parked there for the purpose.

Prakash was the wrong side of the attack. There wasn’t any assault on the building in front of him, just some rifle fire, not worth wasting the ammo for the automatic. He ran, half-crouched, across to the building nearest the attack, but still didn’t have a target.

Retreating fighters streamed around their friends, trying to get out of the line of fire. Even when they could see, Prakash and other shooters had few targets as the fighting was inside the other building. When the Children of Cain cut down the last defenders, the Viking riflemen had a clear view through the windows, but only hit a few before the rest took cover. The firing died down to occasional sniping.

* * *

Peter and Gregory:

“Damn, that worked well. Do it again?” Gregory eyed up the gap to the next building along, further this time.

“They’ll be ready—they’ll run, get out before we reach them. It’ll only need one smartarse in there to think of setting fire to the place first, then we’ll be stranded, stuck out in the open.” Peter looked across to where about half the escaping defenders had run to, and pointed. “That place is nearer, then we’ve punched right through the defences. They haven’t got enough people at any one place to stop us, so if we take the next one, the place in the middle? From the top of that we’d be able to see everything, roll the rest up one at a time.”

“We’ll bleed getting across, and we’re nearly out of bullet magnets. Pity they didn’t leave more of those cars.” Gregory’s eyes moved across to the first place they’d stormed, noting the cars still parked at the back. “Good of them to leave us a few at the last place. If we use those, with any of our cars that still work?”

“Hell yes, because even if the rifles stop them, they’re not shooting at us and dead cars will give us cover to get nearer.” Peter turned, yelling and pointing, while Gregory went to organise the other half of the building.

* * *

Sutton Park: Odin

Odin knew this whole defence was a shambles, and it was all his fault. When the Vikings moved into their section of the Park, they left their fortified enclave in the ruins—but he hadn’t built new fortifications. He’d taken the piss out of the Yakuza, burning diesel to bring enough rubble across the fields to build a huge wall, but Hangaku had the right idea.

The Vikings had started with nearly as many fighters as the Host, but the attackers had all gathered into one big battering ram. With the Vikings spread out, a few to each building, there weren’t enough fighters in any one place to stop them. Runners were already heading for the other buildings, telling them to send at least half their fighters to the centre building.

A group of riflemen with Prakash were hoping to stop the next rush, or slow it enough for Odin to gather more fighters, but the attackers didn’t give them time. A dozen cars surged into motion as shouts warned the defenders. The Children weren’t taking the next building in line—they were heading inwards!

“Stop the cars, stop the cars.” Rifles that should have been killing fighters had to concentrate on engines, and so did Prakash. The defenders stopped all but one car—but the vehicles had succeeded in both of their secondary missions. When the shooters switched to killing Barbarians, the fighters were partially masked and the nearest were already close enough to throw pipe bombs. Prakash kept firing short bursts whenever he had a target, but had to dive for cover when a bomb came through the hole punched by the car.

“Go, go.” A woman carrying a machete pushed at the Gurkha. “Get out, don’t let the bastards get that machine gun.”

“You take it.” Prakash wasn’t leaving a woman to die in his place.

“No, you can shoot the bloody thing, now go!” She shoved him hard then turned to meet the fighters coming around the last cars, near enough to use their pistols—a lot more pistols than the defenders. Prakash ran out of the back, diving into a car just before the driver accelerated across the gap.

When Prakash dashed into the big building, Odin pointed towards the stairs. “Prakash, get upstairs, fast. You can shoot over our heads, pin their shooters down. We’re going to charge now, before they finish taking the place and get set. With luck we’ll shove them out—at worst we’ll burn the building.” As Prakash ran upstairs he saw more fighters streaming into the building from the other side, building up around their leader.

* * *

Peter and Gregory:

Gregory and Peter ran up to the building, standing against the outside wall as more fighters stormed inside and the fighting reached a crescendo. The screaming and shouting began to die back but before the two leaders could enter, a veteran came out of the door. “There’s Vikings from all the other buildings running into that big one in the middle. I reckon they’re going to counterattack.”

Gregory caught hold of another fighter heading into the building, speaking to them both. “Get a squad together to push right through. Get us to a back window. Peter, it’s time to spring our surprise.” He turned his back for Peter to pull open the backpack. As the two leaders headed inside, they sent wounded fighters to pass a message to the Host. Anyone with bullets or an arrow left should get to a rear window, to stop a charge. The rest were to get themselves ready for another run, to take the big building.

The two leaders followed the group of veterans as they smashed through, pushing victorious fighters aside or killing defenders. As many as possible were being clubbed, kept as hostages to force any surrounded fighters to surrender.

A fighter looked through a rear window but dodged back. “Here they come, a lot of them.”

Both leaders flinched back from the window when a bullet punched a hole in the frame. “There’s shooters on the first floor of that building, firing over the attackers. Rifles, shoot back, keep their heads down.” Peter took a quick look. “Not near enough yet. Lot reckoned this thing was a waste of time at much over a hundred yards. They’re closer than that but I’m useless with it, so we’ll call it fifty. I still don’t understand why that clueless twat got it instead of Herod.” He grinned at Gregory. “Not that I’m complaining.

“I heard it was because he hasn’t got the balls to try anything, you know, against the Last Prophet or Jehoram.” Gregory set out four clips on the windowsill. “That Patton might, but even Jehoram didn’t fancy trying to take his machine gun off him. I’ve seen the way Patton looks at arse-lick sometimes. I reckon there’ll be a nasty accident one day soon.”

“Not just now though. Ready?”

“Ready.” Gregory took a deep breath before shouting at the top of his voice. “Fire! Shoot you bastards, open fire!” Every one of their Host with a weapon and a target opened fire, a wall of lead and steel-tipped timber. Above the roar of gunfire, a chorus of screams replaced the cheering from the attackers.

Before the Vikings could recover, Peter slid the stubby barrel of the police automatic around the side of the window. He emptied the whole clip in one raking burst, fighting the barrel down as it swept across the attackers, then dodged back and ejected the clip. He fumbled as he put the next in, because he’d never used the damn thing before.

“I reckon some went high. Now I know why everyone shoots in bursts.” Peter leant forward, firing another burst, but stopped as the barrel climbed. He pulled back into cover, just in time as a burst of automatic fire chewed the edges of the concrete wall. “Shit! Nearly. Shorter bursts might be safer anyway.”

“Hang on.” Gregory scampered to the next window on his hands and knees. “Slide it here.” Peter slid the weapon over. Gregory braced himself before swinging around the window to fire a long burst towards the nearest Vikings, then jumped back. “Crap yes, the bloody thing’s alive.” He slid the weapon back. “There’s bloody chaos out there. They’ve almost stopped, so maybe we shouldn’t give them time to recover?”

“Charge them?” Peter fired, then cursed, cutting the burst short when a bullet clipped him. His plated jacket deflected it, leaving him with a flesh wound but he could still use the arm. “Good idea, get in among them where that asshole can’t shoot at us.” He took a step back to shout into the next room. “Spread the word, charge in ten, nine, eight.” He heard the chant as the countdown was passed each way along the building. On “one” he leant out and emptied the rest of the clip, startled because two Vikings were almost at the window.

“Charge!” It thundered out from scores of throats as the Children of Cain stormed out through windows and doors or around the sides of the building, throwing themselves at the startled Vikings.

Already badly mauled by the first volley, then caught out in the open by a surprise machine gun, the steam had run out of the Viking charge. Now the heavily armed veterans of a dozen assaults hit Viking men, and some women, who’d only been in maybe three charges in their lives—none of them against an enemy like this. Some fought hard. They died—but held the Children of Cain just long enough as the rest broke and ran.

* * *

Sutton Park: Odin

That wouldn’t save them, or not for long as the horde charged after them, yelling and cheering. Prakash could see what came next—they’d follow the runners through the doors and windows before the defence could get set. Knowing it was probably suicide he put a full clip in, then stood in the window to empty the weapon across the front of the assault. As his rifle fell silent and he moved back into cover, Prakash was surprised he was still alive, then a bullet threw him backwards. He rolled over, looking around.

“Hey, Allan, come here. Take this.” He shrugged off the pack on his chest. “Ammo, don’t let them get it. If the Children are going to take this building, get out, take the gun and pack to the rest.” He quickly showed the man how to change a clip before pushing him towards the stairs. “Up on top so you can shoot down, past our people. Light the fire if we’re losing, if too many get into the building, then run.”

As the Viking ran upstairs, Prakash tied a wound dressing around his upper arm as best he could, then struggled to his feet. He didn’t need to look downstairs to know what was happening—the screaming and clash of steel told the story. The Children of Cain had reached the doors and windows, though the defenders were holding them off for now. It wouldn’t last—too many Vikings had died out there.

Lurching to the window, Prakash drew his pistol before leaning over to shoot. He dodged back, then leant out again, trying to thin out the attackers crowding around the windows below.

* * *

Allan reached the roof and went to the edge as instructed, but ducked back when pistols fired up at him. The glance had shown him the worst—there were no Vikings left alive out there. At least that made the next bit easy. He held the weapon out, barrel pointed down, then pulled the trigger. It jerked upwards so some of the bullets must have missed, struck the ground behind the attackers. The first ones would have hit that crowd, so all he had to do was fire shorter bursts.

Four clips later, Allan smelled smoke. When he looked around it was coming out of the hatch behind him, the building was on fire. Scrambling across to the far side he looked over—there was no bloody way down! Someone looked out of the window below, then climbed out, hung by his hands and dropped to the ground.

“Hey.” A face looked up, one of the civvies the soldiers trained. Allan held out the machine gun. “Take this, get it to the building over there.” The man looked towards sanctuary, then up at the window he’d just left and the sound of fighting. Allan dropped the weapon and pack, just as a Viking fighter jumped out of a downstairs window. He spun around, firing back into the building. “Now run for fuck’s sake.” A sound behind brought his head around. Allan grabbed his machete, relieved when it was another Viking, wounded but still holding a machete.

“Odin told me to light the signal.” The newcomer headed for the bonfire. Both men spilled oil and paraffin over the heap of bedding and furniture, then the other man used his pistol, sticking the muzzle into the kindling and firing until it caught. They used sticks from the fire to set off three fireworks, rockets. “Shit, I never really fancied a last stand.”

Allan pointed to the smoke coming out through the other hatch. “Better than burning to death.” The pair of them headed for the way down, where they might get out of a window or at least they’d die quickly.

* * *

Peter and Gregory:

The two Vikings might still survive. As the Children of Cain broke in through the first windows, and the fighting spread inside the building, Peter realised the daft bastards had forgotten the master plan. He caught hold of a fighter, poised to brain a downed Viking. “Accept surrenders. Send them outside, disarmed, back the way we came.” He caught hold of a wounded man. “Tell everyone, capture as many as possible.”

“Blokes as well?” The man looked baffled. The usual idea was to kill everyone with a weapon until the fighting was over, then round up survivors.

“For hostages, remember?” Peter saw the man remember, sort of, though the original plan had been to capture families, not fighters. “Tell the Vikings, toss their weapons and sit outside, back there.” As the man set off, Gregory got a chance to interrupt.

He pulled Peter to the side. “What the fuck? The Prophet will have your nuts.”

Peter kept his voice down. “There’s no bloody women or kids; the Vikings got them out before we arrived. I reckon it will still work though. We’ll give the rest of the Vikings the option—surrender or we throw your mates off the roof. We can throw them one at a time, with a pause between them, so they get the full benefit before we run out.” He pointed to some of the captured Vikings. “Then we recruit them to replace losses.”

“Start with the badly wounded so we don’t waste fit fighters. That’ll have more effect as well.” Gregory flashed a quick smile. “I really hope you’re right, because now it’s my nuts on the line as well. Let’s get that machine gun to the other side to stop any more running away.” He paused and sniffed. “But first we’d better get someone on putting that bloody fire out.”

Elsewhere some attacks weren’t going quite as well.

Chapter 7
Settling Accounts

Sutton Park: Angel

Angel looked at the numbers of attackers building up near the three pickup trucks with logs in the backs. More hung down to protect the wheels, so they were going to be used as battering rams. Kamal had used Angel’s machine gun to chop down the first assault before it got anywhere near, torn the front ranks apart as they’d crowded together. When the Gurkha explained, Angel was impressed by the effort they’d put in to dig all those ditches, then by how well it had worked. Not this time—men were creeping forward with logs and planks to get over the water.

“They’ll reverse those pickups, try to punch three holes, well spread out to split up our defenders and avoid this automatic. One will hit the gate, but those pickups might make it up the earth bank—they could push over a section of wall anywhere along the perimeter.” Kamal patted the assault rifle, not a type he’d seen before so probably imported by a gang pre-crash. “I can seal one gap with this, though they’ll have dedicated shooters trying to get me. I’ll want three people who can use this in case I’m hit. The best bet for the other breaches is to concentrate your pistols and crossbows; try to kill them as they come through.”

“Then while we’re tied up doing that, the rest will climb the walls—I really don’t fancy fighting those sods one-on-one.” Angel sighed, looking back at four houses that were being fortified as well as possible. “I don’t reckon our chances of getting back there if we can’t hold the wall, though at least they haven’t burned it down.” Part of the reason could be that the logs were obviously soaking wet.

“It’s a thought. Not burning it down, but how much paraffin have you got?” Both Kamal and Angel turned to stare at an old woman with a walking stick.

“If anyone knows another way to burn a wall, or stake, it would be you, Haggie.” Angel smiled, because the younger residents always reckoned Haggie was a witch. Few older people had survived the crash but Agatha seemed to thrive.

“Agatha, you cheeky young pup. If you give me too much lip I’ll start sticking pins in your doll, in embarrassing places where you can’t scratch in public.” The old woman lifted her stick to point towards the wooden wall. “I wouldn’t fancy climbing a wall that was on fire. You’d want to wet this side down I suppose, so you didn’t make a big hole.” She gave them both a big gappy grin. “Not that I fancy climbing any wall at my age.”

She concentrated on Kamal, looking him up and down. “Good job I’m past chasing young fellas, or you might have to climb a wall to get away.”

As she limped off, laughing to herself, both Kamal and Angel looked at the wooden palisade. “Maybe we were a bit obsessed with stopping it burning, rather than how much and when. Not all of it, or even most of it, and only at the last moment? Just before the pipe bombs, to crowd them a bit?” Kamal looked towards the pickup trucks. “Or we could burn the trucks in the gaps, block them again.”

“Better, but only if we can make sure they don’t drive away and take our bloody bonfire with them.” Angel beckoned to several fighters as she set off towards one of the strongpoints. “Let’s find out how much paraffin we’ve got left. And diesel—it won’t hurt us to walk.” She paused as the Children of Cain around the three pickups dived for cover. “I wonder what that’s about?”

* * *

Herod:

Angel would have still been puzzled if she’d been able to hear Herod, the Host leader, a few minutes later. “No casualties, he never shot anyone?”

The fighter might be a veteran, but he was wary because Herod wasn’t going to be happy. “No boss, we didn’t even think someone was shooting at us. We just ducked when stray bullets hit the vehicles. Then this one wouldn’t start.” The man with the bonnet up was looking inside, shaking his head.

“Injector control module blown to shit, pure bloody fluke. There’s some fuel pipes screwed up as well.” The mechanic went to the next vehicle and looked under the bonnet—then his head jerked around. He didn’t quite run to the last one, but when he looked at the engine he blew out a breath in relief. “All right, it’s not a fluke because that’s what the bastard aimed at. He missed this one, but two is well beyond random with three shots, and damn good for blind shooting. Where the hell was he firing from?”

“Over there someplace, but I’m only guessing from where the bullet holes are.” One of the drivers pointed. “Must have been miles away—I never heard the shots or saw a sign of him.”

“Can someone speak bloody English, before I start going medieval?” Herod glared at all the people trying not to answer. “Someone pass me a mace—and a blindfold just to give everyone an equal chance.”

The mechanic pushed through the fighters. “Don’t blame me, I wasn’t even here. Whoever it was tried to hit the bit that controls injecting the fuel. He couldn’t see them through the bonnets, but he must have known roughly where they’d be. The first pickup is screwed. It’ll be a lot easier to just get another vehicle, switch all the timber and protection over.”

The man pointed to the second vehicle. “This one isn’t as bad. He clipped the control module, but I reckon I can get it to work once the fuel lines and wiring are sorted, maybe half an hour. The last one is just a couple of fuel lines as far as I can see. I can probably get most of the parts from the first pickup.”

Herod looked from one vehicle to the other. It would take at least an hour to fasten all that shit to something else, but he didn’t have another pickup so whatever it was might not make it over the rough ground anyway. If he wasted another hour, then the Prophet or that arse Jehoram came by and found him with his thumb up his arse, he’d end up shot or on a cross.

“Half an hour. Anyone who can, help him take what’s needed from any other vehicle but I want two working at least.” He turned to the fighters, then looked at the earth bank and wooden wall. He needed at least one hole in the wall as well as the gate. “Then you’d better get over that wall before the Prophet turns up.” The men looked at each other in perfect understanding. The veterans had all seen people crucified or burned at the stake for holding back.

* * *

Asif:

Asif had no idea how much damage he’d done, but he hadn’t had time to hang about. He’d tried to stop the rams because he couldn’t see anyone worth shooting, and he didn’t have time to waste looking for someone. Those rockets could be blasting a way into the Yakuza stronghold right now. The rising smoke ahead of him, one cloud that was now dissipating, meant the attack had started. Even so, he was feeling hopeful because this time he should find the Prophet.

* * *

Jephthat:

The cloud of smoke was from the explosion as a rocket blew one pair of gates apart. Now the launcher was on the way to the other side of the enclave, still escorted by the Prophet and his elite. Jephthat hoped they’d join in the attack, catch the bloody Yakuza from two directions. He knew exactly what would happen if he stuck to the bloody vision, blew one gate and charged. The Yakuza would collect every gun to cover the hole, then shoot half his men before they got there.

Instead, he was going to use his bullet magnets as a diversion, hopefully ahead of the Prophet’s guard. As soon as the second gate blew up, the amateurs would charge, led by two steel-plated ram cars in case the Yakuza put a car in the gap. The Yakuza should think that was the real attack, so everyone with a pistol would head that way. Hell, with the Prophet’s fifty fighters it would be a real attack.

Then Jephthat, his Host and the machine gun would follow their two ram cars straight in through this gate, more or less unopposed. The bitch in there had made a mistake. She’d left her fighters guarding the whole wall, so she wouldn’t have enough to defend both openings. Even without the Prophet’s men, Jephthat thought he had a better than evens chance of getting his men into machete range—then he’d back them against anyone.

When Jephthat read the message from Lilith, he seriously considered shooting the bloody messenger. He’d rather shoot the bloody Prophet—actually he’d prefer Jehoram. The arse had been given the easiest target, but somehow he’d screwed everything up. Not only had he managed to fuck up his machine gun, he’d let the Skins escape and set up in a stronger position.

Now, instead of telling him to suck it up, the Prophet was taking the last rocket and those fifty veterans to wipe his arse. Maybe Patton had the right idea, random flying shit, but first Jephthat had better win here.

“Beau, Denzil, that bloody idiot Jehoram has inserted his fucking organ, and we’ve been screwed. Go around the other side. In exactly fifteen minutes I want those two ram cars to head for the gates, with the bullet magnets right behind them. Shoot the first two twats that object, or strap them to a ram car, whatever works. Take most of the signal rockets with you. Fire them at the gates just before the rams hit, to keep the Yakuza’s heads down so the kiddies get near enough to look dangerous. Just make sure one red one goes high enough for me to see.” Jephthat clapped the two men on the shoulder. “I’m relying on that signal because that’s when we’re going to try and take this gateway. We’ll need that diversion.”

“Will that pull off enough shooters, boss?” Beau was a veteran, and had been part of Jehoram’s Host long enough to earn respect for his opinions. “That’s a long run across open ground.” He pointed to the wide stretch of open fields either side of the narrow track. The track split around a big flower bed about fifty paces from the smashed gates, but the plants weren’t tall enough to give any cover.

Jephthat tried to sound more confident than he was. “I’ll set off a bit later so the shooters have already moved, concentrated to stop the obvious attack. The Yakuza haven’t got enough rifles to do it any other way. We’ll use cars this side for speed, until some arse with a rifle shoots out a few engines and blocks the way. Our scouts are reporting their fighters are spread out along the walls all the way around. There won’t be time to pull enough back to defend this side as well, not before we’re in pistol range.”

“But that relies on the wankers drawing as many shooters as possible to the other gate. You got it boss.” Beau started shouting and beckoning, getting the bloody amateurs loaded up and on the move. Jephthat would want the cars back here as soon as possible.

* * *

Asif:

Jephthat went to sit in his car where he could curse the Prophet and Jehoram in private, which saved his life. Asif pulled up when he saw the Children of Cain, but couldn’t see a person in charge so he went around the enclave. He still couldn’t find his targets. By now Asif was getting decidedly fed up of chasing them—he’d visited every enclave without catching a glimpse.

He took the time to stalk a sentry and make him talk. The sniper had no idea why or how Shiner and the Skins ended up in Kurt’s old place, but there were fifty maniacs, a launcher and the Prophet on the way, all of them intent on trying to kill Asif’s wife. No more pissing about, Asif was going to use up every bloody round he’d got, on anyone who got in the way.

When Asif heard engines, he parked his bike and ran ahead to check. Most of the column of fighters were walking, in no hurry, while from the sound of firing ahead Shiner’s rifles were still duelling with the Children. Nobody was attacking yet so Asif swung wide, trying to get at least partly past the column.

When he cut in again, to shoot a few, Asif finally found one of his primary targets—the rocket launcher. It was in the middle of the column of men, being towed, but it wasn’t going to reach the target. Asif took just enough time to find a spot where he had some cover from flank shots, and settled in.

His first shot killed the driver, but enough men could drag the weapon so Asif set into the launcher. Six shots later, the way the men the other side were diving for cover meant his bullets were going right through. Since he’d put three in the top tube and three in the bottom, the tubes on the far side also had three holes through them. His victim had confessed there were no more reloads, so that should also screw up any remaining rockets.

Bullets were hitting the brickwork around him now. Men were running forward so Asif left, ducking around trees and bushes then scurrying along behind a low wall.

Once he thought they’d abandoned the chase, Asif headed back at an angle, towards the front of that column. They all looked like real fighters, so he wanted to break them up before they joined any attack. When he could see the target again, Asif realised his luck had finally changed.

The sniper had finally found the Last Prophet. He couldn’t see their faces for a positive ID, but the bloke and woman dressed in brown sacks had to be the loopy bastard and his priestess. With a happy smile, Asif took careful aim. When the arse stood up to encourage the men coming past, a bullet made sure he was the Late Last Prophet. Asif’s sights settled on the seer—he really, really wanted to kill her as well because her visions had sent these nutters. Twice his finger took up the slack, but twice he eased off—he just couldn’t shoot an unarmed woman in the back.

Distracted, Asif forgot this wasn’t an Army mission—he didn’t have a spotter on overwatch. When the sniper took his eye off his sights and looked at the column, they were all charging towards him! Not exactly at his position but the shot had thrown the Prophet forward, which gave them a general direction. There’d been no hesitation—the whole column was crossing the gap, spread out too far each way for him to avoid.

Asif had half-expected to end up trapped today, so he had already decided what he’d do. Now he didn’t hesitate. He had sixty-seven rounds left, so if he got his shots off fast enough and hit a man with each, he could kill or cripple the lot. Even if they reached him before he got them all, what was left wouldn’t be storming anyplace.

Ignoring the occasional bullet hitting the fence nearby, Asif started with the man out front, eight hundred yards away, then began to shoot as fast as he could be sure of hitting the targets.

* * *

Herod:

Behind Asif, Herod had run out of time. He raised his binoculars, but didn’t really need them. One pickup had smashed through the gates, but was jammed in the gap so his men had to squeeze through along the sides or climb over it. The other vehicle had bogged down because that grass bank wasn’t bricks covered in earth, it was soft soil. The pickup hadn’t even got close enough to help his men climb over the timber wall. Flames gushed as bombs landed on both vehicles.

“Shit. There’s no way we’ll storm one bloody hole, not against a machine gun, even if we waited for the fire to die down. It’ll cost us men to get near enough to burn some of that wall, then they’ll have time to react. They’ll hide behind the earth bank and shoot the shit out of us.” Herod looked over at his Host, lined up to charge. The veterans could all see the same thing, so none of them were keen on trying it. “Get everyone into the vehicles, we’ll go to help…”

He thought quickly. The Viking place didn’t have walls so two Hosts could swamp it. More to the point, once the place was captured he could bully that pussy Lot into bringing his machine gun. Then both Hosts could deal with the Valkyries, hit them from too many directions at once and climb that wall. “We’ll help Lot. Head for the Vikings because I just had a message he’s in trouble.” His bodyguards and the few fighters who could hear him frowned, thought, and then began smiling.

“Yeah, pity that sniper shot him before we got details.” The bodyguard turned to the rest. “Come on, move it, fast as you can.” The men spread out, shouting orders, but there was no need for threats this time. The Children moved a lot quicker than they had when getting ready for the assault, so within minutes the whole lot were in their vehicles, heading towards a tall pillar of smoke.

* * *

Sutton Park: Angel

Angel watched them go, baffled, until someone pointed towards the thick black column. A thin trail of smoke climbed into the sky and burst into sparks—the signal. “Odin’s in trouble and those bastards are going to finish him off.” She looked around her barely scratched Valkyries and sighed, but she didn’t have any real options. “Get your shit together, we’re going to help the Vikings. We’ll try to sneak in close, hit those bastards from behind, but I’ll be leaving twenty here. Some lightly wounded, but the rest have to be good shooters, pistol and rifle. Find something to shove that bonfire out of the way.”

Meeting the Children of Cain out in the open was at the very bottom of Angel’s to-do list, but she’d agreed, and Odin had sent up the signal.

* * *

Jehoram:

Jehoram had seen the Prophet stop and stand up in his Land Rover, and the first of his guard march past. When the bullet threw him forward, off the vehicle, the Elder Son hadn’t understood, but then Lilith had crouched, looking around. Pure shock warred with fear that the sniper was lining up another shot right now, then Jehoram saw the men running across fields, shooting at something. “Stop them!”

“How, Revered One, er, Holiness.” The man was confused—did Jehoram become the Prophet now?

Jehoram turned to his own messengers, all on bikes. “You, all four, go and stop those men. If they ignore you, shoot one through the legs. Tell them to get over here so we can assault this position.” He thought quickly—those were true believers, fanatics, so they might not obey him. They were definitely the best of the fighters, very well-armed, so if he could get them aimed in the right direction they’d roll right over this place. “Tell them if they come and help us they can burn every survivor at the stake, around the Prophet’s pyre.”

As the bikes set off, Jehoram turned, beckoning to his seconds. He was still in shock, but now ambition stirred. Someone must lead the Children of Cain, and he was the only original convert left. He’d seen the prophet mauling Lilith, and her reaction, so he knew just how to get her under control. Herod fancied her, so let him have his fun, which would get him onside. Then Lilith could be given the option of a new vision with a new Prophet, or playtime with a score of the rougher Children. She’d see the light—then any bloody vision he asked for. He could even let Herod play now and then to remind her it could be worse.

“Gather all the men here, except for a few to stop any Skins trying to escape. The Prophet’s Guard have arrived and will join us on the assault.” As their leaders spread the message, the cheering started. The veterans had seen those men on previous assaults, while the others were just pleased to have help. By the time the majority of the Host had gathered, the Prophet’s Guard had arrived.

Not all of them—the shooter had killed or badly wounded nineteen so the rest weren’t happy about letting him get away. “We almost had him, Revered One.” Like most of them, this one was angry, but still in shock.

Jehoram had better information from one of the messengers—he knew how far away the shooter was. “He would have killed most of you by the time you reached him. Once you’ve taken this place, we can hunt him down with two hundred men. You can take him alive, make him pay properly.” Jehoram pointed towards the Skins. “There are the unbelievers.” He looked up, holding his hands together as if praying. “The Last Prophet has been called to Glory. He is with the Heavenly Hosts now, looking down. Would you want him to see you turn away, let all these unbelievers live so you can kill one man?”

The answer was yes—all of them wanted to kill one man, but put like that they couldn’t admit it. “Revered One, your orders.”

“Join my Host. We will open fire and keep shooting on the run. It doesn’t matter if you use up all the ammunition as long as you reach those houses. Hand-to-hand they will be easy to kill.”

“Kill the sacrifices, Revered One?” If they couldn’t have the sniper, the Prophet’s Guard wanted the second prize.

Jehoram bit back a curse—he’d forgotten. “As soon as the unbelievers break you can take prisoners, but don’t let any escape. We still have a few Chosen to run ahead of you. Explain they must not falter.” The veterans moved off. In their present mood, Jehoram thought they might kill any of the bullet magnets that looked reluctant—that was better than them getting annoyed with an Elder Son. The men began to straggle into line, then more were moving and the lines thickened.

* * *

Sutton Park: Shiner

Inside the houses, the Skins had noticed all the men gathering. “Here they come, Shiner.” Gaje was sat on a chair by a window, his leg propped up and splinted. He held up the automatic, which had helped to break the last half-hearted assault before it really got started. None of the Host wanted to run across open ground towards a machine gun. “Only half a clip left, sorry.”

“Let us kill the ones out front, then as the rest close in, pick a group of the nastiest-looking sods you can see.” Shiner turned and hugged Chelle. “Go on, get in the cars, be ready to go as soon as you get the message. Once the charge starts, it’ll be too late for the Host to pull back. If they try, by the time they reach their cars you’ll be long gone. Drive like hell. There’s six men with pistols, all wounded so they’re no good here. They’ll blast a hole.”

Then they’d die to keep it open, if that’s what it took—they were volunteers to make sure the women and kids got away. Most of the women and kids were already in the smaller enclaves, but the likes of Chelle and the Gurkha wives had insisted on staying as nurses. “Head for the rest of our women, lead them to the motorway. Cut a big hole in the wire then drive straight over, before the guards come to look. The gangs over there are better than this lot, and you’ve got all our coupons to buy in with.”

“I know, you’ve told me, at least three times.” Chelle tried to smile. “You got one bit wrong. We will be ready to cut a hole, but we’ll wait for you.” She kissed him properly in front of the men, sod all the hard gangster shit. “You come and find me, you hear?” She spun on her heel and got out before she begged—or Shiner broke down because she could tell he was close. Now she had to persuade the Gurkha wives to run.

“Shiner, there’s more of the bastards arriving. At least we’ve made the shits call up the reserves.” The messenger tried to smile. “Target rich, even I won’t miss.”

Shiner managed a laugh, because the man was possibly the worst shot in the gang so he didn’t have a gun or crossbow. “You won’t even need a gun, Malc, you can chuck half-bricks.”

* * *

SLJ – SB Division:

Nearly two hours ago, well to the south, across the motorway, an electric motorbike raced into a clump of ruins and the rider shouted, “They’re on the move!”

Heads popped out of holes in the bricks and tents disguised as heaps of rubble. “Who and where?”

“The whole lot, all the Children. I got a message from a scout across the motorway—the garrison left the nearest two enclaves and headed northwest. There can’t be more than two men left to guard either place.” The rider looked around at all the faces. “We could nip over there, burn them both down.”

“We could kill whoever they’ve left, then hold the enclaves while everyone back home mobilises and comes to join us.” Nate’s eyes fastened on Tell. “If we’ve got a foothold over there, the rest can get across without being ambushed. Then if we get set, we can sort out the bloody Prophet once and for all.”

Gemma pulled a cycle out of her tent, reaching back in for her rifle. “Come on you lot, it’ll be a doddle. They’ve all got an aiming point on their vests—a big cross.”

Tell saw he was fighting a losing battle—the idiots were going to take one enclave at least. These were the fighters who were most dedicated to wiping out the worst gangs, or had a score to settle with the Prophet, so this was a gift they wouldn’t turn down. He’d send the message but expected the whole Host to turn up long before reinforcements. As long as he had scouts out so he could retreat fast enough, it wouldn’t be a disaster.

“Okay, but just one enclave to start with. Move fast or they’ll be back before we get there.” That was a waste of breath—the whole force was poised to move to catch raiders so the first cycles were already setting out. He wrote a message and told the rider to be as quick as possible.

By that time, Tell had to scramble to get into his pickup truck, towing one of the mini-catapults. There was another in the back, strapped down, with a big box of various bombs to throw. At least the gang next to the motorway wouldn’t slow him up. They didn’t like the Prophet, so they’d be keen to see the Hosts get a good slap.

The gang were keener than Tell thought—they’d already opened the gap in the wire enough to take his vehicles. The cycles were across the motorway and probably halfway to the target. An armed figure waved him down. “Are you really going to take two enclaves, then hold them?”

“One, maybe two, then we’ll hang on as long as we can.” Tell looked at the other armed men lounging nearby. “You’d better be ready in case we have to run and we’re followed.”

“Sod that, we’re coming with you. Only fifty men, so this place isn’t defenceless, but we want to take a lot more than two enclaves. I’ve sent messages, so there’ll be fighters coming from other enclaves along this border.” The big grin wasn’t taking no for an answer, so Tell nodded then drove for the vehicle-sized section of mesh being held aside.

* * *

By the time Tell reached the first enclave, the place had been taken. Gemma waited by the gates. “Four of us rode into view and let the guards have a good look at us, both of them.” She tapped herself between the eyes. “They should have stayed in cover. The residents opened the gates when we told them to. There’s someone you should talk to.”

Tell could see that what were allegedly his fighters were excited about something, so he let them lead him to a ragged-looking resident. “They’ve all gone to attack Sutton Park, the ones that raided them last year. All the fighters have gone, from all the enclaves. We’ve had messages from two enclaves away, so I reckon all of them. You could capture the lot. Yon lass reckons she’s sent shooters to sort out the next one.”

“Not all of them, or they’ll roll us up when they come back. There’s reinforcements coming for the second one.” Tell wasn’t spreading everyone out across God knew how many enclaves, then waiting for the Children of Cain to gobble them up in bite-sized pieces. He was supposed to be in charge, to prove he could take Vulcan’s job. If he got half of them killed the enclave leaders would line up to shoot him.

“No, they won’t. They’ll probably win but the survivors will have a lot of wounded and be short of ammo. You can bleed the bastards, then retreat, or stay behind these walls and shoot any of them stupid enough to attack. I was in Ashdod when those buggers raided, killed over a hundred Children of Cain then stripped the bodies and a garrison enclave clean. They got away with a shitload of weapons and all the reserve ammo. I wasn’t happy when they took the food as well, but I forgave them when we were marched out there to bury the bodies.” The man sniggered at the memory. “Worth a hungry winter to see the looks on the Children’s faces when we were tipping their mates into the holes.”

“How long will they be gone?” Tell would seize four or five enclaves, then if enough help came he might hold them until the rest of the juggernaut arrived.

Gemma couldn’t wait any longer. “All day, maybe tomorrow, but the thing is, if we go after them we can hit them from behind?” With a sinking feeling, Tell realised why the fighters all looked so bloody pleased. “Cripes, Tell, it’s too good to miss. They’ll be split up, attacking enclaves, so our thirty rifles can sneak up while they’re distracted. Bang, we kill thirty Children of Cain, then sixty, then ninety. Goodnight Host, reload and repeat.”

“We can roll them up, because this Sutton Park lot will join in once we hit the first one.” Nate smacked his fist into his palm. “The enclaves over the motorway will take these places, then catch any survivors when they run home.”

“If the scroats charge when our rifles open up, the catapults can drop bombs right in among them.” Marcy hugged Tell’s arm, looking up at him with a big smile on her face. “When the survivors get close, we’ve all got a pistol and a blade. We can wipe the Children out all in one go.”

Tell looked down into that smile, and he just couldn’t break it. “Okay, but we scout first. If there’s too many we pull back to the nearest point we can cross the motorway. I’m not losing all these rifles and the catapults.” He turned to the local. “Explain to the reinforcements, they can take the enclaves but they can’t keep them. We’re here to free you, not loot or conquer. Explain there’s an army on the way to back that up.” When Tell turned back he was looking at the backs of most of his force. He didn’t think they’d listened past okay, but hoped he could hammer some sense into them by the time he got there.

He may as well start now. “Marcy, listen, we have to be careful or we’ll end up trapped. We do not want the Children of Cain catching any of our people.”

That definitely got through—Marcy flinched. “No chance, I’ll die first. Come on, we can plan on the road.” She wasn’t exactly slowed down, but at least she was listening.

* * *

Nearly two hours after that first report, a scout flagged down Tell’s pickup. “There’s open ground ahead, no ruins so you can drive faster. The scouts have found the first Host but won’t open up unless the Children launch an assault. The rest of the fighters are moving up and should get there in time.” Firing broke out ahead, but it was too far away to be Tell’s people. “It could be close.”

There wasn’t any answer to that except to drive faster. At least the scouts were holding fire so far, so they’d been listening. The next firing was closer, so they hadn’t waited long. Tell almost stopped when he drove out onto open ground—it had been years since he saw proper fields with hedgerows. He saw cyclists ahead—throwing down their bikes and drawing weapons as they ran towards a hedge. Up ahead something fluttered in the wind, the Union Flag. Contact had been made, and his people weren’t being shy about it.

The four pickup trucks hammered down the rough track towards a woman standing with her arms out, pointing each way. As Tell slowed she shouted, “Line up facing that hedge. When someone raises a green flag, double shrapnel bombs at maximum range and keep going.” Tell aimed his pickup and jumped out of the cab, running around to help the others disconnect the towbar. The catapults weren’t big but were made of steel, with steel springs and a geared hand crank which produced a lot of power. At least they were already cocked.

On the bed of the pickup, the crew loaded two pipe bombs, while one passed down a box with bombs for the other crew. Within a remarkably short time, all eight catapults were ready, waiting for the flag. Another cyclist was heading back towards them when the rifles ahead finally fired a full volley. “Green flag.” The releases weren’t quite simultaneous, but whoever received the bombs wouldn’t be timing them. Eight pairs threw themselves on the handles, winding like maniacs.

The cyclist pulled up, panting. “One whole Host at least. The rifle volley should have made them pause at the right range, then with luck they dropped, tried to take cover. If so, your bombs landed right on them. White flag means drop the range a hundred, they’re charging. Red flag another hundred, then they’re too close to do any more. All three colours mean cease fire.”

“Loaded.” The first pair stepped back from their weapon, panting heavily but with big grins because theirs was first. The ripple of shouts from the rest was punctuated by the twangs as the weapons released, then the alternate winders threw themselves on the handles.

* * *

Sutton Park: Shiner

Shiner went to look at the new arrivals, hoping they wouldn’t cut off Chelle’s escape. As he got to the window, a flash of colour appeared across the field to the right, a good eight hundred yards away. It took a moment to register, then he frowned. “The Union Jack? Why would the Children of Cain fly that?”

“There were rumours about that Soldier Boy that Angel was on about, about him fighting under the Union Jack. He was supposed to be outside the wire. Then the guards at the Mart reckoned the Specials killed him, but either they got it wrong or he’s back from the dead.” The fighter looked out of the window, then back at Shiner, and there was a glimmer of hope on his face. “There’s rumours of bodies in other cities with that flag stuck in them, so maybe it’s our turn.”

“I’d be more impressed with... Shit, did he hear me?” Shiner watched half a dozen puffs of smoke rise from the hedge—at that range they had to be rifles. He turned, dashing to another window where he could see the advancing Host. None of them had noticed so they kept coming. Shiner resisted the impulse to jump through the window and point. If the bloody Host saw those rifles they’d have to call off their attack.

* * *

Jehoram:

Jehoram was finally happy—he had a machine gun again. The Last Prophet’s personal bodyguard had carried one, as did the leader of the Prophet’s Guard, but they were both dead. He really hoped that sniper had run off as reported, but in any case, there was nobody left to say no when Jehoram commandeered one of the weapons. The other one was going on the attack.

A man screamed from somewhere behind him, then one grunted to his left. When Jehoram looked, a fighter was laid on the ground, curled up in a spreading pool of blood. He was off the jeep in a second because he knew who that was. “Sniper. The sniper is back.”

Another two men went down, a third staggered and cried out, then someone pointed. Jehoram turned to see a big flag streaming out as it was waved sideways, then three puffs of smoke. Someone else screamed before a voice called out. “There, on the left. Everyone, attack, get them now!”

There was a moment of indecision, people looking from the Skins towards where the arms were pointing, then back. The first of the Prophet’s Guard realised what was happening. “The sniper! He killed the Last Prophet. Get him!” The first of them began to run, and in an uneven ripple the whole attacking force, a hundred and sixty fighters, charged off across the field. More men fell as more puffs of smoke appeared along the hedgerow. Jehoram could see there were at least seven or eight rifles out there—not enough to stop the juggernaut hurling towards them.

More Children fell as the Host ran towards the hedge, but the Host never faltered. Some were shouting in triumph, already celebrating, but it was too soon. The sound was like a physical pressure as smoke and flame rippled along the whole hedgerow. Men fell or staggered, shrieked or shouted orders, all shocked by the sheer number of rifles. Most dived for the ground or crouched to fire back. The thin trails of smoke were barely noticed until sixteen vicious cracks and puffs of smoke left more men reeling and some screaming.

“Charge, get in among them. Come on, charge!” A veteran must have realised what happened next—more bombs blowing them all to pieces. The surviving Children of Cain surged to their feet, all except the badly wounded. The surviving half a dozen conscripts, already at the back, threw away their crude weapons and fled. The Barbarians’ automatic chattered briefly but the gunner was shot down, as was the man who reached for the weapon.

Again the rifles fired, not in volleys now but the smoke and flame was almost continuous. More explosions tore into the attackers, though some bombs dropped behind them. Men fell or reeled back, but the Host was closing in now, those with pistols raising them for the closing volleys. The previous rifle fire paled into insignificance as a storm of gunfire tore into the attackers, scores of pistols emptying clips as fast as they could. The surviving Children of Cain stopped as if they’d run into a wall, stunned.

Jehoram stared, open-mouthed, at the sheer number. How many guns did these people have? He looked down—his automatic would deal with any number of pistols. Even as he reached for the ignition to start his jeep he heard the spiteful chatter. Two flaming scythes, the tracers cut down swathes of faithful like bloody corn, while the pistols kept firing and firing and firing.

The Prophet’s Guard kept going, because they really were fanatics, but the rest broke. Even true believers found that faith wasn’t enough to carry them into that smoke, into the hail of bullets that was tearing men down on all sides. In the blink of an eye the charge disintegrated, with some men on their knees, but most of the survivors running as if the devil himself was after them. Few of them made more than a dozen steps. Almost unnoticed, the last fanatics were cut down by the pistols or rifles without making contact.

Jehoram was spellbound, fascinated and horrified, frozen in place as he watched a line of armoured figures rise, pushing through the hedgerow before running forward with long blades twinkling in the sun and pistols spitting smoke and flame. The blades rose and fell, crimson now as they cut down all before them—it was much too late to escape when the wounded and those on their knees realised this enemy wasn’t taking prisoners. A few more started to run, but not far—there were still some rifles behind the hedgerow.

Deep down Jehoram had always believed in the Last Prophet’s mission, that God would not let them fail. Now his faith crumbled, leaving a hollow dread as he watched that line of gleaming, terrible, invulnerable killers cut down nearly every remaining true believer in the Hosts. Cheering jerked Jehoram back to here and now. He turned to see Skins running out of their strongpoints, machetes flashing in the sun, aiming to cut off or cut down anyone who might escape.

Self-preservation kicked in. Jehoram beckoned to the four messengers waiting nearby, pointing to each one in turn. “Patton, Jephthat, Herod, Lot. Tell them, there’s a new army with a Union Jack and a shit-load of firearms including machine guns. Get back home, conscript every man with two legs, then fortify the garrison towns.” There’d be ammunition there, and spare machetes.

Once the cycles set off, Jehoram finally turned on the jeep’s ignition. As he put it into gear something clanged off the metalwork. Before his foot pressed the accelerator, a hammer hit him, knocking him over and across the passenger seat. The jeep jerked as his foot slipped off the clutch, nearly throwing him off the seat. Confused, Jehoram’s fading eyesight saw his precious machine gun slip off his shoulder. His dying brain tried to force his arm to reach for it, but it disappeared into the rising blackness.

* * *

“Yes!” The young woman with a blonde wig and a lot of tattoos held out her hand. “A coupon each. Now do I qualify for a picture on your phone?”

Cy, the GOFS shooter, looked doubtful. “I don’t know, that wasn’t a headshot. I have to be careful what photos I put in my collection. Patty, Emmy, Ru, Doll, Umeko, that’s some fierce competition. After all, you haven’t got fancy clothes or a special nickname.”

Mia, the Barbie shooter, smirked. “Clothes? For special pictures with my rifle I only wear my tattoos, and I doubt any of your other pictures are quite that interesting.”

Gemma reached down, clipping her gently on the back of the head. “Good shot—but love life later. There’s another four sets of these scroats, so Cy and Bridie will have a chance to even up.”

* * *

Lilith:

Lilith had stayed with the Prophet’s body for a while, wondering if she should run. Whoever took over wouldn’t be a believer—even Jehoram wouldn’t truly believe the visions and prophesies. More to the point, whoever it was would expect to get into her pants. In the end, she daren’t try to get away, not unless her control said she could. Maybe she could make a deal with someone like Jehoram?

She walked towards the firing, then sat down safely out of sight to watch the Children of Cain massacre these poor bastards. She would catch Jehoram in a good mood, just after the victory.

As the attack was diverted, then fell apart, Lilith sat and watched, disbelieving. It wasn’t until the runners headed her way, then were cut off by Skins, that she realised—the Skins would kill her. If they had even a hint she was the Prophet’s seer, they’d roast her over a slow fire. Another, worse realisation hit her. Unless she could find a place in another gang, her control might not need her, and that hut would be worse than the Skins. Lilith wracked her brains, finally coming up with one possibility—a better option than death or that hut.

When she reached the Prophet’s Land Rover and body, Lilith took off the sacking robe, burying it in the rubble. The Skins didn’t abuse women, so even in underwear she should be safe. She reached into the vehicle for the handcuffs used to restrain anyone the Prophet thought should be crucified or burned. Looking around the vehicle she decided on the rear, so she looked more pathetic, dragged along behind the Prophet.

Splashing water on her eyes, then slipping the key into her mouth, Lilith fed the cuffs through and around a bar above her head before clicking them onto both wrists. They were tight enough to hold, so she was obviously a prisoner, but not tight enough to hurt. If nobody freed her, she could wait for night, then stand on the bumper and use the key in her mouth to get free.

* * *

A little later the first fighters came along the track, so she called for help. There weren’t any keys so one of them called for Shiner. Lilith had seen a picture of the boss Skin so she concentrated on him. “Thank God, help me, please. They brought me for him, for a celebration, but then someone shot him.”

“Nice try. I’m nearly certain, so leave her there while I just check.” The woman next to Shiner wasn’t a fighter, but everyone did as she said while she looked at a phone. “Oh yes. I took a good look at this one in case we ever met. Lilith, say hello to Lilith.” She turned the phone.

Lilith stared at the clear picture of herself in her sackcloth robe, trying to come up with a reply but she was struck dumb. How the hell had the Skins got that? They must have had spies right inside one of the enclaves. “That’s not me.” Even Lilith didn’t think that was going to work.

Sure enough several other people looked, then laughed at her. The woman looked her up and down. “I’m Chelle. You are the creep responsible for killing a lot of my Shiner’s friends.” Her eyes went up to the handcuffs. “You’re too smart to trap yourself like that. Spit it out—the key.” Chelle made a fist. “I can pick it out from among the teeth? Maybe use a knife to check any other likely places?”

Lilith spat the key out. “What are you going to do with me?”

Chelle picked the key up, then turned to pull the knife from Shiner’s belt. “Me, nothing, but I understand you like victory parties, fighters having fun?” The knife sliced through Lilith’s bra-straps, then up the sides of her knickers. Chelle flicked the material away. “There, let the lads have a good look now, then they’ll be in the mood later.”

“You didn’t, Skins don’t.” Lilith tried to cover herself, but she’d fastened herself up to look defenceless, her hands above her head. She turned away from the men, to find herself facing others. She tried pressing her front against the Land Rover, but the vehicle wasn’t shaped to provide any sort of modesty. Worse, several men pointed out she’d got a nice ass.

“We don’t allow that sort of thing at home, but after a fight we have to let them celebrate. There won’t be any other women captives so you’ll be popular.” Chelle turned, throwing the key out into the ruins. “The blokes won’t mind you stood up, or which way round you are. Either way the ones waiting their turn will get a good look at the goods.”

She headed for a car that had just pulled up. “See you tomorrow, Lilith, or maybe the day after. What condition you are in depends on how nice you are to the boys. Just think of all the girls who’ve been stood where you are. Now you’ll be able to compare notes, possibly scars if you fight too much.” The car door closed and it swept her away.

“I’d better keep an eye on her, make sure nobody starts early. There’ll be an argument if the lottery winner doesn’t get first go.” A woman climbed up into the Land Rover. “Comfy. All I need is a beer.”

As Lilith twisted, trying to find a position that was even close to modest, the tears began to flow. This was going to be worse than the hut, worse than anything she’d ever imagined. One of the other Skins’ women, coming with the men to help any wounded, turned back. She’d let the men know about Chelle’s little joke—then they could make all the right comments as they came past. A few nightmares were the least this bitch deserved before she was strung up.

* * *

Patton:

Patton had finally broken into the central area of the enclave, but that hadn’t finished the fight. He was impressed by the way the Hard School fighters reacted. They’d immediately fallen back on a big stone place that had been burned out at some time, so very few had been cut off. The place had a boundary wall and cleared approaches so it made a good strongpoint—if there was any sort of relief force coming. Now it was a trap, though storming the place would cost too many men. Enough pipe bombs would burn the place out, kill all the defenders without losing a man, but either solution would be a waste of fighters.

Patton could hear wounded in there, so if he kept putting on a bit more pressure, then making the offer, eventually they’d surrender. These men would make good recruits, tough fighters to replace those he’d lost. They’d definitely be faithful—once the Host captured the smaller enclaves so he had their families under his thumb.

When the messenger arrived, Patton’s first reaction was to burn this place. He didn’t want any of the Hard School following him home. He thought again once he heard a description of new arrivals, and the flag. If that Soldier bastard was here, he’d do what he had to the General—keep going until he wiped the Prophet’s men out. It was time to leave town. One day, sooner or later, Patton would find the right gang—then there’d be a reckoning.

“Atlas?” Patton’s second had an arm in a sling but was still mobile and fighting. “Round up any Bloods that have survived, with the best of the rest and five cars. Make sure we’ve got the machine gun, most of the rifles, and that everyone has a pistol and plenty of ammo.”

Looking cautiously around, Atlas kept his voice as low as Patton’s. “What’s gone wrong, boss?”

Atlas kept doing that, surprising Patton—most men who made it to second in the Bloods were all about fighting—not thinking. “That Soldier bastard is here, with an army. Get some men on siphoning diesel to fill the motors. Collect machetes and crossbows from bodies—weapons for buying into a gang someplace, but don’t waste any time.”

While he waited, Patton went around the rest of the Host, telling them he had to take a few men and the machine gun to help the Prophet with another attack. All the rest had to do was shoot at any careless heads. If they kept the Hard School penned in, sooner or later they’d have to surrender. When Atlas beckoned, he strolled away, climbed into the first car, and headed west. Those Barbarians sounded like his sort of people—brutal, murdering bastards. He’d had a gut-full of leaders with a mission, conquerors like the General or fruit-loops like that bloody Prophet.

* * *

Sutton Park: Hangaku

A few Yakuza rifles started firing, from the other gate. A runner came to tell Hangaku and Jer that two armour-plated cars were headed that way, but neither worried too much. Hangaku had taken a chance—she’d given her part-trained civvies spears and spare machetes, then asked them to stand on the walls as if they were fighters. All the guns, crossbows and real fighters were concentrated at the only real weak spots—the two pairs of gates.

The other gates were intact so even if the ram cars hit them, the stack of bricks and the vans behind them would stop any real penetration. The Children might use the cars to get up and over, but the sheer number of pistols and crossbows should stop anything short of a full assault. There were twenty semi-automatic pistols at each gate, as well as some single-shots, revolvers and rifles, more than any other gang had. Hangaku had traded ‘her’ captured automatic for a larger share of the captured handguns, and now that would pay off. At the very least they’d kill enough for blades to finish the job—her people were all very good with blades.

If the whole Host broke cover opposite the other gate, over a hundred fighters, there’d be a signal, a big drum. Then Hangaku, the machine gun and reinforcements would head that way to chop the bastards. No signal meant there weren’t enough men to worry the sixty defenders.

“Here they come.” Hangaku and Jer watched two ram cars racing towards her, followed by cars and vans full of fighters. The numbers meant this was the main attack. Rifles started shooting, but most of the Yakuza kept out of sight. Her own rifles had good positions, firing through narrow slits, and knew their priority targets. The first cars stopped as very expensive ammunition wrecked the engines.

“Those ram cars might be a problem. I’d better arrange the reception.” Hangaku spoke quietly to a messenger, who ran off.

She went back to watching the advancing cars stop one by one until the rest pulled up, disgorging men as the fighters from the stopped vehicles caught up. By the time they charged forward there were over a hundred, but some began to fall as the Yakuza rifles switched targets. The range pegs hammered into the fields gave her shooters exact ranges as the mob ran closer, so very few shots missed.

The ram cars were well ahead of the men, aiming right at the opening. Hangaku began to smile, though it slipped a little as one swerved to go around the garden. They both accelerated to get up speed across the last fifty yards, aiming to smash aside the weak barricade and the wrecked gates.

Engines roared as two SUVs backed across the opening, one from each side, but the ram cars would expect to shunt them aside. The first one came around the flower bed, slowing a little to take the curve, while the other blasted straight through the low mound of earth. With a loud, echoing clang it stopped dead, almost stood on its nose. Hangaku hadn’t minded all the teasing about her flower beds—the teasers didn’t know the fence posts along the inner side were steel girders buried on end.

The other ram car straightened out to hit one of the SUVs—it barely moved. The interiors of the cars, every available space, was full of bricks, while two similarly filled vans had driven across behind them.

Even so, the Children of Cain cheered as they charged forward—those cars were a lot lower than the walls and so far no pistols had fired, only rifles. As they came past the flower beds, the front runners only forty paces from the opening, Yakuza popped up to empty their crossbows into the mass. Not enough crossbows, and they’d never reload in time for a second shot. The attackers with pistols raised them, but the Yakuza ducked. Moments later, heads appeared above the walls either side of the gateway, and smoke billowed as their pistols opened fire.

The Children only had forty steps to go, forty seconds running towards twenty pistols firing as fast as they could empty the clips. Three bullets for every attacker struck within twenty paces, not all that accurate but the sheer volume of flying lead took most of the Barbarians out of the fight. When the onslaught paused for the defenders to change clips, the surviving attackers thought it was still doable—right up until the machine gun started firing.

Jehoram’s step faltered for a moment, then he swerved, raising his own automatic. He’d kept towards the back during the charge, behind his bodyguard, but now he needed a clear line of sight. His view spun as jagged pain ripped through Jehoram’s shoulder, then as he staggered someone poked an iron bar into his belly, right through his plated jacket, a red-hot iron bar. He saw the sky above and was falling, falling—Jehoram never felt the impact as his body hit the ground.

Jer’s Gurkhas had taken pictures of the Host leaders, and had interrogated several captives. One glimpse through binoculars told Jer and Hangaku this was Jehoram’s Host, so he’d have an automatic, two reasons to make him a priority target. Two of the best shots in the Yakuza were immediately given phones with his picture—and one very important job. Once the attackers passed the range marker for a hundred and twenty paces, they’d ignored the rest, looking for just one face—then Jehoram had stepped sideways to get a clear shot.

The attack had almost reached the gateway but now it was stalled—the survivors would never cross those last dozen paces. Some already knew that and were trying to retreat, to get away, or to surrender. The machine gun fell silent, but the Yakuza pistols and rifles kept firing—though only single aimed shots now.

With the attack stopped, the Yakuza were concentrating on any who might get away—or still held a firearm. Hangaku and Jer had been confident they could stop a single Host, even if it attacked a broken gate, but wanted to utterly destroy it. They knew incoming fire couldn’t touch their defenders if they hid behind the walls, so they’d let the Children of Cain get deep into the killing zone. Now there’d be no defeated fighters lurking in the ruins.

As the firing died down, Hangaku drew her katana. “Cease fire. Rifles on overwatch for anyone with a gun or trying to run, the rest will advance. No quarter.” The pillar of smoke and the fireworks meant the Children of Cain had overrun one gang at least, so she’d start on payback now. “Tell the other gate to finish any survivors there.” Contacting the gate was easy—the men shouting into radios to stop their use were dead now, or dying. She turned to a non-combatant, one of those towing the vehicles away from the gateway. “Round up some cars. Most of us will be going to check on the rest.”

The only survivors from Jehoram’s Host were the pair sent to launch the suicide attack on the other gate—Beau and Denzil. The eight riflemen the Prophet left to cover that assault jumped into their cars, driving off to re-join the Guard. The silence on Beau’s radio, and the calm way the Yakuza climbed down their walls to finish off the bullet magnets, were a big hint about the fate of Jephthat’s attack. “Where do you reckon, Denzil, another Host or run for it?”

“Lot. He’s got a machine gun so his Host should be all right, but he isn’t likely to shoot us for leaving.” Though as they drove towards the Vikings, neither wanted to think too hard about how Jephthat having a machine gun hadn’t really helped.

* * *

Shiner:

Shiner could see smoke rising from the Hard School, and hear occasional shooting, but Headmaster hadn’t sent up the emergency signal. Odin had, which was worrying because he had a lot of ammo for his machine gun. Hopefully the Vikings would hold out long enough for Shiner to relieve the Hard School, and then Odin’s attackers would be the ones needing an emergency signal. The Skins had eleven more rifles and two more machine guns now. His new allies brought another two, ammo for Ganju’s automatic, thirty rifles and a hundred fresh, keen, heavily armed fighters.

Shiner soon had another eight almost-new rifles, collected when two cars came racing around a corner from the Yakuza enclave. They’d run straight into Skins collecting weapons from the dead men near the Prophet’s corpse—many of them walking wounded but they’d all scavenged at least one pistol. The cars were write-offs and the riflemen dead before they got off a shot. Ganju, sat in a wheelbarrow supervising the stripping of the dead Children, sent scouts to check on Hangaku.

The Skins had collected a lot of extra pistols from the bodies that had attacked that Union Jack. Some were very heavily armed, so Shiner was pleased they’d never reached his strongpoints. Now he had to hope these newcomers weren’t another invader. He was hopeful when they let his fighters collect weapons and ammo, leaving the share-out until the fighting was over.

The newcomers didn’t need the weapons for that—they already had horrendous firepower, very good armoured clothing, and had chopped up the Prophet’s survivors as if it was a practice session. Shiner knew diplomacy wasn’t his strong point—he passed that job on to Chelle.

Though Chelle didn’t seem to be beating around the bushes. “So is this Soldier Boy dead or not?”

“We’ve got some information from outside the wire, so we don’t think so.” Gemma looked unhappy because she’d like something more positive. “Even if he is, it doesn’t change the mission. We’re his army and fight under his flag, so we’re going to clean up this city because that’s what Harold would have done. I mean Soldier Boy; his name’s Harold.”

“All of the city?” Chelle turned to look at the pair in the back seat, a man and woman, both armed better than any of the Skins. From what she’d seen, all their gang carried a pistol, a long, professional-looking sword or a steel-shafted mace instead of the usual crude machetes, and at least two knives. One knife was like a small sword all by itself.

“Our third of Birmingham has been cleaned up already. The gangs from across the motorway, those the Prophet raided, are busy liberating the Prophet’s enclaves, so we can clean up this section right now. Those gangs have signed up for our manifesto. No conquest, enclaves rule themselves, and all rapists are shot or hung.” Gemma jerked her head backwards. “Are you sure nobody will touch that woman?”

“We don’t do that shit. The woman sat in the motor will make sure, but the bitch deserves a bad night.” Chelle had wondered about this gang, but if they hung rapists Lilith would be safe until the execution.

“Yeah, you said.” Nate pointed as a swarm of cyclists split off, following two Skins. “Once our shooters are covering the far side of this enclave, what do you prefer? Do we ask for surrender or just kill them?”

Shiner and Chelle exchanged glances—that was tempting. “If they’ve taken the place, then your rules apply because they’ll be having one of those parties. If not, we’ll want them to stop attacking Headmaster’s people, so maybe we should negotiate?”

“Surrender or die?” This time Gemma saw the looks. “Scroats like these got over our walls twice, nearly a thousand of them the last time, so we don’t have much sympathy for them. We wiped out six of the gangs, one fell apart, and now the Children make it a clean sweep. Some of our women fighters were liberated from people like these Children of Cain, so they’re pleased they got a chance to even up.”

She half-glanced backwards. “There’s at least three times this number of fighters back home, with proper heavy weapons and armoured vehicles. We’re just a task force that was waiting to slap down some raiders, but we weren’t turning down a chance like this.”

That explained the determined looks on their faces, and why they thought they could clean up the whole city. Chelle still had one question. “Will your people accept a surrender?”

“Yes, but then we have trials.” Both Shiner and Chelle flinched from the anticipation in Nate’s voice. “The survivors usually serve five years hard labour, then they get to leave with their clothes and lives.”

Shiner pulled up as a scout flagged him down and leant down to speak into the window. “The Host got inside, but there’s still fighting. A sort of stalemate maybe—there isn’t much shooting. We didn’t try to contact anyone on the radios in case we warned the Children.”

“We’ll wait until our allies have the place sealed off, then I’ll call Headmaster. Any idea which Host?” Shiner wanted to know if they had an automatic.

“Patton, according to a couple of wounded that we found. Never saw that one in the Bible.” The scout smiled. “Though I can’t say I read it all.”

“We know Patton. Have you brought a rope?” The words were mild, but anyone who heard Gemma’s voice jerked around to look. “We’ve got dead friends who would like the idea of Patton swinging in the breeze, feeding crows.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t mention your allies—or Orchard Close, GOFS or Barbies.” Nate’s voice had a lot of anticipation. “We’ve all been hoping to meet Patton.”

* * *

Fifteen minutes later some faces were disappointed, but others were relieved. “The Host in there is disorganised, nobody in charge because this Patton and some of the men have cleared off. One of the Host reckons they’ve gone to help the Prophet.” Shiner knew they hadn’t, unless the bodies hadn’t been recognised.

“Cripes! I thought we had the scroat this time!” Gemma’s glare was matched by Nate’s—they’d come so close.

“But right now we need a demo—to show the ones he left that it’s hopeless.” Shiner didn’t want them running off after Patton, not until the other Hosts were dealt with. Though once this mess was sorted out, he’d made a promise. He could always send out messengers to let other gangs know about this Patton—maybe offer a reward for news of a sighting or his head. “Can you ask the bloke with those catapult things if he can help? How far can they throw stuff?”

Gemma and Nate both looked guilty. “Ah, right. That’s Tell. He’s er, sort of in charge? We got a bit carried away—left him behind.” Nate shrugged as he opened the car door. “I suppose we should report in. I’ll ask about the catapults. Maybe they can throw a few pipe bombs.”

As soon as the pair were far enough away, Chelle started laughing. “You complain the Skins don’t always pay attention. Just think about that poor bloke.”

* * *

The poor bloke seemed to think the same way as his errant lieutenants. The eight small catapults lined up, then one of them threw a pipe bomb a hell of a long way. Either the pipe bomb, or the brief view as fighters all around the perimeter showed themselves, was persuasive. Once again Shiner left the actual talking to Chelle—she was less likely to make a mistake. Chelle was very careful with wording. The forty-two men who disarmed and left the enclave, many needing help to walk or on stretchers, never had a hint about trials.

A dishevelled Headmaster came out with a bandage on one hand. “Sorry Ganju, Kabir didn’t make it. He was trying to conserve ammo, getting in close to break groups up, and in the end a rifle got him.” He raised the Army rifle. “I’m down to half a clip. I should have used it a dozen times, but I kept hoping to get the leader, Patton. Now you tell me he got away.” He turned to the lines of prisoners sitting or laid in the grass. “Have you got any ammo? I’ve got maybe thirty still fit to hold a weapon, but we’ll look after these while you check on Odin.”

“No payback though. Not until the trials.” Shiner smiled because Headmaster was going to like the next part. “This new lot hang rapists, even if they’ve surrendered, so get someone looking for rope.”

“But didn’t you offer...” Headmaster stopped, obviously thinking through what was said. “No, Chelle said they wouldn’t be shot if they disarmed and came out here, or they could fight and you’d kill everyone, including unconscious and the wounded.” He managed a real smile and a small bow. “Nicely done, Chelle. I’ll leave that little gem until you get back—so you can enjoy.” The smile died as he looked towards the pillar of smoke. “Now you’d better go and see if there’s anyone left alive over there.”

* * *

Asif:

Asif pulled the dressing tighter and huddled up. He knew he wasn’t cold—the shivers were shock setting in so he daren’t pass out. This was his own fault—he’d committed both of the sniper’s cardinal sins. He’d been concentrating too hard on whether to shoot Lilith instead of keeping an eye on what others were doing, then he’d stayed in place instead of breaking contact.

Shooting that fast, even smokeless, was easy to spot, then although the Children had been firing on the run, one got lucky. Asif had got away but not far enough. He’d expected the first searchers quicker than this, but they’d be coming. His rifle was in a hedge bottom, then he’d thrown his remaining ammo into a patch of nettles. The shites weren’t getting either.

Soon afterwards he’d heard the sudden, prolonged shooting, then occasional shots, so he knew what had happened. He hoped Shiner got the women and kids out, but he didn’t have too many hopes. Asif gripped his pistol tighter, shaking his head because he was getting a bit fuzzy. Maybe the best idea was to shoot at the first bastard he saw, get it over with instead of bleeding out in a ditch. Even if he survived overnight, and the Host left, Asif didn’t want to see what they left behind.

His eyes stung so Asif rubbed at them, then froze. A fighter came through the bushes from where he’d shot up the Host, crouching and looking at something. He’d done his best, but Asif was sure he’d left some sign, blood at least. The sniper squinted as the bloke came nearer. There was something wrong about that fighter’s weaponry. That wasn’t a machete—he’d never seen a sword like it, or maybe he had in a museum. It was a long, curved thing that had seen action today. Something about the figure niggled at him. No cross and, bloody hell, that was a woman!

“Here.” Asif coughed then tried again. Either the croak or his attempt at a wave caught her attention. She moved in carefully, pistol up and sword ready, but straightened as Asif dropped his gun.

She sheathed her sword and brought out a radio. “Hey, Lovecat here, has anyone lost a bush? Hang on, he’s hurt. I think he’s a soldier, a proper one.” She jumped down into the ditch, holstering her pistol. “Get a medic here with a stretcher, quick. I’ve found whoever shot all those assholes back of the Prophet’s body.” She tried to help Asif up, but she couldn’t manage with one hand.

The radio spoke to her and she looked down at him again. “Yeah, I’m sure. He’s wearing one of those sniper things, all leaves and bits of sack. Start at the naked bitch in handcuffs and walk over the bodies in the field. Keep coming until you find a lot of empty brass and some blood. Angle off to the left until you see me, but be quick because there’s a lot of blood. I need both hands now, so over and out.”

He wasn’t sure he wanted the answer, but Asif had to ask. “Bindu?” The woman looked puzzled. “My wife. Bindu?”

She smiled at him. “Don’t worry, if she’s with those skinheads she’ll be fine. The Cain assholes are all dead. Now let’s get you out of this ditch.” Lovecat got an arm under his, bracing her hand on the side of the ditch as she heaved up. Asif passed out.

* * *

Peter and Gregory:

Facing the Vikings, Peter and Gregory had been negotiating with the Vikings. They’d allowed the defenders to pull their people back into a group of four buildings, in return for the Host being allowed to retrieve wounded. That included Viking wounded, after Peter had promised they wouldn’t be killed. “Time to push a little.” Peter called up the stairs. “Line ten of them up along the edge of the roof.”

Seconds later the Viking spokesman called on the radio. “What are you doing?”

“Making sure you don’t shoot our men when they move into the empty buildings.” Peter waited and sure enough.

“We never agreed that.”

“We let you move out. You had to know we’d move in.” He paused for a second to let that sink in. “There’s a big gap to cross from there. Too big for a charge while you’ve got a machine gun. No soldier though, where did he come from?”

“Been here all along. His six mates will want to know how he is, so you might want to treat him right.” Someone tried to talk in the background. “Hang on.”

“Sorry, he was dead when we got here. We’ve got about twenty live Vikings, quite a few more if they get a medic?” Peter tried out Gregory’s idea. “They’ll do better with more space. That’s why we need the extra buildings, for our wounded and yours.”

A different voice came on the radio. The Vikings were getting organised—a pity because they’d been too rattled to negotiate properly up to now. Odin had died during the counter-charge and there didn’t seem to be a natural successor. “All right, but no shooting while we move cars about.”

“They’ll use them to block the gaps between buildings.” Gregory sounded worried. “We have to get this sorted before the Prophet turns up.”

“I still reckon we can recruit them.” Peter raised the radio. “But just in case another Host arrives?” He pressed transmit. “Agreed, because I’m not a real Host leader so I’m a reasonable man. If another Host turns up, I might be outranked. Then they’ll do the usual, throw the lot forward to plough you under. The top ones are religious nutters, they don’t care about casualties as long as they win.”

“How reasonable? You leave our wounded and go home, no hard feelings?” The voice didn’t really expect yes—he was just hoping for something short of dying.

“You surrender, your fighters join up, and then your civvies are safe.” He crossed his fingers, but Peter didn’t expect to get a yes straight away.

He expected the next question. “All our civvies will be safe, including the women?”

“Every fighter gets to save the women in his family. Any single male fighter can save one female, his personal woman. I’ll even let our prisoners and the wounded save one.” If he could sign this lot up, Peter thought the Prophet could live with that. He’d stood for it with that last enclave, and the Hosts would have lost a lot of fighters today.

“Careful, you aren’t that Patton.” Gregory glanced down at the machine gun he held, thinking hard. “Though now we’ve got a machine gun?”

“See, now you get the idea.” A man called, pointing, so Peter walked over to look out of a window. “Ah shit, Herod. Go and tell the stupid sod not to start trouble, that we’ve nearly got them signed up.” Peter half-expected an argument, but Gregory shrugged and set off. Peter raised the radio again. “Another Host just turned up, but I’m asking them to hold off.” Viking cars had been moving about, making a barricade, now two accelerated away. After a brief exchange of fire with the sentries, the two of them drove out of sight. “What the hell is that about?”

“Just checking to see how your other Hosts got on. If one of them bounced, we might have our own friends arriving.” He didn’t sound hopeful. Before Peter could speak, Gregory was back with Herod right behind.

“Hold on Peter, we might be in trouble. Herod couldn’t get into the Valkyrie enclave, then someone shot the Prophet and wiped out Jehoram’s Host.” As Peter stared, gobsmacked, Herod pushed past Gregory.

“A whole new gang, or army, fighting under the Union Jack. The messenger had orders from Jehoram. We’re supposed to go home, sign up every male with two working legs, then arm them and fort up in the garrison enclaves. You should have had a messenger. I’m guessing he didn’t fancy our chances so he scarpered instead.” Herod looked down at Gregory’s automatic. “That’ll be handy.” He half-reached for it.

Gregory ignored the move. “Yeah, that sounds like a typical Jehoram idea—lock ourselves up so some asshole can take a year starving us out. Right now we’ve got hostages and a lot of fighters.” He pointed towards the remaining Vikings. “Get your Host round behind them; then if this army turns up, we’ll give them the options. If they start shooting, you run over those four buildings, then we start throwing Vikings off the roof until someone negotiates.”

Herod almost pointed out he was a Son of Cain and these two weren’t, but they’d done better than him. They definitely weren’t handing the gun over. “We keep trying for a surrender, then I get their machine gun, okay?”

“Deal.” Gregory looked at Peter.

“Deal. We expect you to back one of us to take over the Host—we don’t care which.” When Peter stuck out his hand, both Herod and Gregory shook.

“In that case, I’d better get the rest of our hostages bottled up.” Herod turned and ran—which startled the other two.

“Maybe he means it?” Peter suddenly smiled and nodded. “Of course he does. He abandoned an attack, so normally he’d be burned at the stake or something equally bloody horrific. If Jehoram tries to take over, Patton will shoot him, which will leave people in charge who have brains instead of religious mush. Even Jephthat will get into line, which saves Herod’s bacon.” He turned back to look at the remaining Vikings. “I’ll let Herod get into position then give these a nudge. I’d be happier if they were already hostages if trouble comes calling.”

* * *

Half an hour later, after short bursts of automatic gunfire proved there were nine of the weapons out there, Herod, Peter and Gregory were really pleased they’d gone for the hostage option. Brief views of Angel, Shiner, Hangaku and a bloke called Tell under a big Union Flag, proved the Hosts had failed. Peter didn’t even try to pretend he didn’t believe them about Patton running out—it fitted with what Herod told them about the man. Eventually over two hundred Children of Cain, the majority from Herod’s mostly untouched Host, were sat in rows in a field.

“There’s too many. It’ll need an army to watch them to make sure none run off.” Angel scowled towards Shiner. “We should have killed a few first.”

“Then they’d have killed Vikings.” Shiner smirked, pointing at the couple heading towards the prisoners. “There’ll be less in a little while. I reckon about half of them will be swinging on a rope, or they’ll all try to escape so we can use these machine guns.” Angel started smiling as well.

Nobody was smiling soon afterwards. “I’ve gone off the legal system. Witnesses and proof are a waste of time; just hang them.” Angel looked back towards her enclave. “I don’t want them near my place overnight.”

“March them back home, including the prisoners from the Hard School. Move everyone out of the crappiest enclave back there then throw the prisoners inside—they can go hungry overnight.” Hangaku brandished her new automatic. “Surround them with sentries with big rifles and infra-red, at the other side of the fields, with orders to shoot anyone coming over the walls. We’ll be in the next enclave with eleven automatics, so if there’s a mass breakout it solves the prisoner problem. Tomorrow they’ll be near all the witnesses, so we can top half of them all nice and legal.”

“The survivors can dig the graves as a hint about how they should behave.” Angel looked around at the happy faces. “Come on then, I want to get to the feet-up-with-a-pint part.”

* * *

Sutton Park:

The following morning, the gang leaders gathered at the prison enclave. Some of their fighters were still searching, but it was obvious the prisoners had disappeared. “Where did they all go?” Angel gestured to heavily bandaged figures with their throats cut. “Well not all, just the ones still fit to fight. I get that it must have been a rescue, but by who, and where did they find enough transport to shift them all? There’s no other big gangs around here.”

“I’m more puzzled by the night guards. All fast asleep, still with their rifles? At the very least a gang should have taken firearms and ammo.” Hangaku turned towards home. “Lilith! She got away and contacted…” She turned to look at the empty enclave, then back towards where the spy should still be shackled to a Land Rover. The seer had been very talkative, trying to get out of the handcuffs, but what she’d said made the listeners more determined she should suffer for a while. “She said she reported to someone called Control. It wasn’t Frenchy—so government? What the hell do the government want with nearly three hundred gangsters?”

Hangaku would never get her answer, any answers, because Lilith wouldn’t be telling any more tales. Sometime during the night, both the seer and the woman watching her had been darted. The guard woke up eventually—Lilith didn’t. Control had decided to seal any leaks, to the gangs or his own superiors. The orders had been strict, don’t kill sentries, so whoever was in charge now didn’t seem the type to appreciate previous recruitment methods.

* * *

Ex-Children:

Fifteen miles outside the wire, Herod, Peter, Gregory and another two hundred and sixty-three ex-Children of Cain were split between five long huts with bare board floors and no furniture. The armed men in uniform who had come into the enclave had loaded them onto coaches, then supervised the disembarkation, without answering questions The first three to argue were shot with silenced pistols, a big hint for the rest.

At dawn, a hammering on a hut door woke up those who’d managed some sleep. Moments later it flew open. “Wakey, wakey, rise and shine. I don’t care what sort of rough tough arsehole you thought you were, to me you are all raw recruits. Outside, now, form ranks on the parade ground. We’ll start by introducing you to my hammers. Our job is to pound you into soldier shapes, so that you will fit into the military contractor Specials. Not very special, or we wouldn’t have allowed any of you inside the doors.”

As the uniformed man shouted, he walked down the room, kicking anyone still lying on the ground. He seemed to take great delight in kicking the bandages on any wounded. The first one to object, he shot in the arm. “Only a flesh wound, not enough to miss parade. Move, move.”

Several considered swarming him, but the shutters opened to reveal soldiers with their Army rifles already aimed. Within minutes five lines of tired, confused men were streaming out of their huts, where daylight revealed mesh topped by razor wire, and watchtowers. The Cabal weren’t going to miss the chance to snap up all these combat veterans—ideal for the attack on London.

Chapter 8
Rumours
and Reputations

Soldier Boy:

He’d thought about it long and hard, so when Roxanne told Harold the convoy came back after two weeks, he waited until three days before the mission. “Daisy, I can’t afford to take you.” Her glare and jutting jaw promised storms. “I need you for a special job, one that only you can do.” Harold eased a .25 single-shot Beretta out of his jacket—the one Roy had given Celine so she felt safe—a million years ago.

Even though Celine and Roy were dead, the pistol had been scooped up with the other weapons during the escape. Daisy’s eyes opened wide. “This is a secret between you and me. I’ll show you how to use it, but nobody can see it.”

“Why not?” It was on her face and in her voice. Daisy wanted to brag, show Wills and Eddie and everyone else that she had a real gun.

“Because it has to be a secret. If the scroats come again, even if there’s a spy they won’t know about this, so you’ll get a clean shot at one. If you get the chance, wait for the right time, try to get one by himself—this isn’t enough to fight all of them.” Harold paused, feeling guilty as Daisy nodded, caught up in the idea. “Best if you can get the one with a key or guarding the door. This will go through a plated jacket, though if you’re close enough a headshot will make sure.” Her head jerked up to meet Harold’s eyes—Daisy was hooked.

“Through a jacket?” She glanced around, then Daisy took the slim weapon, tucking it in her belt under her own plated jacket. The ten loose rounds went into a pocket. “I promise, Uncle Harold, I won’t even tell Mum. Then next time…” For a moment her voice faltered as she remembered last time, why she needed something that went through a jacket. “When can you show me?”

“Give me an hour, then meet me around the back of my house.” He meant the abandoned house he lived in; it had a long garden. Nobody would make anything of a few gunshots from there. Any shooting was kept to a minimum, in daylight as both the sound and flash would be more noticeable at night. “Remember, keep it hidden, maybe under your shirt.” As Daisy walked away, Harold found himself smiling—genuine humour. Her amateur attempt at nonchalant innocence wouldn’t work, but the person most likely to wonder what she was up to knew not to ask.

Daisy’s weapon safety regime was the opposite of amateur, absolutely spot on because all the people she respected, dead or alive, had told her it was important. Harold didn’t expect problems with the actual shooting, and there weren’t any. Daisy had spent four years practicing, building strength, the last two years while receiving some weapons training.

Even though Daisy’s left wrist was sprained, her right could handle the .25’s recoil for point-blank, while hours of practice with her pistol crossbow meant her accuracy would improve as her left wrist recovered. The whole thing might be a ruse, but if it was ever needed the weapon wouldn’t be a bluff. Despite what Sharyn had said, Harold was surprised when his sister reported how much quieter Daisy slept at night. At least he’d managed to help somebody’s nightmares.

* * *

While a dedicated group carried his banner into battle within Birmingham, Harold was beginning his own fight back—maybe even his personal recovery. Tonight, for perhaps the first time since the escape, Harold felt whole again. He was sneaking through the night, close to a lot of armed people who would kill him if they knew, but this was his comfort zone. The three trainees might be a problem, though each one had two veterans watching them—people Harold had trusted with his life time after time.

The lorry was hidden before the small force closed in on Hampton in Arden. Twelve dark figures slipped into the cellar Roxanne had found, while Roxanne and Nikki, her apprentice, took first watch. Despite being so close, Harold daren’t contact Orchard Close in case he alerted the perimeter guards. He was tempted when Barbie Radio claimed they were still liberating enclaves.

Three nights later, Fergie ghosted into the cellar to touch each person. Alerted, they quickly followed her outside before scattering to their positions—mostly in the buildings each side of the narrow side road. Everyone got down as low as they could behind solid brick, to make sure no heat showed up.

Harold headed towards the junction where Ski would be waiting. This convoy usually turned down the railway line, but the barrier had been lowered to stop the lorries. Harold needed them trapped in that side road, stationary, just for a couple of minutes.

* * *

Just as it was eight months ago, the leading vehicle was a Fox armoured reconnaissance vehicle. They’d been obsolete, mothballed until convoys suddenly needed a lot of armour that wouldn’t rip up tarmac. As Roxanne had warned, it turned into the side road, then reversed out to watch the lorries make the turn one after the other. It hadn’t reversed last August, but the change wasn’t significant. As the fifth lorry turned in, Harold took the four quick steps to follow Fergie up to the rear of the Fox. He put his foot into her hands, cupped on her knee, stepping up onto the rear.

The commander and gunner had both opened their hatches, either for better all-round vision or fresh air. Both started to turn, much too late as Ski followed Harold.

Harold’s hand closed over the mic in front of the commander’s face, his knife slid across the front of the man’s neck from the other side, and the soldier had his chance to be a hero. The gunner’s head jerked around at the movement, then Ski did the same as Harold. The soldier had a close-up of a young, pretty but definitely manic smile offering him the same options.

Neither chose to die, so Harold eased the commander’s helmet off before speaking quietly into his ear. “Tell the crews to get out of the lorries. If you don’t, they’ll all die. Point blank, both sides, so if we’d wanted them dead it would be all over.” He eased the knife away just a little. “Nod if you want them to live.”

The commander nodded, so Harold gave him his helmet back. As he did so, the radio spoke, almost kicking off a bloodbath. “The rail barrier is down sir. Is there any chance of a train?”

The officer definitely wanted to live—he thought fast. “No, it’s a security exercise. I’ve just been told. Everyone dismount, take five.”

Harold removed the man’s helmet again, waiting until he heard lorry doors slam. He hoped they’d all got out. Harold leant forward again. “Your driver, hatch open. He’ll get the same option as you.” The officer passed the instruction. When Harold beckoned her forward, Fergie walked up the side of the vehicle, pressed channel seven, then clicked her tongue twice.

* * *

As exclamations and instructions to keep still echoed up the side street, Fergie darted forward two steps before swinging around to face the armoured car. “Freeze.” Her crossbow was up to her shoulder, ready.

“Keep still, Fritz!” The commander froze for a moment, then continued quietly. “Fritz might have tried to get us clear.”

“Fair enough.” There’d been no screams or shots, so the rest must have gone well. Harold raised his voice. “SB here, report.”

Voices called back from the side road. “Demon, clear.” “Bad Girl, clear.” “Gunslinger, clear, one bandit down.” “Cobra, clear.” “Blue, clear, one bandit down.” Patty, Emmy, and Doll were using their old gang names, Umeko had been named Cobra by Thien, Asian and deadly, while Roxanne had a blue stripe in her hair.

Harold felt the commander tense. “Gunslinger, Blue, confirm. Bandit down, dead or alive?”

“Gunslinger. He’s still alive. Tried to run so Hammer knocked him out.” Hammer was Henry because of Liz’s habit of calling him her big hammer man.

“Blue. This one is dead, went for a gun when Hammer’s went down. Nikki hasn’t got the training to stop him any other way.” Nikki had suggested Stripes as a name, but she sounded bitter when she said it so nobody was sure she was serious.

“She’ll learn.” Harold was relieved because a trainee might have frozen or started shooting. “Bring the prisoners out here, including the two who are down. Hammer, go for the transport.” The eight uniformed men, carrying two others, looked shocked when they saw the knives threatening the commander and gunner. Henry raised a hand before jogging down the road to pick up the Army lorry they’d used for most of the trip. Out in the road, away from the buildings and shadows, the moonlight showed that the military uniforms weren’t Army.

“Specials?” Ski sounded almost whimsical, but Harold heard the edge in her voice and so did the commander.

“No, honest. We’re military contractors working for the Army, Secure Transport Solutions. We don’t supply personnel for the Marts, or Specials.” He almost turned his head, then remembered the knife. “I swear, different companies and command structure. We used to run supplies for the Army in Ukraine.” He’d obviously guessed why a young woman would be unhappy about Specials.

“Pity, they killed some friends of mine.” Ski sounded sorry, and bitter.

“Just convoy duty, I swear. What happens to us now?” Now almost everyone had survived, the officer was starting to worry if they’d keep living.

“Prisoners of war.” Harold half-expected to turn them loose eventually—if they really were innocent—so he decided to stir things up a bit. “I’m Soldier Boy. The Specials declared war on my people so I needed some resupply.”

* * *

“We heard you were dead, maybe. Prisoners of war? Can I explain, tell the rest?” Harold agreed so the commander told his men to keep calm; they’d be treated as proper prisoners. He stressed they’d been caught by Soldier Boy, which surprised the captives but didn’t appear to worry them.

The driver stayed in the Fox, as did the officer. Harold took over the gunners’ spot so he could keep an eye on the commander if they were stopped. “Where are the trackers? You don’t want anyone catching us because they’ll use napalm after last time.”

“I’ll show you. They are turned off when we are resupplying places like the city centre, the contractors who guard the BBC transmitters. The idea is to make sure nobody discovers the route.” There was a pause, but then he had to ask. “How did you find us—and why?”

“I told you, resupply. I’ll explain the rest on the way.” The Army lorry had arrived, so the prisoners climbed aboard with Emmy, Fergie and Ski—all with Army rifles. “I’ll also explain how we are going to hide you and your lorries.”

Wayne came out of the shadows just before the lorries started off, bow in his hand, an arrow nocked. “All clear, no sign of life along the railway line or the road.”

* * *

The prisoners gave no trouble on the way back. There were three automatics in the lorry, aiming at them, and Wayne was standing up in the cab of the lorry behind, dressed in uniform, with a fifty-calibre machine gun. The other four lorries had lighter weapons mounted, but only two were manned, by Henry and a trainee, Mark. None of the precautions mattered because nobody challenged the convoy. Long before dawn the lorries were hidden among all the rest, under tarpaulins.

While ‘their’ lorry dropped the prisoners and guards off in the village, Harold made a point of talking to Nikki, assuring her she’d done well. She looked rocky after her first kill, with a blade which was more personal than shooting someone. Harold had looked at the body, pleased to see she’d remembered her training—sword sideways between his ribs before she’d wrenched the blade across to make sure.

By the time the lorry came back for the raiding party, Harold had decided he wanted the Fox in the village. Now any patrol finding the escapees would have to deal with a thirty-millimetre cannon and a light machine gun. The fuel tanks were almost full, lucky because it was a petrol engine and he hadn’t seen any petrol for years. He wasn’t surprised to find that the government had petrol as well as diesel, despite the alleged shortages.

Harold soon had two crews training hard, swapping three-round clips for the cannon and the belts for the light machine gun, or rotating the turret to aim them. The Fox’s aluminium armour wouldn’t last ten seconds against heavy weapons, but it would stop rifle fire, while the cannon would slaughter a lorry full of Specials.

As the contents of the lorries were inspected, Harold and his original group realised who some of the supplies were meant for, especially the crates of empty Berry Beer bottles. Dealer was official enough for his stock to be delivered by government lorries. Since that included enough propellant, caps, and ammunition to cover a fortnight of dealing, Tessa was soon busy with her old job, the one that earned her the name Apprentice. Once their own used brass was loaded, she started on all the empty brass brought for trading. There were also supplies for the actual city centre garrison, which helped the food situation, but some weaponry made no sense.

“Why would the city centre need anti-aircraft defences?” Patty glanced at Harold, but it had to be said. “Going by the last aircraft that came near us, we won’t need them.”

He didn’t think that was strictly true, so Harold didn’t want lookouts ignoring aircraft. “You saw the officer’s reaction to Specials; even the other contractors don’t like them. I think it was a case of those pilots hating Specials more than them helping us. Whoever is in charge won’t make that mistake again, they’ll make sure the right pilots are in the cockpits. If we believe an aircraft is going to attack, we’ll lock on the targeting, give them a chance to pull away.”

Harold bent to look at the next crate. “Then, if they keep coming, we’ll try to shoot the first one down. Even if we only get close it should make them wary. Leave the missiles and launchers in the lorries for now, but bring the paperwork so we can work out how to aim and fire them.”

He glanced towards the front of the lorry, where someone was listening to the radio. “This close to the motorway, just after a convoy has passed, the radios shouldn’t attract attention. I’d rather not risk turning on anti-aircraft systems. We might take them to London.”

Listening to radios had led to hearing the transmissions from London, where the defenders kept asking for deserters with any military weapons and equipment they could steal. “I doubt you’d get them through the Army blockade.” Patty sighed—she didn’t want to encourage Harold but she didn’t want him sneaking off. “If you go, make sure you take me with you. I promised to watch your back, remember?”

There was a long silence, then Harold’s voice sounded strained. “I remember Patty. Thank you.” He stood up, moving to the back of the lorry to pick up the new clothing they’d found. “Meanwhile, we’ll find someone to wear this. With some of the men dressed as contractors, we might be able to bluff our way through a patrol.”

Patty thought the ferocious practice with blades, or dry-firing Army automatics and the Riot Squad rifles and pistols, would probably work better. If all else failed, Wamil’s style of keep-fit might still get the job done. Since the refugees had spent a month training flat-out, without any farming or building work to interfere, the twenty-nine women and eighteen men were already dangerous—and a lot fitter.

Harold wondered if so many would have opted for training if they hadn’t known their enclaves had been taken and sacked. The other escapees, four under fifteen with six women and one man, were sticking to cooking and cleaning and hoping they could be returned to their old homes. That would mean cutting the wire to sneak into Leeds and Sheffield, which Harold had decided would be a good test for the trainees. So far, he hadn’t said what he wanted them to do afterwards.

* * *

Dealer/Orchard Close:

Inside Birmingham, Dealer would have actually felt relieved if he’d known where his supplies disappeared to. He kept expecting some sort of rumour, or a gang using automatics and grenades to run over their neighbours or possibly attack his cars. The contractors were blaming a gang from a city, but weren’t sure exactly where the lorries disappeared. As time passed Dealer suspected ex-Specials—there were rumours about a lot of desertions after the Soldier Boy and arena fiascos.

Dealer had enough reloading supplies to carry him over the four days until a replacement convoy arrived, presumably one armed to the teeth. Even when the lorries arrived, one specific item meant his visit to Orchard Close would be awkward. One missing lorry had been over half full of empty bottles, already labelled Berry Beer, a real problem because Supply couldn’t get them replaced immediately.

The reduced amount of ammunition being traded in all the cities might lead to a new product for sale. Supply was asking the Dealers how much diesel they could sell, if he could put it in armoured bowsers. Rumour insisted the Orchard Close alliance had a tanker, but elsewhere gangs were being reduced to cycling. More and more, fuel was reserved for leaders or for emergencies.

* * *

Once inside Orchard Close, Dealer broached the subject of beer as soon as he sat down, holding up one of the bottles he’d been sent instead. “There’s a problem with empty bottles. I’ve no idea what, but my delivery didn’t turn up.” June’s curious look settled one thing—the bottles hadn’t turned up here. “Finding enough pint bottles the right shape will take time—we need the right ones for outside the wire. I’ve got several hundred pint bottles good enough for resale to enclaves?”

“You might sell less around Sutton Park, now we’re trading direct.” June was watching, but Dealer didn’t try to pretend he didn’t know why.

“I know. I’ve got a lot of plated jackets with big crosses for sale, if anyone wants them.” It was Dealer’s turn to probe, though he was almost sure of the answer. “I heard an army turned up with a Union Flag flying?”

“Not an army, or not all of them, and Harold wasn’t with them. We’d probably pay for solid information on where he is.” June sighed, then brightened, pointing to the bottle. “The batch waiting for you are the right bottles, though if Berry Beer is going to be in short supply we should bump up the price.”

“Not really, but nice try. If necessary I can sell the different-shaped bottles to someone who trades in another city. The solution to the other problem might mean I buy more beer, if production can be raised?” He waggled the bottle, smiling because he knew the brewery had once supplied local pubs. “I’ve brought extra supplies, and beer kegs. Does Berry want to branch out into selling draught beer?”

“I’ll send a message. By the time you meet the Barbies they’ll have an answer.” Her smile hadn’t faltered. “We won’t need propellant because Sutton Park replaced it all. Bought with those armoured jackets, so you got the trade anyway.”

“Sutton Park won’t need propellant next time. That used to be one of my best sellers, but I’m going to have to find something else.” Dealer frowned thoughtfully. “I wonder if I could find a bullet-proof bowser, so I could sell diesel?” He smiled at June’s narrowed eyes. “Not for you, there’s a very strong rumour about a tanker, especially after seeing that lorry and tank chugging about.”

“Maybe we’re just very frugal?” June smiled back at him. “Though if you find that bowser, you’ll need propellant for your own guns. The idiots will be lined up trying to steal it. It’ll save us having to deal with them, we’ll just send half a dozen lasses on bikes to loot the ruins. We won’t even need propellant.”

“All this declaring peace is ruining my trade. At this rate I won’t need armoured cars, just a grocery van.” That made Dealer smile because Supply had said something similar, with more swearing. “Though meetings are less fraught, except in the northwest.” His smile widened. “Even the Barbies would be impressed by Bitch the Barbarian.”

June laughed, so she’d heard the rumours. “Yes, the Barbies are wondering how they can top that. They can’t wear less and still be armed.” Her face straightened, more serious now. “I’m sure you met Patton, the leader of the Bloods, when he worked for the General. He joined that Prophet but ran away again, just in time. Anyone telling us where he ended up would get a reward. Do you buy and sell heads, because we’d buy his, with or without the body?”

She must have seen the shock on Dealer’s face, even though he tried to hide it. “He’s the last one, him and a few Bloods. We got everyone else who attacked us.”

“Not my usual stock.” Dealer thought hard because June was stone-cold serious. He might be able to make a small trade here. “I could have a “Wanted, Dead or Alive” poster printed, and distribute them? Though I’d need a photo.”

“One of the Sutton Park blokes, Shiner, has sent messengers to ask about any escaping Children of Cain, but I’m not sure if the gangs will grass on the runners. They might send a head, if the price is right. When you talk to the Barbies, there might be a proposition and a photo.” June squared her shoulders and tapped the list on the table. “Now we’d better get on with what we need for Orchard Close. Do you have any more bespoke orders, embroidery, knitting, that sort of thing? If so I hope you can get all the right colour silks this time.” The meeting switched to the usual, more mundane trades.

* * *

Hope Valley:

June would have been very interested in what was happening in the Hope Valley. With Wade coming back to verify these soldiers were SAS, and nobody would be locked up, most of the survivors in the caves had been extracted. “This is the last chance, I’m afraid.” Sergeant Ron’s luck had run out. “We were hoping to keep these visits a secret, but had to kill the guards this time. The powers that be will know some of you got out, so they’ll start looking for you. They’ll definitely make sure no more of you escape. There’ll either be a determined effort to finish you off, men sent down every access, or they’ll use gas, or concrete you in.”

The man in the balaclava shook his head. “Some of us haven’t any reason to give up, or leave.” The bitterness in the man’s voice, and the two voices agreeing, meant there’d be no persuading them. Having spoken to others, Ron knew these were people who’d suffered terribly or lost lovers or friends. “We can keep them guessing, then let them think they’ve got us all? Will that help?”

Ron debated for a few moments, but these three at least meant to die here. “If whoever is behind this thinks they got you all, that nobody escaped, it will help. You’d give those who are working against them more time. That will be difficult, given the three bodies back there.”

“We’ll come with you, to take their weapons and grenades. When the relief guards come, they’ll be just in time to stop the escape.” The man’s laugh had no humour. “A couple of shots and shouts as they arrive, then we’ll empty a couple of clips at them before we retreat. With luck they’ll chase us.”

A woman’s voice cut in. “We’ll attack a few more exits, throw out grenades or loose off a clip. Then, as you say, they’ll try to finish us off. Us bunnies know what to do. We’ve got a last stand burrow, and now that you’ve warned us it will be gas-proofed. When the Specials come to collect the bodies, we’ll bring down every cave and tunnel we can. It’ll take months to dig the bodies of their soldiers out, then they’ll have to clear every tunnel to be sure they got us. Even then there’s sink holes, some full of water, so they might never be sure.” She spoke quietly to the woman who had agreed to leave. “This is the last one, Sergeant Ron. Now get her clear.” Her tone changed, hatred leaking into every word. “Promise me you’ll make them pay.”

“I swear it, on everything I hold dear. We’ll get them, but if we go too soon we’ll end up with the Army split, fighting each other. Pure chaos, then some of them would get away.” He almost said good luck, but that wasn’t what these three wanted to hear. “Good hunting. Follow me now, back to where we came in.”

* * *

Patton/Bitch:

In the northwest, the object of Orchard Close’s interest, Patton, was debating his options. He’d crossed the motorway, so at least he was safe from Soldier Boy’s army. His group camped out in the ruins near the wire for almost a week, watching for any sign they’d been followed, then started looking for a new home. The first gang Patton approached had some alarming news about the Barbarians. “They’ll sign you up because they lost a lot of men, attacked the zoo but ran into too many machine guns. Fair warning, forget how she looks; if you give the new boss any shit she’ll kill you.”

“She? How did a woman get the job?” Even if a lot of men were killed, the Barbarians hadn’t sounded like the sort of gang to be run by a woman.

“Killed Conan in a straight challenge, stark naked with a knife.” The three men watching the border passed on a lurid description of Bitch, the fight, and that she’d killed another top Barbarian when he gave her shit.

Patton paid for passage—not much because these guards were nervous about the machine gun and twenty-three heavily armed men. He stopped off at the gang’s headquarters for beer, where he heard a similar version of the fight. This time he also got some solid news. The Barbarians weren’t quite desperate for men. They’d lost a lot and had plenty of wounded, but none of their neighbours were pushing.

The Barbarians still outnumbered any other nearby gang, so the Bitch might decide to trample one of them, a quick victory to get everyone onside. More enquiries over the next couple of days, at smaller gangs, suggested some might sign him up. Patton wasn’t keen—he didn’t want to find the Barbarians knocking on his door one morning.

He would have passed on approaching this Barbarian Bitch, but there weren’t many options. Further south the zoo and their allies were now the biggest dog, in numbers as well as all those automatics. They weren’t the type to want Patton or his Bloods. He debated going out through the wire, but couldn’t be sure of his reception in another city. For once Patton wasn’t confident, though none of that showed when he turned up at a Barbarian border post.

He’d been reassured by one thing. When he’d said he was going to sign up with the Barbarians, the last gang let him through without paying. If he was accepted, he wouldn’t have to worry about being attacked. From some of the comments, even that Soldier bastard might think twice.

“I’m called Patton. I’ve brought twenty-two men, all armed, to join up. What’s the buy-in?” Nobody he’d talked to had any idea.

“I don’t know, it depends on what Bitch decides. She signed a few up, but she threw some back, said they should fuck off and grow some balls. A couple ended up chasing rats.” All the guards laughed at that, then at Patton’s puzzled face. These men weren’t like the others he’d met—they weren’t impressed by the numbers or weapons, though they didn’t take the piss. One pointed at Patton’s crotch. “The price might have been a week or two as a stud, but she’s chosen a couple of blokes. Maybe when she’s used them up?” The other Barbarians laughed when one pointed out he’d volunteered, newbies could get in line.

“I’ve heard a lot about how Bitch got the job.” As expected, they were willing enough to tell him exactly how it happened. Patton was impressed—this woman really had taken Conan with a knife, naked. “In that case I’d better mind my manners.”

“Around her bodyguard as well, anyone wearing a little flap thing front and back like the films with Geronimo and that lot. Those bitches are looking for an excuse, and the blokes are as bad.” The border guard raised his radio. “I’ll let them know you’re coming. Don’t stray off the route, and stop when you’re told.” He made a gun hand and Patton nodded. He’d already got the message—be bloody careful.

* * *

When Patton reached the fortified enclave, he was directed to a large open area with a big square of grass at one side. There was a big wooden X stood up at one side, and a square metal frame with chains and ropes attached, but Patton was more interested in the reception committee. At least fifty men were waiting, ahead and to his left, all heavily armed with pistols, rifles, shotguns and crossbows almost-aimed. A man with an Army rifle came forward, dressed smarter than most of the rest. “Leave your weapons in the cars, all except a knife.” He jerked his head towards the watching men. “Or we can strip the bodies.”

“I came to join up.” Patton wasn’t disarming until he knew the deal.

“Your men stand in line by the cars.” The man smiled at the cautious look. “Bitch looks them over. If she figures they might be useful, you get to sit down with her, sort out the details. If not, you’ll pay a fine for wasting her time, then we’ll give you twelve hours to clear our borders. Give her any trouble and you’ll need the time; you’ll be leaving without your cars or jeans.” His smile widened. “We’ve had some assholes think they can march in here, throwing their weight about because she’s a woman. This is how we sort the fighters out from chancers. A word of warning, watch your mouth when you first see her.”

“I’m good with that. We’ll spar with your men, to first blood if necessary, to prove we’re fighters.” Patton could see some real veterans among the men, but his Bloods were as good as or better than most of the rest.

“Out of the cars then, please. I’m Sylvester. You can take the piss if you like?” Patton shook his head before calling to his men, explaining the rules. Sylvester assessed the fighters as they disarmed. They’d be good recruits, but they were this man’s private warband. He didn’t look like the type who would be satisfied with less than warband leader, but there wasn’t a vacancy unless Bitch let him challenge.

Sylvester stepped aside, keeping the machine gun on them as the men lined up by the cars. He’d been trying not to laugh, but let it come when the crowd parted to let Bitch through. Sure enough, none of them knew what to say. She looked Patton up and down. “You look like the leader. I’m Bitch. If you join up, what I say goes. You don’t like it, leave now.”

For once in his life Patton was speechless, stunned. He’d expected some scarred, over-muscled dyke, maybe someone like Ken the Barbie, but this Bitch was a real looker. Even so he wasn’t going to underestimate her. Despite her strolling about nearly naked, not a single man had done more than eye her up.

Patton turned towards his men. “Keep your mouth shut, all of you, or I’ll shut it.” He turned back to the woman, taking in the four other women with pistols, shotguns, and armoured vests. They were all lookers as well, but the weapons and the way they watched him meant they were fighters, not amusement. They had a sort-of Wild West look, and some of the male bodyguards had a bit of fringing on their plated jackets. Two even had cowboy type hats with a feather. “I’m Patton. These are my men, twenty-two Bloods. We want to sign up, depending on the deal and buy-in.”

* * *

Bitch looked along the men, and wanted to shoot them all. She knew exactly where those vests came from, though they’d cleaned off the painted crosses. She even knew why they were here. These were the survivors she’d been told about, running after the Last Prophet was killed. “Not bad, we can always toughen them up a bit. Come on then, Patton, let’s see what sort of deal you want. You boys just wait there. Try not to get frisky.”

As she turned away, Patton was just in time—some of his men had their mouths open to make a comment until he scowled. The Barbarians had laughed at her comment, and a couple had offered to get frisky if she wanted, but none of them were crude about it.

He watched her walking away, showing him her back to prove she wasn’t worried about him. Patton wasn’t stupid enough to try. Not just because of the guards—there was something else going on. He knew men like the Barbarians, the type—they didn’t watch their mouths or manners around anyone, especially a woman. He followed, trying to work it out, until the male bodyguards turned and one put his hand up.

“We stay out here. You can go in after you take off the vest. Keep the knife.” He grinned, with just a hint of mockery. “After all, Bitch doesn’t wear a vest, though she’ll let you keep your jeans and shirt.”

“She’s got a pistol as well.” Though Patton was taking off the plated jacket as he spoke.

“Only because she’s got a busted wing. She didn’t need a pistol or clothes to fix Conan, and he was bigger than you.” The hint was there again, almost taunting Patton to do or say something to give them an excuse. It was like there was a joke running, one he couldn’t see, which might mean it was aimed at him.

Patton almost said that size didn’t always matter, then let it ride because the arse was deliberately winding him up. He was used to a certain amount of respect, for his size at least, but the Barbarians were almost contemptuous. He had to keep his wits about him in there, or this could be a bloodbath.

Patton handed over the jacket, then when the guard pointed, pushed open the door and went in. Bitch was lounging in a seat the other side of a low table, with four women stood along the wall behind her. The four small-calibre shotguns were pointing right at Patton’s chest. “Sit down.” The hand gestured to a chair the opposite side of the table.

“Thanks.” The chair wasn’t lower than hers so no dominance shit. Bitch seemed totally relaxed, but then Patton realised he was watching the wrong person. Despite their looks, the opened jackets showing tight, sleeveless tees, and skin-tight jeans or in one case shorts, there was no attempt to be sexy, or flirt or tease. Every one of those four women wanted an excuse to kill him. Those slung shotguns weren’t exactly small-calibre either, just not the ten- or twelve-bore most bodyguards preferred.

“So what sort of deal did you expect?” Bitch lifted one knee, propped her boot on the edge of the table, then reached for a beer bottle on the floor next to her and took a swig.

Patton knew it was meant to be a challenge, but for once he didn’t know how to deal with it. All that naked leg and her tits out—she just didn’t give a shit, didn’t consider him any sort of threat. “Those men are mine, my Bloods, so I’d hope I could keep them. Under you of course. We’d want to keep our weapons and jackets, and my machine gun. I brought extra pistols, crossbows and rifles to buy in.”

“Warband leader? Ambitious, starting there. Next you’ll want my job.” Bitch took another swig of her beer before putting the bottle down.

“I didn’t think it was up for grabs.” Patton thought fast because she wanted him to say yes, challenge her. Just for a moment it was in her eyes. “I’m willing to work under a warband leader, it’s just that these men are used to me being in charge.” He was feeling just a little more confident because he’d been keeping an eye on those women. They might be keen on killing, but their shotguns had drifted out of line so they weren’t planning on just shooting him. Despite the weaponry, these bodyguards were amateurs, assuming that just holding a weapon was enough of a threat.

“That doesn’t say much for them, following a yellow-bellied chickenshit arse like you. Why would I want some two-faced shitbag who’ll run out as soon as things get rough? Twice now.” Her voice never altered, still casual, so for a moment the words didn’t hit home. As Patton’s eyes opened wide in alarm, Bitch shrugged. “Thanks for the machine gun and all the other stuff. You get to keep your panties—and a twelve-hour head start.”

Patton started to rise because the Bitch had made a mistake. She’d never get up or avoid him in time, not with her foot on the table, and her hand was too far from her knife or gun. By the time the shotguns lined up, he’d be over the table with his knife at her throat.

The shotguns didn’t try to line up. They hadn’t drifted out of line at all so the angry-eyed women just pulled the triggers. Patton felt the agony as the shot hit his legs and arms, then saw the rage flare in Bitch’s eyes as her hand moved. He’d been wrong, so very wrong. Her hand was right next to her sling and the little hideout pistol, so she had all the time in the world.

Though she didn’t shoot—she didn’t have to. Those weren’t sawn-offs, so the buckshot was still tightly packed as it smashed Patton’s shins. He almost missed his knife as the other two shotguns hit his arms, then his fingers slid off the hilt as the lead balls severed the ligaments and tendons on the inside of his elbow. The other shotgun got his left forearm.

Patton screamed—he couldn’t stop himself as the shattered bones in his legs collapsed. He bounced back onto his chair, toppling as his savaged legs and arms refused to obey him. He tried, even in his agony he tried, raging and screaming as he did his best to reach a weapon, to reach her, but then he saw her raise her pistol and smile. “Greetings from Shiner, and a place called Orchard Close.”

Patton expected the spiteful crack and flash to be the last things he saw or heard, but fresh agony flared, in his groin. “Hey, I’m getting better, got it first shot.” The laughter from the other women was the last thing Patton heard as merciful oblivion closed in.

* * *

Patton gasped, coughed, then tried to bite back a scream of agony. When another bucket of cold water hit him, all of him, Patton realised he was naked, but why was he upright? Why was he alive? He looked to the right. A rope around his bicep held him suspended in an iron frame, with another holding his ravaged arm out straight. They’d burned the wounds to stop the worst of the bleeding, but that didn’t stop the pain.

He looked down, trying to make sense of it, trying to think in spite of the pain. More burns and rough tourniquets stopped most of the bleeding, while more ropes supported him by the thighs, with sticks and rope to stop his broken legs flopping about. He closed his eyes at the sight and the pain until a hand slapped him, hard. When he opened his eyes again Bitch stepped back.

“That’s better, now you’re paying attention.” A roar of laughter answered. Patton raised his head to see the sea of faces watching him. “Though you’ll never be frisky again, not after that bullet. The hot iron got what was left when we stopped the bleeding.” When she pointed to his groin the women guards high-fived, which brought more laughter and cheering. “Now we’re going to find out if those men really are yours.”

She pointed to the side so Patton looked. His Bloods were in a line, stripped to their jeans but from what he could see, their only injuries were the ones they arrived with. “Only eighteen now. Four of them were shy so they’re in the pit, trying to find a rat hole.” That brought a big cheer, and this time her male bodyguards high-fived each other.

When Bitch beckoned, Atlas came forward, one arm still in a sling. Someone handed her an iron bar. She turned to offer it to Atlas. “It’s like this, Atlas. I’m telling you to hit him, to break a bone but leave him alive and conscious. He doesn’t want you to do that. Who is your boss?”

With that she turned and walked away, wide open, though Patton was sure Atlas would never live to take the swing. Atlas never even considered it. He walked over to Patton, looking up at him with his lip curled in a sneer. “Your trouble is, you always talk big but you’re a yellow bastard. You’ve run twice now, the last time from a fucking flag. Her blokes told me how Bitch was chained to a bed for two years. Never gave up and when she got the chance, she killed the fucker, bollock naked in front of everyone. Woman or not, she’s got bigger balls than you ever had.”

With that Atlas lifted the bar, the muscles in his arm bulged, and he smashed Patton’s right wrist. Patton had been keeping still, keeping the pain tolerable, but the agony of the bone breaking was echoed as the blow moved his savaged elbow. His whole body jerked from the pain, then he screamed as the rest of his torn flesh and broken bones flexed and twisted.

As the crowd cheered, a bucket of cold water hit Patton, then he saw the next man step forward to take the bar from Atlas. Again and again, the pain, lots of pain, the cold shock—then a pause that was just long enough for him to see what was coming. Every time the bar struck the crowd cheered and laughed, but soon it all blended into one long nightmare. He was technically conscious, but Patton was past coherent thought long before the last of Bitch’s new recruits lowered the iron bar, and went to collect his boots and shirt.

Patton never saw Bitch turn away and walk off, never realised the last agony was men taking him down. He never understood that the ex-Bloods were dragging him through the crowd before throwing him into the rubbish pit, where he finally passed out and bled out. There were another three men in there now, all seven trying to climb out with smashed knees and elbows. Two had refused to hit Patton and one hadn’t hit hard enough to break a bone. Once the Barbarians got tired of the noise, someone would finish them off—but nobody would spoil Bitch’s rat-hole joke just yet.

Catherine walked back to her house, laughing with her escorts, and warning her bed-warmers they were going to have a busy night now she’d got all fired up. When the door closed the cleaners had already replaced the chair, cleaned the tiled floor and polished the table. The two men pointed out they’d better get ready for tonight and left the women alone.

The female bodyguards threw cushions on the floor, grabbing a beer before sitting cross-legged around the table. Someone had left sandwiches so they all helped themselves. “That should keep you going for a while.” Ariel didn’t have a black eye now, so both her eyes and voice showed her immense satisfaction. These four women all understood Catherine’s solution, that killing a nasty shit now and then stopped her going apeshit with the AK-47. This arsehole had been an unexpected bonus, and an excuse to let their personal demons play. “I was surprised that Atlas bloke went for it.”

“Smarter than he looks—or acts. Better keep an eye on him.” This woman’s smile didn’t hurt now that her lips had healed, while the rest laughed because they all kept an eye on any bloke, all the time. One day that might alter but in the meantime, if it got too bad, there was always some nasty bastard they could prod hard enough to give them an excuse.

* * *

The women might have laughed harder if they’d heard a meeting of the warband leaders. Ivan was still in a wheelchair and heavily bandaged. “What the fuck was that about? Is she still going to step down, Garth?”

“Sylvester told me Patton was some sort of hard man, but he ran twice and took his men with him.” Garth shrugged because although everyone expected him to control Bitch, he wasn’t sure that was possible. “She had to have wound him up deliberately, so he went for her and she could chop him down and keep all the weapons. To be honest, I wouldn’t have been keen on a fucker like that. A man breaking and running in a fight, or just leaving the gang, is one thing. That Patton walked away in the middle of a fight, even took the time to collect weapons from the dead for a buy-in first. He picked over twenty men to come with him, then left the rest to die.”

“I’ve had three men do that, leave without a word. I know why Rawley left. The bitch pack told him he should be careful about walking down dark alleys.” Two of the other warband leaders, Python and Khan, nodded to agree with Ivan. “Even the blokes in her bodyguard have decided they aren’t keen on men that are rough with the women. I don’t know if they mean it, but they’re backing the women.”

“There’s only about half the men actually raped anyone, even after a conquest, less now. It doesn’t really matter—it’ll be months before we’ve got enough fit men to even think about a fight. Otherwise, most of the men prefer a woman who doesn’t fight them, or cry, or just lay there like a meat dummy.” Khan was cautious, because he was still a relatively new leader. “A lot of mine like this idea of switching that sort out for someone willing.” He laughed as he remembered something. “A few are giving the really willing whores coupons or bits of loot, jewellery, to encourage them.”

“The ones who wear sexy stuff? Some of the others have noticed and started dressing up a bit. Even so, most of them would piss off if they got the option, which worries me.” Python leant forward. “What happens when Bitch has found all the willing ones and swapped them out? What if she starts pulling out any who aren’t willing—without replacements?”

“If she’s found enough willing ones to go around, it won’t matter to most blokes. There’s only a few prefer unwilling women or slap them about.” Garth frowned because of something Vic had mentioned, about a couple of men going missing but maybe into a deep hole. “Depending on the numbers, Bitch might decide it’s easier to get rid of the blokes who complain.” He raised his head to look at Ivan. “The ones like Rawley.”

Python raised a fist to hit the table, but lowered it. “Fuck! I was about to say we get her to move over now, sort out a new boss, but Ivan isn’t fit to fight. Khan doesn’t want it, so that means you and me, Garth, too fucking close to call with knives.” He sat back, deliberately relaxing, then grinned. “Unless you want to back down?”

“And let you take the job?” Garth nodded towards the man in the wheelchair. “Then Ivan will want it once he’s fit.”

“Too fucking true. I’ve been here longest, so I want the job.” Three men scowled but one smiled, just a little.

“How about we leave this compound and the nuns to Bitch, move our men and a share of the whores someplace else? We agree we’re still Barbarians, we’ll help each other in a fight, then we run our warbands and brothels how we want.” Khan pointed at Python. “You could go back to your old enclave. It’s still got the wall around it, same as Cool Hand’s or Sultan’s old places. One of us can take either one, which will cover the border nearest the zoo.”

“The Kinks place is still fortified, and so are a couple of the others. We’ll stay one gang but Bitch won’t actually be running it. Once I’m fit she’ll back down or else, then we can get back to the real fucking world.” Ivan nodded slowly before tapping his bandaged leg. “We’d better make sure we get an agreement with Bitch and the nuns so we can all keep using the hospital. Garth, talk to her and Sylvester.”

“Yeah, and soon. If we wait too long our men might not move. Most of them like her, and not just how she dresses. She’s fucking dangerous but not like Conan—she might be even nastier than him, but only when she’s got a reason so everyone is more relaxed. Right now the blokes are all pissing themselves laughing about her making Patton’s own men beat the shit out of him—and the frisky and rat-hole jokes. When did Conan ever get them doing that?” Python couldn’t help a half-smile. “Those fifteen men are definitely Barbarians now. I’m guessing none of them will ever fuck with Bitch or her pack.”

“If we all choose a place near the border, that will stop any of the neighbours getting big eyes while we’ve got all these wounded. They’d have to take a fortified enclave, then the rest of us would be there.” Ivan looked down at his bandages again. “Give me another week so I can leave the hospital, Garth, then go see her, sort it out.”

“The neighbours are more likely to join up or run away. They’ve heard about the jokes and the rest from the border guards, so they are somewhere between fascinated and horrified. I suppose one might get a rush of blood, so I’ll talk to her.” Garth sighed because he really didn’t want to talk to Bitch about splitting the brothel. She treated him okay but some of her bodyguard, the bitch pack, had twitchy fingers around any man.

He’d get Sylvester onside first, then make it clear his blokes were happy with less women if they were voluntary. Leastways they would be if he got rid of a couple, into a deep hole if that’s what it took.

* * *

Cabal:

If Garth had been listening to the latest meeting of the Cabal, the clandestine group who ran the truncated United Kingdom, he’d have known where to get rid of unwanted fighters. The big screen on the wall showed what used to be the Children of Cain—the survivors after their initial training. The success in snatching them had led to the extraction of three more gangs, all in danger of being wiped out by neighbours. The erstwhile gangsters were a long way from military, though all of them were combat hardened.

“We could save ammunition.” Grace sneered at the figures trying to march. “Send them in without firearms, to soak up bullets.”

“Better still, send them in with covering fire. If the Specials and mercenaries kept the rebels’ heads down until contact?” Joshua preferred professional soldiers and he didn’t like the gangsters, but this idea might keep down Army casualties. He’d seen too many film clips to discount large numbers of men with machetes, especially if they got in among the defenders.

The youngest Cabal member sounded hesitant, unsure. “We could give them some of the confiscated pistols. Definitely not automatics or the RAF might be in danger.” Everyone around the table smiled—most of the recruits from gangs were more enthusiastic than accurate. “The pistols that were handed over by the Army, to be destroyed?” Despite some laughter, Gerard kept going. “I’ve seen a couple of surveillance clips where that worked well, point-blank at the last moment. Even single-shots would do.”

“The ammunition is substandard, which won’t matter at close range. If someone can arrange to have the weapons released to the training facilities, I’ll have them looked over to make sure they’ll actually fire.” Joshua hadn’t liked the idea of the ex-gangsters with decent weapons, so this was a perfect compromise. “I’ll take any crossbows as well. I’ll tell the trainers to stop the marching, just concentrate on fitness and fighting with machetes. Now we just need the right place to use shock troops.”

“Are your new employees making any progress in London, Gerard?” Owen, the chairman, smiled when the relatively younger man flinched. “We don’t expect miracles, not after the fiasco in Gatwick, but I’m sure Joshua would be grateful for anything.”

Joshua stepped in to rescue the new spy chief. “I’m being given the raw data, while Gerard is concentrating on getting operatives inside the wire. Personally, I’d rather know if the previous incumbent gave up anything useful before his untimely demise.”

The way he shook his head, Gerard didn’t like the answer. “Once we had evidence Maurice was running the arena operation for Vanna, he was more helpful. He was negotiating, promising more information on the Apache and various little schemes in return for some clemency. We needed what he knew because the rebels in the Hope Valley caves died rather than surrender. The command staff were helpful, as were a few Specials who wanted amnesty, but most of what we’ve got is the ramblings of injured, semi-conscious trainee soldiers.”

Gerard sighed, and the rest looked grave because they’d heard roughly what happened. “The hold-outs rigged the tunnels and caves around them, so either that or the gas will have killed them. We don’t know if the rebels set it off or a Special did, accidentally, but the explosions killed or buried a lot of searchers and trapped too many others. Between damaged breathing equipment and running out of bottled air before they were dug out, we lost most of them. We’ll be digging our men out of those caves for months, but then we should also find the last of the rebels, the real fanatics, Soldier Boy’s Riot Squad.”

“Not the last—we still can’t find the ones who escaped from the arena. I’m not so worried about them, they were mostly non-combatants. The ones in the caves were the real fighters, and after the way they chewed up the Specials every time they met, killing them might have been worth the price.” Grace, the work camp supervisor, shrugged at the glare from Joshua. “Those searchers weren’t real soldiers, Joshua, just trainee Specials, and we’ve already decided to use the rest to soak up the surprises in the London assault.” She turned back to Gerard. “Did you get whoever killed Maurice, or find out why?”

“Maurice was shot trying to escape, after allegedly killing two guards, then the men who shot him deserted.” Gerard didn’t look happy. “Specials again, both Maurice and Vanna used them for all sorts of jobs. I’m not even sure if the killing was organised by someone in the spy community—or if the Specials wanted him silenced.”

Owen butted in. “What sort of jobs? Maybe a list of the places might point to all those little secrets we can’t find.”

“I think it’s more a case of anywhere Vanna or Maurice didn’t want any evidence, or where they might want witnesses eradicated or evidence burned.” Gerard turned to Joshua. “The Specials are a real problem. There’s too many that aren’t actually with their unit, under control. Some of them seem to think they can do as they like, as long as there isn’t an officer actually watching them. We should pull them out of everywhere except the reaction forces backing up the perimeter guards, and the Scottish border. The rest can join the force attacking London.”

“Are you certain Maurice is dead, Gerard?” Owen pointed up at the screen, at a picture of the home-made Union Flag flying from a crude spear driven into a contractor’s chest. “Soldier Boy is supposed to be dead, but his ghost is popping up everywhere. Despite the reward, there’s still no body, not even a picture of him with a big hole in his head.”

“I have Maurice’s body, if anyone wants proof?” Nobody needed the body, or expected him to find whoever killed Maurice, so a relieved Gerard turned to Henry, the farmer. “You are looking after the cities for now, Henry. Any ideas about Soldier Boy? Some of his fans are killing any contractor, not just Specials, so we should deal with those rumours as soon as possible.”

“Snipers might be the simplest solution. The claimants are all impostors but we might not want to release proof, surveillance video. There’s a lot of women in armour and carrying weaponry, that’s why they’re popular with soldiers. We don’t want half the women in the cities getting the same idea—putting on Killer Queen armour and picking up a machete.” Henry clicked to show a guard post with uniformed bodies jumbled behind the sandbags. The Union Flag flew from the hut behind them. “Manchester, nowhere near an enclave, and the guards didn’t raise that flag. I believe Joshua has his own problem.”

“Nothing a sniper can’t solve.” Joshua held out a hand and Henry slid the controller across. Moments later the scene changed to an Army camp, showing a young soldier walking down the footpath wearing the Union Flag as a cloak. The scene flipped to a soldier wearing a white tee with SB RIP in red and a black bullet hole in the middle. Another wore a shirt with a bullet-riddled heart between an ‘I’ and ‘KQ.’

Joshua switched to a picture of a soldier, a corporal, being awarded a medal. “Soldier Boy’s real name is Harold Miller. He really was a decorated corporal, a clerk who rescued the survivors of an IED, including several SAS troopers. When we paid him off, he went to Birmingham to protect or possibly rescue his sister, an Army widow, and her two children. That would have been the end of it, but for this surveillance footage.”

The wall screen switched to a view of Soldier Boy and his Killer Queen in Orchard Close, followed by them in front of the Riot Squad, saluting the pyres after defeating the General. “Once a couple of SAS troopers positively identified him, unofficial copies of these went viral. By now they’ve probably been seen by every serving member of the armed forces.” He tossed the control onto the table, leaving a view of Harold, Mercedes, and Doll in her armoured shorts. “Don’t even think of trying to smear him, or her. They really did rescue a lot of young women; they really were killed by slavers. We don’t have many heroes these days, but now the Army have found one.”

“You can ban those shirts, and I’m sure Gerard can find film to prove he’s not as heroic as they think?” Ivy’s contractors didn’t have this particular problem—neither soldiers nor Specials guarded the Marts and supply convoys. “Same with this Killer Queen—there’ll be plenty of dirt behind a woman like that.”

Joshua shook his head. “It won’t matter. Most of the legendary types were flawed, badly, but nobody cares. We could stop the rumours about him being alive if we could find out who took the bloody bodies. The slavers left them on a dung heap, but when we went to look there was just Maurice’s agent, with his throat cut. There’s two fresh graves, but they’ve been dug up again which we definitely don’t want advertised.” He looked around and some actually winced at that. Some idiot would start a resurrection story.

Joshua concentrated on Ivy. “The graphics on the shirts are home-made. There’s scores, probably hundreds of variations, none of them obscene, illegal, or disrespecting the flag, and the wearers are off-duty. The Army are on edge anyway, so if we start banning casual wear we might end up with a mutiny.” He sighed heavily. “There’s probably more of them who have started wearing the flag, as a scarf or cloak. I can’t really object to HM’s forces flying their country’s flag, can I?”

Owen frowned at the screen. “So we kill the problem, or problems. Grace, release any snipers as soon as they are trained. Send them into the cities to kill anyone claiming to be Soldier Boy or Killer Queen. Can we use the Army, Joshua?”

“I can send teams in, special forces, to snatch anyone pretending to be one or the other? Even if you can produce a solid crime with proof it was those two, that’s the best I can do. The soldiers will expect a trial, not execution.” Joshua turned to Gerard. “As long as they don’t find the real thing?”

“No, the prisoners from the arena fiasco are adamant they killed him. No mistake because the officer shot them both through the head. I sent people to the farm as well, but I’m guessing the prisoners who escaped called by and collected the body, both bodies.” Gerard shook his head because he’d tried, but between spies trying to cover their own tracks and desertions, the truth was impossible to find. “How about a full RAF search for the escapees? Unless you think that’s who hijacked that convoy and the missiles?”

“No, those missiles will end up in London, which is a good reason to send the mercenary pilots in first.” Faraz, the RAF liaison, frowned at Gerard. “I’d rather not push the RAF. We’ve seen how close the aircrew are to cracking, especially if they’re asked to attack any group containing women. We think that’s what triggered the Apache in the Hope Valley. Ivy, Grace, Joshua, please try to cut down on the calls for air cover, or we won’t have any pilots left.”

The RAF liaison scowled at the reluctance on the three faces. “Over a third are already off duty, being treated for combat stress. There isn’t any combat, that’s what we’re calling the breakdowns and nightmares after burning civilians—especially women and children. The rest aren’t exactly happy. I’ve told the controllers, no more napalm unless it’s to stop a guard post being overrun. Even then, they’re to use rockets or gunfire first.”

“In that case we settle for Grace’s snipers and Joshua’s SAS teams. Grace, look into the sniper training, see if we can hurry it along. Maurice’s method barely kept up with the rate they burned out. The escapees aren’t important. They’ll turn up sooner or later; then we can always blood some of our new recruits from the cities.” Owen nodded as he completed that thought. “That will keep the RAF and Army out of it, so there’ll be no conscientious objectors. Those animals won’t care about killing women and children—they’ll probably enjoy it.”

“We can have two types of sniper? If we advertise, some of the scum in the camps don’t need brainwashing. They’ll shoot anyone in return for decent food and a woman now and then. Put a keeper with each one, then send them to London to back up the attacks.” Grace waited for the nods, then continued. “We can still have some of the other type if we choose people who have already flipped, then use Maurice’s brainwashing. They’ll be missiles; drugged stupid until we give them a target. Once we find their trigger, what flips their switch, they’ll shoot nosy Army officers, mothers with children, or government ministers who are forgetting their place.”

With that settled, the Cabal moved on to the more mundane aspects of keeping their clandestine control of the government. Some of the MPs needed reminding of the consequences if they spoke out, something short of shooting them. There was also more unrest among the higher ranks in the armed forces. The simplest way would be to replace them with loyal officers, but there weren’t enough of them with the necessary ranks. There had to be sound reasons for promoting enough loyal officers, then for replacing the current leadership—neither would be easy.

* * *

Soldier Boy:

The Cabal’s forces were a lot closer to Soldier Boy than they ever imagined, though they weren’t in any danger. He didn’t know where they were, so their wake-up call would be a long way away, an entirely unexpected move. Six weeks after the escape, his new recruits were ready for a genuine mission, even if Soldier Boy was still sunk in depression. There might not be any combat, and even if there was the combatants should be able to disengage, so most of the non-combatants would stay behind.

If it all went wrong, if the lorries were more than two hours late, the rest would head for Orchard Close. Harold left the armour, in case searchers found the families, with a few fighters like Emmy and Ru—mothers who were Riot Squad and shooters. The big problem was Daisy. The nine-year-old split her time between her mum, Angel, training with fighters, and pestering her Uncle Harold for a chance to go on a mission.

The pestering reached the stage where Harold had to ask her mum. “We shouldn’t see any combat, but if I keep leaving her behind, Daisy will eventually hide in a lorry. Then she might pop out at the wrong time or pick up a stray bullet.”

Harold’s big sister Sharyn, Daisy’s mum, sighed and nodded. “It was having to leave Casper behind—she’s terrified you might not come back. Even though we all know he chose to stay, Daisy still thinks she should have been able to save him, somehow.” She glanced towards where Daisy was packing extra bolts for her pistol crossbow into her small rucksack. “Too late anyway. Now she’s put on her armour, the only way to stop her would be to lock her up.”

Sharyn fixed her little brother with a glare. “Don’t do anything stupid, because you’re the only person left she’ll take orders from. She’s kept that pistol hidden, even from me, so as long as we keep her believing she’ll make a difference next time?”

“That’s what I’m trying to do, manage what she does and hope that time heals. I’ve left you some fighters, including everyone with a child, just in case.” He hesitated, but Harold knew that if anything went wrong, people would argue over what to do. “Remember, if we don’t come back, you’ve got to take charge. Emmy, Ru and the likes of Lily, Louise and Wamil will back you. We’ll try to use the lorry radios to warn you. Take the armoured car to break through any attempt to stop you, then use it as a road block to let the rest get away if that’s what you have to do.” He paused, then shrugged. “I know, I’ve said it all before. Just don’t tell Emmy about Curtis until everyone is home.”

“If we don’t have to run for it, when are you going to tell Emmy? She’s entitled to know.” Sharyn had come close to saying something herself.

“That’s what this is, a test of the newbies as well as getting rid of the ones who want to leave. If they pass, I’ll tell Emmy where Curtis is. We’ll scout the place, then if the armour has moved, we’ll bust him out.” Harold smiled, real humour, something usually lacking these days. “Tammy will be a hell of a shock for him. Most fathers meet their children before they’re three years old.”

“She’d have to be three if he’s the daddy. It’s a shock in a way, three years since Curtis was wounded, nearer four.” Sharyn nodded, she could live with waiting a little longer. “Okay. If we have to run, I’m telling her as soon we’re back behind the wire. Then if she can raise enough help, she can go and get him. Now get going before Daisy runs off without you.”

* * *

This time Harold wasn’t pretending to be an Army convoy. The lorry park had goods vehicles of all types, so six big box lorries drove through the night at sixty miles per hour, the same speed as all the other convoys.

Three of the lorries had uniformed men stood with their head and shoulders outside the cabs, leaning on the mounted machine guns. Those three vehicles were fitted with trackers, which were turned off, but hadn’t had weapons until they were removed from the Army lorries. Harold knew some convoys travelled off the grid, so with luck nobody would stop this one to check.

As the miles rolled by, he relaxed just a little. Convoys passed on the other side of the motorway, well apart, varying from four Army lorries to eighteen articulated trucks with a Humvee out front and a Mastiff at the back. None seemed to pay any attention to Harold’s convoy, though it wasn’t easy to see details with just the vehicle lights.

The motorway lighting had all been turned off, which seemed odd to Harold—then he remembered the roads around the perimeter wire. The ecological lobby had talked of doing that before the crash, to save electricity, so maybe that was the reason.

Several times he wondered if he should have brought the Fox. Two convoys had one out front, but he was sure the stolen one was on a watch list by now. All it would take was one radio query, then all hell would break loose.

Three miles short of Leeds the convoy took a slip road, then drove along ‘A’ roads for a few miles. Switching off their lights, the lorries turned down a minor road, driving another couple of miles before turning again so they were pointing back towards the main road. The convoy pulled into a layby where the road ran through woods, and the occupants flooded out. Half an hour of hard work with tarpaulins, and branches hacked from trees, made sure the lorries would be invisible from the air once they cooled.

Thirty heavily armed men and women crept towards the wire enclosing Leeds, with four women and three children who wanted to go home. Harold used the short-range radios sparingly, though they worked better outside the city blackout. Now, as he came nearer to Leeds, the interference started.

* * *

Scouts had set off before the work on the lorries started. Now three short messages confirmed they were in place. “Blue seven.”

“Cobra four.”

“Demon zero.”

Harold clicked twice—thank you. Roxanne would watch the seven men in the guard post a mile and a half west, while Umeko kept an eye on the four guards nearly two miles east. More important, Patty couldn’t see any guards patrolling the perimeter dead ahead. Working on the usual arrangement around Birmingham, Harold had assumed the guards were only stationed at major access points—and they were. The returnees had shown him their enclave on a road map, so he’d been able to work out a clear run to get them home.

He turned, beckoning to the five behind him: Ava, Fergie, Ski, Doll and Wayne. “Patty is ahead. She’ll help you knock out the cameras.” He nodded to Elise, followed by four new trainees led by Nikki, all carrying crossbows. “Remember Elise, your squad only fire if those five miss. Until then, watch their backs because there might be patrols out here. No firearms, keep it quiet.”

He smiled at the serious expressions. “If you need guns, the chances are Doll will have shot them all by the time anyone else is aiming.” That brought smiles because Doll really was that fast—she was wearing her quick-draw holster just in case. Harold watched the ten of them out of sight, then waved the others forward.

The children were whispering until Daisy moved closer. She said something and silence fell. Her ‘job’ was to guard the three of them, which apparently included keeping them quiet. Footfalls scuffed, twigs cracked, and some of the more nervous were breathing heavier, but no alarm went up.

Fergie materialised out of the darkness. “Seven cameras out, enough to create a blind spot. Patty has taken Nikki and Ski forward to cut the wire. Follow me; it isn’t dead ahead.” She turned, glancing back to check before creeping towards the city.

* * *

Five figures were laid in a ditch just before the wire, crossbows aiming both ways along the perimeter road. The hole in the mesh, carefully avoiding the alarm wires, was being guarded by Patty and Doll.

“The others have moved out each way, early warning in case a foot patrol comes to see why the cameras went out.” Patty peeled the mesh back. “I’ll wait with them. Doll is coming with you, quick-draw if necessary. Wayne has already gone through to scout the way. If you find Specials guarding the way out, give two clicks and we’ll drop them.” Sneaking about at night seemed to agree with Patty—she had a big smile as she patted her crossbow.

“Ninety minutes.” Harold waited until the other twenty-one were through, then followed them. Half an hour should be enough to reach the enclave, but he wanted some leeway.

* * *

Half an hour later, Harold was watching sentries patrolling a wall built of un-mortared brick, at the other side of a wide strip of cleared land. It was a familiar sight, even if it was in a different city. “Time to go home. Don’t hide, walk up to the gate nice and steady. Once you’re spotted, do exactly what they say.”

“Yes daddy.” The woman hugged him. “Yes sonny, you’re too young to be my daddy. Wait until I tell them who brought us home.” She held up her phone, taken from a captured contractor. “Don’t worry, we’ll make sure these are spread everywhere. We’ll tell everyone, wait a month like you said. Nineteenth of June, so it’ll hit everywhere at once.”

“Yeah, but we can show the pictures of you and the rest, armed to the bloody teeth, straight away. The guards on the wire will shit a brick when they know you came past them.” A hand clipped the fifteen-year-old lad at the back of the head.

“Language. You’re home now, not with those animals in the arena.” The woman hugged him quickly before pushing the teenager towards the walls. “Now let’s get moving, so you can show your friends those pictures with the girls.” The teenager had scored pictures with several of the female fighters, all armoured and heavily armed. He swore all his friends would be sick with jealousy. Harold thought youths would brag, spread those pictures across the nearby enclaves, hopefully with the story of the arena and the escape. A quick round of hugs then the small group broke cover, walking steadily forward.

It wasn’t long before more hot spots appeared on the wall, then light flared in the group as they lit a torch, rags on a stick. The four women, and three children from fifteen down to four, waved frantically. Two hot spots dropped down the wall, pausing before cautiously coming out to meet them, then Harold heard the radio telling everyone who it was. It cut off suddenly, so they’d explained not telling the Specials how they’d got home—not yet.

Harold was about to pull back when the two hot spots came forward, calling out for Soldier Boy. He hesitated, then gestured to the others. “Spread out and keep down. They’ll have infra-red on the wall.”

“Yes daddy.” Doll sniggered because she was only a year younger than Harold. She didn’t move far, just so that a tree hid her when she stood up. Her arm wasn’t healed properly yet, so crawling was difficult.

* * *

The hot spots, now two dark shapes, stopped short. “Is that really Soldier Boy? Carol says you’re the real one, bust her out of jail.”

“That’s me.” This was part of the whole exercise, though Harold hadn’t been convinced it would work. The contractors knew who he was and were almost sure he was dead, so Harold was going to appear in several places—really wind them all up. Then if the death camp pictures all appeared at once, the government would never put a lid on it all.

“Can you prove it, ’cos there’s another one in Leeds and he’s got a Killer Queen, a bird.” The voice sounded cautious—worried about this Soldier Boy thinking he was being called a liar.

Harold was struck dumb—that wasn’t something he wanted to talk about. Doll probably guessed his reaction because she jumped in to save him answering. “Did you see the camper van and the truck with the writing on the TV, a few years back?”

“Yeah, we’ve got a video of it, took it off the TV the third time it came on.” The two spoke together, quietly, before continuing. “That didn’t show Soldier Boy. Did it?”

“He was there. Do you remember the blonde who was shot?” Doll was stifling a laugh; it was in her voice.

“Hell yes, damn pity.”

“Not really. Would you like a picture with her? Bring your phone.” Doll stepped out from behind her tree. The light from her phone lit up her face, and her blonde hair because she’d taken off her helmet. “The one and only Gunslinger, once in a lifetime offer.”

One wasn’t sure, or was wary of a trap. The other came forward until he could see properly, then his own phone came out. “Come on, it’s her, look.” He took another few steps, then turned his phone to show Doll’s face. He’d taken it from the TV, caught her when it wasn’t screwed up in agony. “Gunslinger?” Doll’s phone lit up her holster, tied to her leg. “Damn, does that mean you really are Soldier Boy? Shit, we all thought, well, you know what rumours are like?”

“Come on, get over here and let Soldier Boy take the picture. No kissing, my boyfriend is aiming an arrow at you.” Doll laughed at the nervous look around. “Be quick, we’ve got to get going.”

“Five minutes, please?” That was the other man, still not close enough for Harold to see his face clearly. “Radio message, no names?” When Harold agreed he asked for the top five to drive out, quickly. “They need to see you; get a picture.”

A camera flashed, then a low voice said, “Yeah,” behind Harold. Doll Bluetoothed him the shorts, gunbelt and Stetson version, then one with her wearing her armoured shorts and plated vest.

“Here.” Harold let him have a picture of Mercedes in her plated vest and miniskirt, with the machine gun. “That’s the real Killer Queen.” He didn’t say she was dead, because he rather liked the idea of Mercedes still giving the assholes grief. Doll promptly added one of herself with Cleo, Ski, and Fergie, all in shorts and tees, carrying crossbows. Harold held up his Army rifle. “Careful if you take any of these off bodies, there’s a locator in them. If you can find it, smash it, then you can take the rifle. Leave it somewhere out in the ruins for a week or so, just in case.”

* * *

A car left the enclave, driving flat out straight across the fields, then Harold had to go through it all again, very quickly. This time he had to explain Daisy, that she was the last-ditch guard for the children. Daisy was nervous—she didn’t want to talk to strangers but the children had already mentioned her.

The four men and a woman were pleased to get some of their friends back, and just as happy with the confirmation of who took them. It was an old story to Harold, a big gang throwing their weight about. Others suspected which gang was occasionally snatching a work party, but the people always disappeared. Now Carol and the others confirmed it was because they were sold to slavers.

“We’ll fix them now, combine to clobber them. Every enclave that’s lost people will help us, and the leaders will all be looking for spies.” The leader, and the other four, still hadn’t given their names, but they seemed more like the Coven than a gang boss and his seconds. Just as Carol claimed, the woman was giving her opinion and expected to be listened to.

Some was gratitude, some was wanting to stick it to the guards or the government, and all five liked the idea of shit-stirring. They’d make sure the Specials knew Soldier Boy had been through the wire, but not here, then spread the word through the enclaves that he was in Leeds. Harold and Doll gave them pictures of Emmy and others, armed and armoured, to help. The pictures would be trickled out to other gangs, promising to save the big reveal for June nineteenth.

Harold had to wait another five minutes for two men and a woman who wanted to join up. By then he had to get going or the rest would launch a rescue mission. As he headed back through the darkness, Harold’s head was spinning. There was no need to start rumours—there were plenty flying about already. All he had to do was stir them up and add a little truth.

All the way back to the wire, through the wire, and back to the lorries, Harold was expecting a challenge. The newcomers were astounded to find he was driving along the motorway in full view and wished they could tell everyone. For now, all three agreed to stay with the lorry guards at the next stop, Sheffield.

* * *

The detour off the M1 motorway to reach the right part of the Sheffield enclosure took longer. The branches brought from the last stop saved camouflaging time, so an hour after midnight, Harold’s group were running across a dual carriageway to duck through the wire.

This time Patty came with him, because the last place had remembered seeing the women on the TV shooting gangsters—one with a big rifle and one with a crossbow. The TV didn’t show many close-ups like that. Usually it was long shots of an enclave being stormed or burning, then views of the bodies.

This time the enclave was a lot more wary, so the man, two women and the eleven-year-old girl had to stand in the fields for a long time. The big group of armed men who came out didn’t try to get near Harold—they headed straight back behind the wall. He might have worried about the returnees if they hadn’t been so certain they’d be welcome. The women swore their home enclave was one of the better type, where women were treated decent and had a say in what happened. As he headed back to the wire, Harold was pleased with how the trip had gone. His only worry was about the last gang giving out the pictures early—or not at all.

Wayne materialised out of the darkness ahead, one hand up and a finger to his lips. Everyone crouched, waiting until he was near enough to report. “Umeko reported Specials are heading this way. They’re sharper than the last place, must be checking why the cameras stopped.”

“There’s Ava, Fergie, Ski and seven trainees out there with crossbows. Twang, bodies.” Others murmured, agreeing with Doll.

“Cripes no! Too near the enclave. Napalm.” The next thought was bitter-sweet as Harold called on channel six, Fergie’s channel. She’d claimed her own code-name, in memory of a party where she’d dressed in not-much netting with bits of cotton wool, and Holly wore her tutu. “Snowflake. Blunts or Napalm.” Even if they were monitoring the radio bands, Harold doubted the Specials would understand.

“It’ll be too far for a blunt from this side, Harold. Even…” When she bit the rest off, Harold just nodded. Even Mercedes wouldn’t have made a three-hundred-yard headshot with a blunt-headed bolt, and she’d used them more than anyone else. The bolts weren’t a problem—everyone with a crossbow carried a blunt for sneaky stuff.

“The trainees might miss, in which case I’ll deal with it.” Harold passed the Army rifle to Henry before unslinging the Blaser .308. It was an old friend now, after the hundreds of times he’d fired it in all conditions.

“Let me and Wayne try first, less noise. We’ve both got a good chance of hitting a man at that range.” Patty put a bolt in her crossbow—Wayne already had an arrow in his bow, half-drawn.

“If there’s too many, all bets are off. We kill them, get through the wire and head for the lorries. Umeko can shoot someone in the guard post, from out in the countryside to take attention off the enclave.” Harold wanted to kick himself now. It had seemed such a good idea, stir up the cities and maybe start a rebellion. Now he might get an innocent enclave burned.

* * *

The Specials arrived just as Harold’s group came in sight of the cut wire, driving slowly along the road in an open-topped Land Rover with a mounted machine gun. Two men were shining a torch on the mesh, so the fresh hole wasn’t hard to spot. The mesh had been rolled across the gap, but it hadn’t been meant to hold up under close inspection. A corporal spoke into his radio while the rest looked around, but everyone was in cover and only one soldier was using night vision.

As that one turned to look towards the wire, the crossbows fired. They’d barely hit before Fergie and Ski broke from cover, close to the road. Three of the Specials dropped, but a bolt glanced off one helmet leaving the man woozy, but still upright. The fifth bolt missed entirely when one man moved—now he was looking around, eyes wide, reaching for the radio.

He saw the two women and tried to raise his rifle instead, and then he screamed. The blunt-headed crossbow bolt struck him in the face, no doubt smashing bones, blood splashing in the torchlight as he reeled back. One hand came off his rifle, up towards his mouth and then Ski was there, her knife coming down. The dull clang as the boss on her Rambo hit his helmet was a relief, because Harold knew Ski’s first inclination was to kill contractors. Fergie pulled the helmet off the woozy guard before hitting him with her crossbow butt. He crumpled without a sound.

Silence fell, broken by footsteps as Harold’s party raced for the wire—barely slowing as they ducked through. Just for a moment Harold was tempted to take the jeep and automatics—he would have if there’d been time to check for locators. The captured contractors swore all the automatics, vehicles and heavy weapons around the cities had them. Elsewhere there weren’t too many, but they’d shown Harold how to check. Ski and Fergie settled for stripping uniforms, pistols, bayonets and ammunition. “Leave the men. We can’t risk the enclave.”

“Unless the assholes blame them anyway?” Ava had broken cover to help strip the unconscious men. She held up a crossbow. “Sarah wasn’t sure, so she gave me her crossbow as backup.” The pot on Ava’s arm slowed up her reloading but it didn’t affect her accuracy.

Sarah, one of the new recruits from the arena, looked embarrassed. Harold smiled reassuringly. “Good thinking. I’m not too good with blunts myself.” He looked both ways along the road. “The guard posts are too far away to have heard the scream so we’ll take them with us, part of the way. Then we’ll splash them with water so we can tell them who it was—Soldier Boy and his army.” He grinned at the smiles and laughter as the rest quickly trussed their captives.

* * *

Ten minutes later, halfway to the lorries, the first captive was coming around. Splashed water on faces and then a couple of slaps woke four of them up. Ski’s victim was left in peace—he might prefer sleeping until he could reach a hospital or serious painkillers. The four woozy men, wearing just gags and underwear, were sat up with their wrists tied to ankles.

Harold squatted down in front of them, using his phone to light his face. “Hello, I’m Soldier Boy. We cut the hole, not the locals, because we knew you’d come running. We wanted your ammunition and clothing. We’re letting you go so nobody died—no reason to blame the residents in the enclaves.”

Nikki pushed past him, her foot coming up to kick the corporal backwards and down. “It’s in his eyes. This asshole doesn’t care about the no-deaths; he’ll want payback.” She put a foot on his chest, then her phone lit her own face up. “Pretty, yeah? One of your friends did this. I’m still pissed off because I never got the chance to kill him.” She waved her knife at him. “That’s better, you’re paying attention. The trouble is, you’re the kind of yellow bastard that will get his own back on women and kids. Now hold very still while I show you what a bad idea that would be.”

Harold started forward until both Ava and Patty caught his arms. Ava murmured in his ear. “We talked while we were carrying those five; your idea won’t work. We need to frighten them, and Nikki has a better idea. He’ll live, I swear.” Harold subsided as Nikki knelt, and passed her phone to Ski.

“Hold that steady, please, or I might get an eye by mistake.” As Nikki leant forward over her victim, Harold lost sight of what she was doing. “No wriggling or you’ll lose an eye. Scream if you like, but that might startle me, then I’d have to start again on your cheek.” As Nikki finished speaking Harold heard a muffled gasp, then some very quiet noises so the corporal didn’t want her to start again. Shortly afterwards she tore up some grass, wiped her knife, then reached down to scrub at the man’s forehead.

Ski passed the phone back. Nikki used it to light up her face again, briefly, then shut it off. “They call me stripes because of my scars. Guess they’ll call you flag now—or Jack.” Her voice deepened, with an edge of real menace. “If one single person gets shot, or a keg of napalm lands on a nearby enclave, I’ll come back. I’ll cut another flag, full body and a lot deeper, into every single guard along this stretch of wire. I’ll start with you. Got it?”

Despite the darkness, Harold could see the corporal nodding enthusiastically. He moved closer, using his phone to see what Nikki had done. The scars would be a lot neater than Nikki’s—an oblong on his forehead with two crosses, the Union Flag. Harold squatted before lighting his own face again. “We haven’t got a flag to leave jammed in you someplace.” The flinch meant the prisoner understood that one. “Just in case you don’t think I’m the real thing.” Harold held up a phone, the corporal’s, which he’d been going to smash. “Demon, sit this side, Gunslinger the other, then I’ll kneel behind him. Stripes, take a picture so he can check against surveillance tapes.”

Ten minutes later the whole group, except Wayne, were back at the lorries and stripping camouflage. “Archy, time.” That told Wayne to leave the five prisoners, who would be able to help each other to get their ropes off. Walking cross-country in bare feet, carrying the fifth man, it would take a while to get to the wire. They’d still be stranded, their transport immobilised and the radios smashed, so they’d have to get to a working camera and wait for a patrol before raising the alarm. Wayne ran back to the lorries, waiting with the engines running, so the convoy was on a motorway long before any drones or patrols started looking.

Harold didn’t relax until the lorries were home and parked up, and the passengers were back in the village. By then the rest were laughing and joking, because they’d got away with it. Better yet from Harold’s point of view, nobody had panicked or taken the opportunity to kill a guard for revenge. He thought a few more trips like that would finish off their training, and give him time to plan how they’d bust Curtis out of the work camp. The problem there would be killing the guards fast enough.

Chapter 9
Recruitment Drive

Barbarians: Sylvester:

Sylvester crouched, hidden in the ruins, which was getting harder these days. The enclaves paying tribute to the Barbarians were clearing more areas for crops, not necessarily next to the enclave walls because nobody was going to raid. As a result, moving about without being seen took time and real planning. The usual series of clicks warned him Control had arrived. “Tweetie Pie.” When a faint light illuminated his face, Control had the usual stupid smile. He still thought it was funny to make Sylvester identify himself like that.

Though the smile disappeared, quickly. “This is a strange question but I can’t explain. How many Barbarians could I kidnap without encouraging the neighbours to attack?”

Sylvester thought quickly, but there wasn’t a simple answer. “Does it matter which ones?”

“Nutters who can use a machete. Leave enough so the gang survive, then we can use them to annoy the Army at the right time. We might only need one to frighten the neighbours off, going by the pictures you left in the dead drop.” A quick smile flashed on his face. “That Bitch might even scare the Army.”

“You can’t get to the wounded without a fight, so that means snatching fully armed men from an enclave. Give me a hint because I’ll have to work around Bitch.” Sylvester held up a hand to cut off the reply. “Forget it; I’m not even going to try to fool her. She’s a lot smarter than Conan, thinks threats are just an excuse to kill someone—and is much too inventive about how she does it.”

That brought the expected scowl, though not for the expected reason. “And picks the wrong victims. I’d been given instructions to recruit Patton and his men; then she throws a hissy-fit and beats him to death.”

“No hissy-fit. She’d heard things about him she didn’t like, so she wound him up then cold-bloodedly executed him.” For once, Sylvester found his controller funny. “She’s got you fooled as well. That woman is bloody dangerous, and like I said, smart. Now tell me what the hell you actually want and stop trying to do my job.”

“Cannon fodder, sort of. Minimum training then thrown in to attack prepared positions, against gangs. My bosses want a lot, human wave with machetes and pistols.” Control peered down at his pad. “Boris would have been ideal if she hadn’t killed him as well. What about his men, or Patton’s men?”

“Give me a few days. My report explained the Barbarians splitting up, so some of them can have who they like in the brothels.” Sylvester’s brain was racing, working overtime. “Boris’s men and Patton’s have been split up, so you’ll only get some. How about the nastiest types from two warbands?”

“Sounds promising, if you can split them off from the rest. Remember, we want the Barbarians to survive—and still be dangerous enough to wind up the Army.” Control grinned at Sylvester. “I’m pleased it’s your problem, not mine.”

Sylvester wanted to spit or smack him, but he wasn’t suicidal so he shrugged. “The answer is women. Neither Ivan or Python will be happy with how many they’ve got, because Bitch won’t let them take the reluctant ones. Said they needed to be near the hospital when some fucking idiot beat them up. The pair of them had to swallow it because it’s true. Clever, like I said.” He sighed because the sums didn’t add up. “If those two try to recruit more women and Bitch catches them, the whole gang could blow apart. Decide—Bitch or Ivan in charge.”

“Bitch, even if you can’t control her. If someone shows the Army those pictures of her killing Patton, or the poor sods crawling around in the rubbish pit, they’ll come in with all guns blazing. That’s the bottom line, come the day.” Control hunched forward. “Now what have you come up with?”

“Not exactly a plan, not yet. What if I organise a raid on a neighbour for women? That’ll get you a lot of nasty bastards, the ones that are fit to fight. When you pounce they’ll know I set them up, so this will break my cover unless you make sure none of the raiders come back? They’ll be armed and alert so you’ll need gas or darts.” Sylvester was thinking fast, but there was one big snag. “As long as it doesn’t encourage a neighbour to attack the Barbarians, or give them a shitload of weapons.”

“Pick the right gang, I’ll arrange an opportunity.” The pad flickered as Control ran through menus and data. “How about the Dudes, or Righteous Dudes, to give them their full title?” There was a definite laugh in his voice. “How come Conan never took over?”

“Dudes, nobody uses the full name. Conan treated them like shit, crossed their territory when he felt like. He didn’t want the place itself, for the same reason attacking the enclave now might be a bad idea. They’re near the Mart, and the guard post at the access point, so a stray shot might bring napalm.” Sylvester was worried—after a few beers, some of the Barbarians would shoot at soldiers just for fun. “The Dudes have got enough nutters to stop random raids, but they’ve had trouble getting recruits. Any real talent wants to join the Barbarians.”

“They’ll do, because our agent there has a lot of influence so we can set them up as well. My bosses will get bait from someplace, enough women to be tempting, camped outside any walls. Probably slavers, to explain why they aren’t tucked away safely, and because slavers are being clobbered at the moment. I’m guessing someone stepped on the wrong toes. Once I get that part organised, we’ll sort out a date. It’ll be soon, there’s some sort of deadline.” Control looked up and with the pad lighting his face from below, his smile looked downright demonic. “If there’s someone you really don’t like, get them on the raid. There’ll be gas or darts waiting, so none will be coming back.”

* * *

He didn’t like rushing an operation, but Sylvester could see trouble looming. Ivan had been in the hospital, out of touch, so he didn’t understand how many Barbarians liked their new boss. He’d push Catherine then, if Sylvester read it right, Garth would back her, and so would Khan—and those two had fewer men in the hospital. Python would back Ivan, which would have meant an even split if it wasn’t for the number of Ivan’s and Python’s men who might prefer Bitch.

It was the contrast. She’d kill them in a heartbeat if they stepped out of line, but Conan did that as well. What Conan didn’t do was joke with them, tease them, or even smile much. At least half the gang wanted to get into her pants. Most would settle for one of her growing bitch pack, her female bodyguards, even though they all knew there was a good chance of being shot if they tried. Cool Hand’s dangerous, hot and almost naked comment wasn’t as funny now.

One last sanity check, because he couldn’t see how Control could deliver, then Sylvester headed for Ivan’s enclave. The guards passed him through without any trouble so he banged on the door. A voice grunted to come in. “How’s the leg, Ivan?”

“What do you want? Aren’t you Bitch’s lapdog now?” Ivan looked past Sylvester, out of the door. “Is Garth with you?”

“Garth does his thing, I do mine. Mine is the same job I did for Conan, settling up raids and attacks. Now I’ve seen an opportunity that Bitch won’t take. You might.” Sylvester held back the deep breath he wanted to take to brace himself. He daren’t show any sign he was nervous. “I’m guessing you aren’t happy with your share of the brothel.”

For a long moment Sylvester was poised—he thought Ivan might go for him. “My share? How come she keeps more than a fifth, when she hasn’t got the men to warrant it? If that pussy Garth would back me…” He bit it off, glaring at his visitor. “Why do you care?”

“If the Barbarians end up fighting each other, the neighbours will clean up. What do you think they’d do to me?” The neighbours knew all about Conan’s spymaster, because he was also the gang’s diplomat, so they’d lynch him at least. “I’ve heard of a way you could top up.” Sylvester smiled when he wanted to spit, easy after all the practice with Conan. “If the women come from outside our area, Bitch can’t interfere. An easy one, you can treat it as part of your recovery.”

“I’m interested, I’m just not sure I trust you. I’ll want a lot of details.” When Sylvester nodded, Ivan thought for a few moments. “Wait while I send for Python. He’ll want more women, and I’ll need his men. I lost too many in that zoo—dead or still out of action.”

* * *

Dudes:

Only days later the Dudes compound was in uproar, most of it happy. One man in particular wasn’t keen. “We’ve got plenty of women, Dude. Is it worth risking so many men?”

“This part is my job, Sully, yours is getting the information in the first place. Unless you were bullshitting me?” The Dude, the gang boss, had a hand on his machete now.

“No, I’ve never done that.” Not strictly true, but Sully had only done so if Control insisted. “These people were asking around about the gangs in the area, looking for customers. Someone told me about them, so I checked to see exactly what sort of slaves they’re selling. There’s thirty armed men, slavers and pimps, with at least thirty women and some captive men. Some women are slaves for sale, some are whores, a travelling brothel who usually trade between Manchester and Leeds. There’s been a lot of shit happening up there, I don’t know what, so they’re looking for a new market.”

At least part of that was true; the number of men and there were whores and slaves. What worried Sully was why the gang had come to Birmingham, put themselves at risk like this. Maybe a controller somewhere decided to get rid of them and told their agent to make it happen.

“If someone is hiring women out, then they’ve got to be better than the usual ones we pick up. A mobile brothel means they’re willing—and sexy as fuck or nobody would pay. The pimps will have some decent weapons if they can keep that lot safe, which will be handy.” Dude quietened at the last part. “That’s why I’m taking most of the men, all the best fighters.”

He plastered his smile back on, slapping Sully on the shoulder. “I know you’re not that keen on the fighting, or very good at it, so you can have a pass if you like. Stay here, watch this place, make sure none of these dickheads try anything while I’m gone.”

For a moment, Sully was caught off guard. The gang might be one of the weaker ones, but Dude rarely cared who got killed. “Thanks, I’ll try. If the Barbarians find out you’re missing they’ll walk right over us.” Sully was half-convinced that was Control’s idea. He hoped not—he really didn’t fancy that Bitch as his new posting.

“I’ll leave you the rifles and most of the decent pistols, the ones with clips. Those slavers are sleeping too close to the border for me to risk much noise. If trouble comes calling, fire a volley to warn the fuckers. I’ll hear it and head back sharpish. Even the Barbarians won’t want to charge into that number of bullets, not after the last time at the zoo.” For a moment Dude wavered. Sully was worried he’d change his mind, then Control would be pissed off at a certain agent. “We’ll take all the bows and crossbows, and single-shots. If I can’t find a way to kill the guards silently, I’ll leave it.” The gang boss shrugged, looking almost vulnerable for a moment. “We can’t afford to lose a lot of men.”

“If you hear shooting, come back quick.” Sully was relieved—he’d be out of whatever shite was coming down. If someone tried for the enclave, it didn’t need the best fighters to empty a pistol in the right direction.

“I’ll save you a pretty one.” As he drove away, Dude lost the smile. He’d had his own information this time, though he hadn’t told Sully. That Sylvester bloke reckoned the Bitch had let a lot of women leave the Barbarian brothel, so Ivan and Python had been going to hit these slavers. They’d allegedly sold them ale that would send them to sleep, but then the bastards had left Barbarian territory. The two warband leaders wanted to buy half the women, cut-price because they’d done all the hard work. They’d even take the drugged fighters, once they were trussed up, to try and recruit them.

It all sounded a little too good to be true, so Dude was going to have a long look at the place before moving in.

* * *

Ivan:

An hour after Dude set off, the double-cross was making slow progress. Ivan called a halt when he saw where the men were going, taking the opportunity to get off the bike for a few minutes. He shouldn’t have come, but he needed to get out for a bit. He’d spent too long in that hospital with Bitch’s pack looking over his shoulder. “That’s over the Dude’s border, Sylvester.”

“I told you we were going to ambush the assholes, so where did you think it would be?” Sylvester turned around, towards home. “If that’s how you feel, we’ll go home.” He’d rather go home because he wasn’t meant to be here. Ivan had insisted, pure paranoia. He thought Bitch was setting him up, using Sylvester, so she didn’t have to step down or face him in a challenge.

“Shut it you two. The scout is back, Ivan, and it’s like Sylvester said. There’s a few Dudes on guard, with some bodies that must be the slavers. The rest are inside. Any fighting is over so they’ll all be busy fucking the stock. Not much noise so I’m guessing the whores are willing, at least until they find out they ain’t getting paid. I’ve sent ten forward with crossbows to keep an eye on the guards.” Python turned back, shaking his head as he headed towards the target. “Suit yourself, Ivan. Everything’s exactly like Sylvester said—Dudes and dead slavers, so my blokes are going in.” Ivan grumbled, quietly, then told the two men to keep pushing his bicycle.

A hundred and thirty-one Barbarians, all fit enough to fight despite a third still wearing bandages, closed in on the target. Python and Ivan had brought all the fighters that definitely wouldn’t sell them out to Bitch, including twenty from other warbands. There wasn’t much noise from the building, an almost undamaged employment office—just some music, faint voices and occasional laughter.

At a signal, crossbows cut down the Dudes’ guards. They all fell silently. Barbarians with crossbows moved off to deal with those at the back, while the rest dashed across the street and from roads each side. Within a couple of minutes the fighters were all stood tight against the walls, poised. Men came back to report that all the Dude’s sentries were dead, but some of the slavers were tied up, not dead.

“Now.” Not a shout; it was barely loud enough to hear. Instead of kicking the door in, the first man opened it quietly. He looked inside, then turned back to beckon—no guard inside. A double file of men quickly followed him through the door, all with a machete, axe or mace in one hand and a pistol or knife in the other. Close quarters weapons tonight, with a preference for steel and silence. There still wasn’t any alarm as half the men headed up the wide staircase. The rest spread out to cover the doors each side of the big entrance hall.

* * *

Sylvester held back, allegedly to help Ivan cross the street. The warband leader was too slow on his feet to risk it earlier. As he came nearer, Sylvester inspected the outside of the building. The place was sealed up—all the windows still had their glass or were boarded up, unusual for a building that wasn’t normally in use. That had to be to keep in the gas, so despite the low voices, laughter and music, the Dudes would be asleep. Sylvester didn’t have breathing equipment, so he was trying to think of a reason to stay outside.

The knot of men with Ivan reached the door, almost closed again, stopping dead as metal clattered on the floor inside. There were a few cries of alarm; then doors banged open and Barbarians cheered. The cheers petered out; the voices changing to puzzled shouts and alarm. Someone in there shouted it was a trap, others that the Dudes were all asleep, or that Barbarians were collapsing, and a few finally realised it was gas.

Ivan turned on Sylvester. “You bastard!” He dropped his stick, his hand going for his pistol.

Sylvester tried to grab Ivan’s hand, then he saw darts hit the man’s cheek and neck so he dropped and laid still. His eyes were cracked open so Sylvester saw Ivan struggling to finish the draw, but the warband leader staggered and his wounded leg gave out. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

Around Sylvester, men were falling, while others cursed, looking around with weapons out. Shouts and a few shots rang out inside, then the doors banged open. A few men staggered out, not many, then they were falling as well. As the shouting from inside died down, uniformed men wearing breathing gear came out of the shadows, running across the street. Half were pointing real weapons, not dart guns, and the crack of a shot was a big hint that Sylvester should stay very still.

A loud voice, an officer or sergeant, started giving orders. “Move it, move it. Disarm them first, then drag them out into the street.” Somewhere nearby big engines burst into life, the coach and lorry type of engine not normally heard in the city. “We’ve only got two hours to get them locked up in their new home, so don’t bother with gentle or stretchers.”

* * *

Sylvester:

When a soldier bent over him, Sylvester hoped Control really did want him to stay with the Barbarians. “Not me, soldier. I’m an agent.”

The soldier’s rifle came around. For a moment Sylvester’s life was in the balance, then the man straightened. “Sir? Got one here that’s still awake. Says he’s an agent.”

The officer wasn’t wearing a mask, so Sylvester could see the scowl as he strode over. “Nobody mentioned agents.”

Sylvester had been thinking hard ever since Ivan insisted he came along, looking for a reason an agent would walk into this trap. “My control didn’t have time to get a message up the chain and back down to you.” He smiled, trying to look confident and relaxed. “I know why you want these men, but we’ve got a use for the women and some of the weapons.”

“The reasons are need-to-know.” When the officer shot a look towards the soldier, Sylvester nearly sighed in relief. This would be easier one-on-one rather than a public debate.

“I’m one of those who knows, so can we talk?” This smile was easier. “If I open my collar you’ll see I really did come prepared.” Sylvester had his collar turned right up. Now he slowly pulled it down enough to show leather around his throat. “For the darts. I’ve got leather under the balaclava as well.”

The officer nodded, once. “Good enough. Leave your weapons here.” He turned to the soldier. “Stand over his gear, but watch us. If he goes for me or tries to run, shoot him through the legs.”

“Sir.” The rifle swung towards Sylvester’s legs as he stood up, dropped his belt, took the knife from his boot and took off his plated jacket to show there weren’t any more. As he followed the officer, Sylvester glanced back. The soldier’s rifle was aimed at his legs, as instructed.

“Do you have a name?” The officer gestured. “Take that balaclava off.”

“No name, and I’d rather not show my face. Agent, spy? I don’t want someone reacting if they see me at a guard post. Soldiers shouldn’t know me.” Sylvester thought of something that would do. “Use Tweetie Pie if you talk about me. The right person will recognise it.” He sighed, relief at the quick nod. “Coming here is already past dangerous without taking any extra risks. The man with the walking stick realised I’d shopped them. Your men opened up just in time.”

The officer actually relaxed a little, and smiled. “We opened up because he was going to make a noise, shoot. We didn’t know why. That name is stupid enough to be the truth, so what are you expecting me to do? I have very specific orders. I can’t alter them, not without a very good reason.”

“Leave the women, any weapon with a clip, and as much ammo as possible because you don’t need them for the master plan. You’ve weakened this gang, both of them. The problem is, we need one of them strong enough to survive. Why is need-to-know.” Sylvester almost gestured towards the building, then remembered the soldier. “The women will get one gang boss onside, amenable when I have to nudge them towards what Control needs. The weapons will mean the remaining fighters can still defend their walls. They aren’t good enough at hand-to-hand for the type of mission you want these men for.”

“What type would that be?” The hint of a smile acknowledged the question was a test—did this agent really know the reason for the kidnapping?

* * *

Sylvester breathed a quiet thanks to any deities that Control had explained properly for once. “All these men, slavers, Dudes, or Barbarians, are supposed to make contact with an enemy and fight—with machetes. They are expendable, an advanced version of bullet magnets, so the male slaves and women won’t be needed.”

The next part was a guess—an educated guess. “Decent firearms, anything better than a single-shot, would be a waste of time. The Army have confiscated thousands of guns like that, along with machetes and armoured vests, so you don’t need these.” He paused, hoping he’d got it right.

The officer nodded. “We’ll give them crossbows if there aren’t enough single-shots, for when they’re close. Otherwise yes, that’s near enough right. Even so, I’d rather these firearms were taken out of the city.” The sharp look was a warning.

“These weapons will have zero effect on real armour. When the Army attack, the gangs will be out of ammo within hours, because people like me know where any stockpiles are, then the supply chain will shut down.” The last part was another educated guess, so Sylvester was relieved when the officer nodded.

Encouraged, he pushed a bit. “I’d also like as many good machetes, cranked crossbows, knives and plated jackets as possible. These fighters are the cream of their gangs, and slavers have money, so they’ve all got the best. Upgrading the remaining fighters will help me get on the right side of my target, and equip recruits to bump up the numbers.” Sylvester didn’t need the steel and jackets, but losing so many would weaken the Barbarians. He’d concede if the officer argued.

The officer thought for much too long, looking towards the growing heap of weapons and the line of men being carried out of the building and into coaches, or thrown into trucks—literally. He nodded to himself, then turned back to Sylvester. “How will the women be treated?”

He must have seen Sylvester’s confusion. “I’m not keen on handing them over to a gang, but I’ve just realised it depends on the gang. If I take them they’ll go into work camps or brothels, an Army brothel if they’re lucky. So?” Now the officer looked embarrassed. “I don’t have specific orders about women, or the male slaves—just the fighters.”

“The gang is run by a woman. She’s just taken over so her control is tenuous, and now she’s lost a lot of fighters. One big problem is that she’s swapping the unwilling women out of the brothel, trying to find enough willing ones.” Sylvester turned towards the building. “I was told this is a travelling brothel. The only reason a gangster will pay for sex rather than help himself is because these women are willing.”

“The weapons will go to this woman’s backers, I assume?” Even when Sylvester nodded, the frown showed the officer still wasn’t convinced. “How are you going to explain your escape?”

“I’m not, nobody else knows I’m here.” Sylvester was feeling better about his brainwave because there were a lot of Dudes being carried out, at least half the gang. “I’ll collect any weapons, then wait until the women wake up. They’ll all go to an enclave now held by what I’m guessing will be about forty very worried, not very good fighters. One of them will have instructions to take the lot, weapons and women, to buy into the bigger gang, the one led by the woman. With the extra weapons, the combined gang will be strong enough to survive.”

Sylvester laughed, he had to, because he hadn’t really figured out how to do that, or what the result would be if it worked. He’d been winging it, concentrating on surviving, hopefully in a way that made sure Bitch stayed in charge. “Then the new boss gets to conquer a new enclave, win a shitload of weapons and collect some fresh, willing women. Try not to tell your boss all that. I don’t want leaks.”

The officer’s laugh wasn’t as loud, though he was definitely amused. “That sounds convoluted enough to have been hatched by some bloody spymaster with no idea of the real world. No leaks, Tweetie Pie, because I’m not allowed to contact anyone unless it’s to call artillery and air power.” He laughed again as he started to walk back towards his men. “You stand here, very still, until we’ve gone. I’ll leave you a mask. The gas wears off in about two hours, long enough to lock up our new recruits.” He set off to intercept the men bringing women outside, still smiling.

Sylvester did as he was told, still not sure what the soldiers would leave behind. He’d never thought about where the women would have gone if they’d been rescued. The rumours he’d heard about work camps sounded worse than being here in the city. Now that officer had more or less confirmed how women were treated in camps, then hinted the soldier brothels weren’t voluntary, but there were worse brothels out there. For the first time in too long, Sylvester wondered just what was happening outside the wire.

When the officer beckoned, and his jeep drove off after the last lorry, Sylvester burst into action. He had about an hour before the first women woke up, four hours until dawn, then maybe another two before people started moving around. He paused for a moment by Ivan’s body, stripped with his throat cut, and wondered if it was because he wasn’t fit enough to fight. Maybe the officer had decided to make sure there wasn’t a leak about Tweetie Pie.

That sobered Sylvester—his control would blow his stack when he found out about this. Ivan’s bicycle cheered him up again. There’d be cars nearby, but he needed silence.

* * *

Ten minutes later, Sylvester lit a fire then stood in the light, waving, until an electric motorbike left the enclave to meet him. The man riding it was dressed as a fighter, though he kept his hands off his weapons. “Shit, they’ve sent the ninjas. I’m guessing Dude fucked up.”

Sylvester smiled behind the balaclava, not something he usually wore. “Not really, it wasn’t his fault he won’t be coming back. Your problem is it leaves you with about forty men and the Barbarians next door.” Sylvester wasn’t sure of the numbers until then, but the flinch meant it was close. “Why don’t you buy in, join them?”

The man looked past him, into the shadows. “I’m assuming the alternative is fatal. What will it cost us, and how do I know this Bitch won’t just chop us?”

“Because I’ll arrange for you to have a shitload of armour, machetes, firearms, ammo and women to offer her.” When he saw the glance in the right direction, Sylvester nodded. “Yes, those women. You can even offer her one of these.” Sylvester patted the stubby automatic he’d found with the other firearms.

The request for anything with a clip had been taken literally, and the soldiers even left a few single-shot rifles. With the Barbarian, Dude and slaver firearms, top quality plated jackets, helmets, machetes and knives, Sylvester now had enough to arm over two hundred fighters from scratch. Maybe a quarter would have to be hidden, anything distinctive like the snake on Python’s pistol grips, or obviously Barbarian gear. Sylvester didn’t want awkward questions about why the missing men left their gear.

Sylvester had watched the women being brought out, and the thirty with make-up would have definitely tempted most gangs. The other twenty-odd women and a slightly higher number of men were late twenties at most, all fit and healthy. They’d be good workers, or possibly recruits for Catherine if he explained the situation. The soldiers had laid them down carefully, and covered them against the chill, so the officer really was worried about their welfare. Conditions for refugees outside the wire must be grim if the city was better.

Sully had been thinking about the offer, especially the lack of guarantees. He interrupted Sylvester’s musings on officer motivation. “She could still say thanks and shoot us all. I heard about that Patton bloke, when he tried to join up.” Everyone in this part of the city knew about Patton because the Barbarians still thought it was hilarious. They told anyone who’d listen.

“Have you got some sort of fixer, a bloke who finds out stuff, probably about those slavers?” Sylvester hit the jackpot. The bloke sort-of hunched, glancing back towards the walls.

“Yeah. He won’t be popular if Dude isn’t coming back.” The man turned back, looking up at Sylvester. “Do you do the same sort of stuff for Bitch?” His eyes went back to the shadows behind Sylvester. “How many assholes are aiming at me if I tell you who it is?”

“None, Sully, not even Bitch, but you’ve got to decide before she finds out what happened to Ivan, Python and their men.” Sylvester shrugged at the shocked look. “You negotiate for Dude, so a lot of people know your name and hear descriptions. Is that why you’ve been sent out—they blame you?”

Sully glanced back again. “Not yet. Dude sort of left me in charge. The fighters aren’t keen, so they won’t care too much if I get chopped.”

Sylvester laughed, relief more than humour. “So now you get to be a hero, get them out of the shit. I’ve got to go now. Bring your men to the border at dawn, the official crossing about a mile down this road. Wait out of sight, don’t let the Barbarian guard post spot you until Bitch arrives. The women and weapons will turn up, but won’t join you until you make the offer and Bitch agrees. Then you hand them over.” He half-turned. “Or I sell the lot to Bitch, then she rolls right over you.”

“I’m guessing you know an asshole called Control, so I shouldn’t try to guess your name?” Sully sagged, almost collapsing in pure relief when Sylvester nodded. “Just warn me if the asshole decides he’s got one agent too many. I was meant to go with Dude, but he left me behind. Now how exactly does this work?” That took some discussion, because it couldn’t look like too much of a set-up or both of them would be answering awkward questions.

“Deal. Now I really do have to get moving.” Sylvester put his hand out, impulse because he’d never knowingly met another agent, and Sully shook. With that, Sully turned his motorbike, heading back towards the enclave. Sylvester bent over the pedals, cycling hard because he had a lot to do before dawn. Now he just had to get Catherine onside, then hope the women agreed with the deal when they woke up.

* * *

Bitch:

At dawn, Sylvester was at the Barbarian border post—without his balaclava and wearing his usual plated jacket with a proper helmet. He glanced to the side and despite the big smile, he could see Catherine was nervous. She glanced down, then looked pointedly at Sylvester’s jacket. “Next time, midday please. I could etch steel with my bloody nipples. That’s a big hint we should get this show on the road.” She turned to the side, raising her voice. “Light it up.” Car headlights blazed, lighting up the stretch of road to the Dudes’ guard post.

Sylvester raised his radio. “Showtime, Fox.” The radio clicked three times, so the women and guns were here.

Beside him Catherine raised a loudhailer. “Okay Dudes, time’s up. A woman like me gets pissed off when paperwork interferes with her retail therapy. In the future I’ll be coming straight through here whenever I feel like it. Suck it up, sign up with me, or I’ll drive over the bodies.” The reason for the takeover was bullshit. The Barbarians already went to the Mart whenever they liked, down a cleared road with no interference. It was technically Dudes territory, but they daren’t complain.

The wrong voice answered, with the wrong answer. “Sully might have gone for that, but he’s the two-faced shite that got Dude chopped. I’m the new Dude. You can piss off, or come ahead. If you come ahead, those tits had better be bullet-proof.” Sylvester hoped nobody saw his wince, or the shock on his face. Shit. Still, plan B was still on.

* * *

Turning his head, Sylvester found himself looking into a pair of very suspicious eyes so he spoke up quickly. “Plan B for Bitch? The Fox is already in the henhouse.”

“Let’s hope so because these things are frozen, not bullet-proof.” A couple of her bodyguards laughed as Bitch turned to climb into the steel-plated van next to her. She stuck the loudhailer out of the window. “Your choice, sucker. Barbarians, attack!”

The three vehicles surged forward, headlights still blazing. As both automatics opened up with long, raking bursts, a line of vehicles each side lit up the rubble. They all charged forward as well, falling behind as they skidded and bounced over loose bricks. At least one man in each was shooting, though the bullets could be going anywhere. The chances were good that most if not all of the Dudes were ducking rather than shooting back. Some might be running, because they were heavily outnumbered.

Sylvester was standing up with his head and shoulders through an SUV sunroof, blazing away and laughing like a lunatic. He wasn’t supposed to come on attacks, but today was all or nothing, and he had a lot of frustration and nerves to work off. Garth was the other side of Bitch’s van, in a similar steel-plated SUV, the AK-47 spitting out lines of tracers towards the barricade. Between the Barbarians emptying pistols, the cheering, and the roar of engines, Sylvester couldn’t hear a bloody thing from the Dudes.

He was waiting for all those pistols Sully had told him about, but then the plate on the front of Bitch’s van hit the Dudes’ barricade. It blew apart because both sides had always known it was only a token gesture, that if the Barbarians attacked it wouldn’t make any difference. Now Sylvester’s driver slowed to follow her through the gap before pulling alongside again. One glance told Sylvester why there’d been sod all resistance—the Dudes hadn’t brought anything like forty men.

Thirty yards down the road were six vehicles, at the end of a straggle of four bodies that must have run from the barricade. A car and a van started moving. Tracers from the side flayed both vehicles until the car stopped, then the van drove off the side of the road. Two men burst from the back of the van, neither of them making four steps before being blown sideways off their feet. Fox obviously liked the new toys and believed in overwhelming firepower.

As Sylvester bent down to shout into the car he heard a deep, baying roar behind, stretching out sideways in both directions. The other cars, jeeps and SUVs, all with four-wheel drive, had reached the other side of the border rubble and disgorged a hundred Barbarians. “Keep going to those cars; stop anyone escaping.”

His driver accelerated. Behind them the gunfire rose to a crescendo, then tailed off in screams and cheers of triumph. Sylvester concentrated on the vehicles ahead in case someone was hiding among them. There still weren’t any targets when his car reached the blockage.

* * *

Looking around, there weren’t any living Dudes, just bodies in the road and two dead drivers. Sylvester raised his radio as Garth’s car and Bitch’s van pulled up. “Fox, job done. Bring the hens, join the rest.”

Garth had jumped out of his car to check the vehicles. Now he headed towards Sylvester, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “These were killed before we got here, from the side.” The accusing tone didn’t match the smile tugging at the big man’s lips.

“You know me, ace or two waiting in the wings.” When he winked, Garth nodded, assuming the usual, a spy in the gang.

Catherine came over to look up at Sylvester, still stood up in his car. “I should have one of those, or one like the Pope to keep the wind off me. A Bitch-mobile.” Her eyes were too bright, her smile too wide, and Sylvester knew he might be the same. It was the rush, not knowing if he was going to live or die. He’d been in action with the Army, but never anything like this.

Turning to one of her guards, Catherine pointed back towards the border. “Get back there and tell them to stop prancing about celebrating. We’re going to give the rest of the Dudes the same option.”

“The enclave?” A big smile split his face as he turned and ran back down the road.

* * *

“They’ll be behind walls, so it might not work out this well.” Garth looked from Bitch to Sylvester, shaking his head because they were both still smiling. He didn’t know how many men he’d lost but there couldn’t have been many—the Dudes had folded too fast. Garth had taken a chance, trusted her, and now he thought he might have thrown a fistful of sixes.

When Bitch had asked for fifty men, to help her own fifty-strong warband take the Dudes, he’d been cautious. Sylvester had warned him—only men who wouldn’t insist on the usual rape-fest, but he understood that part. Even so, a hundred was definitely skinny to take an enclave, and he’d said so. Bitch told him all he had to do was line up on the border, in the cars, then the chances were that whoever had taken over after Dude would surrender.

He’d seen the surprise on her face when the bloke said no. He probably looked just as surprised when Bitch yelled attack, then even his personal driver had done what he was told. After that, Garth just concentrated on staying alive. Now it had worked, they’d wiped out whatever the new Dude had brought to the border to back her off. He looked back, knowing half the cars that had bounced across would be stranded. “We’ll need more transport if we want to catch them out.”

“Some idiot shot these up. It’s a good job our friends have found some more.” Sylvester pointed at the line of cars and vans pulling out onto the road.

Garth narrowed his eyes, then looked at the holes in the sides of the vehicles and Bitch’s all-male bodyguard. He’d thought she didn’t want her women in a battle, which would have led to some comments among the blokes. Not now, a familiar red-headed woman was hung half-out of the front car—waving a machine gun. Vixen usually stood behind Bitch with a shotgun and a scowl, not smiling like she had when Patton was being beaten to death. Sylvester hadn’t bought anyone in the Dudes—there’d been a whole Bitch-pack already over the border.

When Garth turned to Bitch she was grinning at him. “Guess they wanted to get into the fight as well.” She pointed to the bodies nearby. “Lucky really. Now the rest of the Dudes have no idea what’s coming up the road.” Her smile faded, uncertain for a moment. “I don’t mind your men looting—but no rape.”

“All the blokes I’ve brought have agreed to go along with that. I pointed out they’d have a whole enclave to loot, no need to share?” Now Garth had to hope Bitch didn’t believe in some equality shite, didn’t think it should be spread out among the rest.

“Too bloody true. After all, nobody else bled for it. Come on, let’s give the Dudes the good news. Sylvester, you can have my van; I want a Bitch-mobile.” By the time Garth was back in his car, vehicles were crowding the road and Bitch was stood up in the plated SUV. She’d taken off her sling, so apart from a few bandages she was naked from the waist up.

She half-turned, raising her machete. “Come on boys, let’s go and knock on a door.” Her driver accelerated and with a rising cheer the rest followed. Garth noticed the new vehicles were all driven by the Bitch pack. He wondered who else was in there, then his driver accelerated. He concentrated on staying alive through the next ride on the Bitch roller-coaster.

* * *

Garth was never sure if it was the sight of all the cheering, bloodthirsty Barbarians eager to attack, or the five machine guns that fired short bursts into the air. He thought the decider might have been what looked like a naked woman with a machete, telling the Dudes they could join up or die. Whatever the reason, the gates opened up to send out an unarmed emissary. As soon as she promised she wanted to sign up any survivors, because she’d had to kill the other cheeky bastards, he turned and waved with both hands. The gates opened.

Just through the gates Bitch’s car turned aside, and she beckoned. The Dude fighter, his weapons on the ground, directed her to the brothel. As she drove away, Barbarian fighters were telling the Dudes to take off their jackets and drop their weapons belts. The Barbarians spread out through the buildings, rounding up the Dudes, all twenty-one of them. None resisted as the Barbarians brought them to an open space near the Dudes’ barracks.

Garth organised the Barbarians into shifts, so they’d all get a chance to loot once Bitch gave them the okay. He reminded them this was a Barbarian enclave now—no burning and breaking just for the hell of it, or killing their new workers for fun.

It might work because this wasn’t the usual Barbarian conquest, no real fighting so very few were wounded. They’d only lost two, one of them when he’d fallen out of a car coming over the rubble. Even so, the men were all wound up, excited, so he hoped Bitch didn’t take too long. Garth wasn’t sure he could keep control much longer. The ten armed men, all strangers but wearing breechclouts over their jeans, would make sure nobody looted the brothel.

* * *

Catherine wouldn’t be long. She was already in the brothel, with her small convoy parked at the rear. On the outside of what had been a hotel, the crude graffiti promised all Dudes a good time—the current visitors were there for a different reason. All eleven of Catherine’s female bodyguards, with another six women carrying pistols and machetes, rousted the women from their rooms. Twenty-three apprehensive women were soon in a huddle in the dining room.

“Good morning, I’m Bitch of the Barbarians. We’ve taken over.” Several women burst into tears, but the newcomers understood. “Stop worrying, there’ll be no more rape. You all get three choices.” Silence fell as the women looked at her, some thinking one of the options might be to service Bitch and her girls. “Just don’t tell the men—we’re still working on them.”

The red-haired woman to Bitch’s left pulled out a knife. “Option one, you can keep doing this, servicing blokes, here or back in our home enclave. The difference is, the men will have more manners. You’ll be volunteers, so the men will expect smiles, makeup, sexy clothes—the full bit. If one of them gets too rough, knocks you about, tell me, Vixen. I’ll ask him if he wants a bruise or a cut. If he’s smart he’ll choose bruise and behave afterwards.”

She raised the knife. “If he gets stroppy, he’ll get cut and won’t be needing a woman again.”

A second woman cut in. “Another option is to go home, or if you are too embarrassed, you can go to another enclave. Work like anyone else, pay your rent, and try to forget this place. If a bloke tries it on, tell him to go to the brothel.” The dark-haired woman with a faint scar on one lip raised a machine gun. “If he keeps going, beats you up or rapes you, tell me, Sandra. Then he gets to see if he can run faster than this. I’ll shoot him through the legs so you can beat the fucker to death with an iron bar.”

Ariel’s black eye was ancient history now as she stepped forward, looked them over and patted her weapons belt. “If you choose the work option, we’ll find you an enclave. Stay there, no straying, because some of the other Barbarian enclaves are rougher. We’ll get around to them. I’m Ariel, and I’ve got a third option. If you want to join Bitch’s bodyguard, carry a machete and gun, you step right up. You will train hard, really sweat. Once you’re fit we’ll teach you to shoot, and where to stick a blade or a knee. After that, you dress like you want because no bastard will dare touch you.”

The women looked at her tight jeans, tight, sleeveless tee, armoured vest and all the weapons. “What about the other bodyguards—the men?” This woman shrugged, pointing upstairs. “I’m in a front room so I saw you pull up.”

Vixen laughed, pointing down to her shorts. “They look and hope, but none of them will actually try it on. Tease them a bit if you like; that’s why I wear the shorts. Even so it’ll be a bloody long time before I even consider a man again. Bitch teases them all, winds the bastards right up and they love it.” The smile died as all the armed women looked dead serious, grim even. “Anyone who touches us, we try to wound them. Then we get to beat them to death an inch at a time, while the Barbarians laugh and cheer. Those bodyguards will help hold the assholes down.”

The woman who’d asked about the male bodyguards smiled at that. “The senior Dudes keep a personal woman. They aren’t all voluntary, so I’m guessing some will want that third option.” She shrugged, looking down at herself. “I like the idea of an enclave where I can dress properly, and get on with my life without some asshole helping himself.”

“What happens about personal women? You know, if a woman has a bloke or two who look after her if she’s nice to them.” This woman blushed, a surprise in this place. “Some of them are quite nice once they’re in private. They bring treats, and stop the rest messing me about.”

“Your option, providing they survived. There’s barely twenty left, but if you like that option the new guards will all have manners. We’ll leave you to decide because we’ve got an enclave to loot.” Catherine laughed at the looks. “It’ll keep the men’s minds occupied with something other than women. Don’t worry, nobody will loot this place.” She gestured to the back of the building. “Now my guards are going to bring in some new recruits, volunteers. If any Barbarians feel horny, they’ll service them. You’re off duty now, so by the time we leave, I’ll want you all split up into the three options. My job is to remind all those assholes outside to behave—robbery with manners.”

* * *

The huge cheer as Bitch came out of the front door was a relief. She’d half expected to find Garth’s Barbarians already looting, but although they were eager, they’d waited. “Right lads, you know the rules. Steal it if you want, just don’t break shit for the hell of it. Anyone who sets fire to one of my nice new buildings will end up on a spit, hoping one of his friends is sober enough to put the fire out.” That got a laugh—the crowd really were in a good mood.

Once most of the men spread out to start looting, Garth explained. “Two dead and hardly any wounded, none of them serious. We’ve had worse casualties in training. Now they’re going to go home loaded down with loot, and stick it to the rest. If you ever need more volunteers, knock on my door.” He didn’t tell her the rest, that the attack meant Garth would back her now. No reservations, because this half of his warband were already hers. When she shouted attack, they hadn’t even looked at him to check, they’d just charged.

“Good. Now I’ll show you the bonus, a genuine brothel full of willing women. The men will have to treat them right, but if they bring gifts I’m betting they get a really good time.” Catherine’s smile widened a little. “There’s also a lot of weapons, steel and firearms, with a heap of good quality plated jackets. The late owners don’t need them so your men can upgrade if they want to. I’ve even found a few more recruits for my personal pack.” She nodded at the sharp look. “Those men are some of them but yes, some are women who like the idea of having a gun, a machete and a vest.”

While Garth thought that through, she turned to greet Sylvester. He’d been waiting until he could get her alone, but heard enough to decide Garth could be included for this part. “The recruits from the Dudes will be coming back with you, so who do we leave here? We need a garrison.”

Garth shook his head. “No thanks, I’ve got my home enclave.” He looked around, spotting the women being escorted out of a row of big houses by the Bitch pack. He realised the armed men helping them were also strangers. “How about we commandeer one of those houses while we sort it all out?”

* * *

A couple of hours later, the convoy left fifteen of Bitch’s men and six of her women to guard the enclave—with a machine gun to help keep order. The garrison would recruit locals to help guard the walls, hopefully some would be family men and women rather than the usual gangster types. Catherine was trying a very small experiment here—guards who were part of the enclave.

There were quite a few vans in the convoy, not all of them full of loot. Vixen, Ariel and Sandra had given the same three options to all the women rescued from the slavers, so now there were fourteen who were keen on the idea of carrying a gun. They were spending the trip getting armed and armoured. Eighteen of the captive men were in another van, already armed and looking like fighters—the slavers had only taken fit strong men. None of the forty-eight slaves had a home to go to, so they all joined Bitch in one role or another, some of them happy to be ordinary workers again.

Other vehicles carried the volunteers for a brothel with rules. Some of those were from the Dudes, willing if they were going to be treated right, but not where erstwhile neighbours would know. Thirty of the slavers’ stock really were voluntary prostitutes, so three had stayed in the Dude enclave with the six local volunteers. With the reduction in guards, nine was more than enough for the garrison. Five of the slavers’ prostitutes had only been volunteers so they’d be protected from violence. Now there were other options, they’d retired.

Behind the convoy, workers from the enclave helped Barbarians reclaim vehicles stranded in the rubble when they’d charged the border. With plenty of workers and towing vehicles it wouldn’t take long. There were also twenty-three bodies to strip of their remaining weapons and clothing, which would go back to the Dudes for any new recruits.

* * *

By lunchtime, the Barbarian celebrations were swept away by the news about Ivan and Python. All the Barbarians who could get there were around the square in the main enclave—Bitch’s—along two sides of the open space next to the grass for fighting challenges. When Bitch raised her hands the shouting continued, so the men and women behind her raised their weapons.

For a moment, some Barbarians considered doing the same, until they realised how many fighters were stood behind Bitch. Not enough to stop the rest, but every single one had a gun, a semi-automatic pistol or shotgun. Four had machine guns, which sobered most of the crowd. They’d faced guns like that, not so long ago—many were still carrying wounds. Garth and Khan also helped, kicking arses and shouting at the men to stand down and listen.

The fifty who’d gone to attack the Dudes probably made the difference—a solid block who were relatively calm, obviously backing Bitch. More of the Barbarians were noticing that every one of them now had top quality weapons including a decent firearm. Those fifty were telling everyone who’d listen that they could prove Bitch hadn’t killed Ivan and Python. That rumour seemed to be the cause of most of the trouble.

Catherine finally gave up, raising the loudhailer. “I’ve no idea where those two went. I’m still trying to find out how many went with them. I took my own fighters after slavers.” The noise dropped when the Barbarians realised what she’d said. A lot of gangs didn’t like slavers because they stole workers from the enclaves that paid rents.

“Me and my girls turned up as stock, for sale.” She held her arm out, giving them all a damn good look, and heads were nodding. Her bodyguards were all good-looking, so if they’d stripped like that, slavers wouldn’t have suspected a thing. Catherine unshipped her knife. “Then when we were close enough for these? I didn’t have to throw it this time.”

In truth, Sylvester told her there’d been a fight between slavers and Dudes. He reckoned it had been close, that the slavers had to arm their stock slaves to survive. Afterwards the slaves had finished off their surviving masters, then stripped the bodies and run for it. One of Sylvester’s spies told him about the fight, and he’d found the survivors.

Catherine had been suspicious when Sylvester suggested sending Vixen and her squad to recruit the lot. They’d found the ex-slaves and weapons in a convoy of vehicles, just as promised, with no sign of bodies or a fight. The weapons and the armed ex-slaves had welcomed Catherine, then Sylvester suggested using the liberated slaves and machine guns against the weakened Dudes.

There was a ripple of laughter at the bit about throwing, but a lot still weren’t convinced. Garth had been told the same story, though Bitch claimed the credit for finishing off the slavers. That gave her three machine guns, then some of the liberated captives helped Catherine’s bodyguards flank the Dudes. It could be true, but if it was she’d taken a hell of a risk. Conan would never have done that—attacked an enclave with just a few men to back him.

* * *

Garth loved heaping shit on the arse’s memory, so he shouted at the crowd. “I like that better than Conan’s sort of attack, charging the Kinks’ wall or the zoo machine guns. Bitch didn’t even risk any Barbarians outside her own, not until she’d killed the slavers. Then she looked at all the weapons and came to see me. She asked for volunteers to help her slap the Dudes, so fifty of us went for it. Turned out the Bitch-slap was too much; they all died or rolled over.”

A good proportion of the men laughed about the Bitch-slap. While he’d got their attention Garth turned each way, holding up the machine gun she’d let him keep. “Earned me this, and my fifty men looted an entire enclave. Good pickings, new weapons and armour, and we even brought you some fresh, willing women.”

The women in question knew their cue, filing out along the side of the square. The noise petered out until there was almost dead silence. Three women had stayed to keep the Dudes happy, and five had ‘retired,’ but now the twenty-two who’d come in the vans had been given time to freshen up and put on their makeup. Several had managed a quick version of the Bitch look, while the eleven new volunteers from the Dudes and the slavers’ stock had been taking lessons. Thirty-three women who were dressed to be sexy—and smiling and waving—almost stunned the Barbarians into silence—then the cheering and whistling started.

“Calm down you horny bastards.” She’d had to revert to the loudhailer again, but Catherine was relieved. The women had changed the entire mood. “We’ve still lost two warband leaders with a lot of men. Luckily, I was recruiting this morning. Since the slavers were nice enough to part with a shitload of guns, the new recruits will be dangerous even before we toughen them up a bit.” The thirty-eight ex-Dudes fighters and male volunteers from the slaver stock were already lined up behind Bitch’s pack. They all raised their weapons, but didn’t get the same reception.

Even so, Khan was looking at the way they were armed, better than most of his own men. All of them looked fit, while at least half already knew how to hold a weapon. He knew most of his own men liked Bitch, so Khan made sure they knew whose side he was on. “Extra rifles, more machine guns and thirty-eight men—all with good pistols and armour—will make sure nobody thinks we’ve been weakened.” He pointed behind Catherine, at the new women with guns. “And since Bitch seems to have found more bodyguards for her pack, that’s half a warband.”

He didn’t add the rest. The smart ones would realise that with whoever she’d left to guard the Dudes’ enclave, Bitch now had her own full warband, well-armed and loyal. Some of the newbies would need toughening and training, but the Barbarians she already had would deal with that. Those included Atlas and two of Patton’s men, volunteers who were willing to accept the new rules to join the Bitch pack. The rest of the ex-Bloods had just disappeared with Ivan and Python.

Unlike most newbies, these all had top class protection and weapons, so even without training they’d be bloody dangerous. As he looked around, Khan realised Garth’s men, the ones who went on the raid, all had semi-automatic pistols and some were wearing new, top quality armoured jackets. He made his own decision right there. He was now a senior Barbarian, one of only two leaders under Bitch, so if he played it right he’d get a share of the new weapons. The first thing he’d better do was to sort his men out, make damn sure she stayed in charge.

* * *

“Give the brothel women guns as well. I volunteer to be their warband leader.” A storm of jeering and cheering swamped the hopeful Barbarian, but others were nodding and talking seriously. Those were the veterans, senior fighters, the ones who knew that all those extra guns really did make a difference. Some of them, even men from Ivan’s and Python’s mob, were realising there’d been a real shift in power.

“You really will need a new warband leader.” The man who spoke up could be good enough. He had that tough, confident look. “Will he run the Dude’s enclave, Python’s or Ivan’s?”

The talk with Sylvester and Garth had covered several possibilities, depending on how the Barbarians reacted. With Ivan and Python missing, most of the violent options had disappeared. “We’ll need someone for the Dudes’ old place. Not a full warband, fifty with decent weapons should be enough to cover that border.” Catherine pointed to the south border. “Then another leader and a full warband, split between Python’s and Ivan’s enclaves because they’ve both got proper walls. He can start with the men Python and Ivan left behind. There’ll be more coming out of the hospital as they recover.”

“Some of the other gangs might get ambitious if they saw those assholes running away, so we’d better get that sorted.” Whether he believed the story or not, one of the senior fighters had made his decision. Others agreed with him, while most of the rest were now more interested in the new women.

At least Catherine didn’t need the loudhailer now. “Anyone interested in a warband leader’s job, or wants to be a senior, bossing twenty-five under a leader, we need to talk. The rest of you, back off until your new ladies have moved in and settled down.” This time she pulled her pistol. “Just remember, no bruising the goods. If those women stop smiling I’ll be looking for stress relief, then some arse will be looking for a rat hole.”

In spite of a few complaints the men accepted that—some of them even laughed at the rat joke, so Catherine left before anyone saw the relief on her face. She gave her ass some extra swing, when a couple pointed out they fancied the one wearing bandages and a scarf.

* * *

Garth:

Despite all the upheaval, Garth had a personal problem he’d left too long. He might be a warband leader, the senior one now, but Garth was nervous. Ever since Conan fell onto his face in the challenge square, he’d known this conversation was coming, but now he couldn’t put it off any further. He stood outside a nondescript house in a side road in the main enclave, pausing for a moment before he knocked on the door and waited. Even that was different—every other time he’d knocked and then let himself in.

The woman who opened the door looked startled. “Garth?” Her eyes ran over him, noting that he wasn’t dressed as a fighter apart from the pistol and knife on his belt. Now she started looking worried. “Why didn’t you come in?”

“May I? Please, Susan? I’ve got something to discuss, and I’d rather not do it here.” That was the first test—if Susan knew what this was about she might say no.

“Of course. After all, it’s your house if it’s anyone’s. Do you want a beer?” The woman backed up, nodding towards a door. “You should know the way by now.”

“Thank you. I think we both might need a beer.” Garth watched as Susan headed for the kitchen and beer. For possibly the first time he really thought about her, and realised he didn’t even know how old she was. In her thirties he thought, good-looking rather than beautiful in a sexy way, she’d probably turned a few heads pre-crash. He was remembering how they met when she came back in with an uncertain smile on her face.

“Here.” She bent to kiss his cheek before handing over the beer, then took the other armchair. “You look serious. Am I in trouble?”

“No Susan, the opposite really. I was just thinking about how we hooked up, and wondering how you’d react.” He paused, looking for the words but Susan spoke first.

“Hooked up?” She laughed, a short, nervous sound. “You said you were looking for a woman who wouldn’t expect much. She had to be willing whenever you called by, but none of the other arses would touch her.” Susan was in a different time and place now, remembering. “Conan was bragging, while the rest were dragging women out into the square, pulling off clothes then tying their ankles together.” She sighed, her eyes coming up to meet Garth’s. “It sounded like a good option.”

Susan hesitated, then asked because she’d always wondered. “Why did you pick me? There were…” When she tailed off, Garth nodded.

“Yeah, there were young women, pretty ones. I suppose they were prettier than you.” He saw a tiny flinch, which made him feel guilty, another new thing. “I’ve always thought you must have been a looker when you were younger.” He continued slowly, thinking it through. Oddly enough, talking like this wasn’t too bad. They weren’t exactly friends, though they’d spent enough time together for it to feel… comfortable. “You were different. Calm. Not accepting even though you were braced, ready for the worst because you were attractive. You’re still an attractive woman.”

“Thank you, I think. That was it, I looked calm?” This time the laugh was a little more relaxed. “I was bloody petrified. That still doesn’t explain why you picked me.”

Garth smiled because he’d spent some time recently trying to work it out, not something he’d ever expected to be doing. It was Catherine; she got inside a man’s head and gave it a good stir, made him look at himself. “Look at me, Susan, I’m not exactly love’s young dream. A pretty young woman might accept the offer to be safe from the rest, but she’d always be disgusted by the old pervert. She’d act up eventually and I didn’t want the drama.” He shrugged, self-conscious for once, glancing at Susan. “Not exactly romantic, is it? Sorry.”

Susan had a half-smile, and now it widened a little. “Romance isn’t really a Barbarian thing but even so, you’ve always kept your word. I’ve been able to live my own life most of the time, and nobody else ever touched me. I’ve even got used to the old pervert, probably easier for me since he isn’t much older than me?”

Garth heard the question. “Thirty-eight—or ninety some mornings.”

“Thirty-three, old enough to appreciate warm clothes and good food more than jewellery and fancy clothes.” Susan took a drink of her beer before sitting up straighter. “Now what is this all about? I’m getting really worried because you’ve never been like this. You always say what you think.”

* * *

“Fair enough. Since Bitch, Catherine, took over, there’s been some changes.” Garth ignored the snort because that was a hell of an understatement. “Especially how women are treated. You know Catherine has been swapping out the women in the brothel?” Susan nodded, a short dip of the head. “Well now we’ve collected a lot of truly willing prostitutes. Not enough to swap them out, but enough for all the men. While everything is all mixed up, with no leaders in most enclaves, she’s going to bring all the willing women here—one brothel. She’ll let all the rest go. Anyone who wants to be one of the new warband leaders will have to suck it up.”

“What about you and Khan? There’s a brothel in your home enclave, the one you moved to when the warbands split.” Susan looked around the room, shrugging. “I’ve been expecting you to move me over there, then I wondered if you’d decided on a change.” The nerves were back in her voice because under the old rules, that would have meant she was fair game.

“No, I just, well, I thought you liked this place. You can have a new place if you want? Ah right, I guess I’ve got to the whole point of this, the visit.” Garth took a drink, cursing silently at himself. What was the bloody matter with him? “If all the women are going to be voluntary, it means you get the option.”

Looking down, Susan concentrated on picking her words, very carefully. “I’m already voluntary. I chose this.”

Biting back a curse, Garth tried again. “You only had two options. Now you’ve got a third; you can say no. I can walk out of here and never come back.” He waved a hand around. “This is your place anyway. Nobody else will bother you. If they do, let me know and I’ll fix them.”

The silence stretched on, with Susan apparently engrossed in her beer bottle and Garth fidgeting with his. Eventually she took a deep breath, raised her head, and looked him in the eye. “What do you want?” Freedom sounded bloody wonderful, as long as she didn’t end up with an annoyed Garth in the background. The present arrangement wasn’t exactly hard work—Garth called around maybe a couple of nights a week. Sometimes he brought food, something special. They’d have a few beers and talk, then sex, though he rarely stopped over.

“That’s the part I’ve realised, it’s why I’m here. What I want doesn’t matter.” This wasn’t going how he expected. Garth had thought Susan would throw him out on the spot, not talk about it; that was why he’d waited until evening. It wouldn’t do his image much good if he was stood in the street with his spare clothes on the floor around his feet. Susan was still looking at him but Garth couldn’t handle it any longer, he stood up. “I’ll leave you to think about it. If I don’t hear from you, all the best, and thank you.”

He turned, heading for the front door, surprised when a hand on his arm stopped him as he opened it. When he turned, Susan had a quizzical smile. “I think you deserve a better goodbye than that.” Susan hugged, hard, then kissed him on the cheek. “Whichever way I jump, no hard feelings. You never sugar-coated it, and you were always straight with me.” She pushed, gently, and Garth turned and left.

All the way back to his rooms Garth thought about it. He still had no idea what Susan was going to do, but he was relieved he’d got it done, told her. Now it felt strange. For over three years he’d always known there was one place he could go for some peace and quiet, somewhere he wasn’t a warband leader. Somewhere nobody was looking for a chance to stab him in the back or put him on a cross. It was an odd thought, that Susan was probably the closest he’d come to having a friend.

* * *

Catherine/Sylvester:

Catherine waited two days while the numbers came in, while everyone got used to the idea that Python and Ivan had taken a hundred and thirty men with them. More unwilling women left the brothels, until there was nobody to swap for the rest. Most of the gang never noticed—they were still excited by the new ones, the volunteers. The novelty would wear off, but even when they did, the remaining unwilling women would stay out of sight. Four more of the ex-Dude women took up some of the vacant beds, personal women who decided they may as well after their last four years.

Meanwhile. the men looking for promotion were talking to Khan and Garth, working out the new system, four sergeants or the equivalent for each warband leader. Catherine had to sort out the woman situation before that was settled—then the new leaders got the job on that basis.

There’d be some backlash, but Garth seemed sure his warband would back her. Her own bodyguards agreed. There’d been a rash of transfers between Garth’s and both Ivan’s and Python’s warbands just before Ivan and Python disappeared, followed by three mystery disappearances. Either Garth or his men were cleaning house. Khan had also traded some men so the majority of his warband were now Bitch fans. If Catherine could get Khan officially onside, then with her own personal warband and Garth they’d have over two-thirds of the Barbarians, enough to stop any serious trouble.

She’d talked it over with Sylvester and Garth, and Sylvester had promised to talk to Khan, but Catherine didn’t quite trust the spymaster. There were too many unanswered questions about the whole Dude affair, so that had to be dealt with first.

* * *

When she found the opportunity, Catherine talked to the first of her female bodyguards, now up to thirty-six even if most still needed a lot of training. Some were from enclaves, women who’d been occasionally or never abused after the first night, but lived under the permanent threat. The originals, from Barbarian brothels, had trained hard—they were real fighters now.

Eventually Catherine met three of them, without any other guards. “Time for a very serious talk. Ariel, Sandra, you were the first two bodyguards. You weren’t long after, Vixen.” At least that name brought a smile.

The redhead had been the third one Catherine liberated from the brothel—and she’d joined the Bitch pack as soon as she was fit. Her rapist hadn’t liked his black eye, so he’d tied her down before beating the crap out of her. He’d been one of the first to leave the Barbarians once his victim had a gun. She’d sometimes been called foxy before the crash— because of her red hair— so now she reckoned she was a Vixen, foxy with sharp teeth.

“How serious. Iron bar?” Vixen smiled, with some real anticipation.

“A different sort of serious. I don’t keep secrets from the first ones. Now I’m thinking that maybe some of the latest women don’t need to know our solution to life’s annoyances. If the men knew we did it deliberately now and then?” Catherine looked from one to the other—she didn’t like secrets but some truths could kill.

“Good point. We’ll still keep an eye open for any who can really be trusted. Then the ones who have that extra edge, the ones who really, really want some payback, can help out when we find a victim—get some stress relief.” Ariel looked around the empty room. “There must be something more or there’d be at least six in here, probably more than a dozen.”

“Yes, there is. I’m going to find out who Sylvester really is. He’ll either tell me, or try to kill us all, and he’s one of the most dangerous men out there.” Catherine watched as they thought about Sylvester—waiting until eventually they’d all nodded. Even though he was always arranging things, and kept a low profile, none of the Barbarians gave him any shit.

Vixen had her usual scowl now. “Is it about the slavers? That story stinks. Some of the men and women, those who were awake when we arrived, seem a bit vague about how it all happened.”

Catherine nodded, relieved it wasn’t just her paranoia. “The slavers, the Dudes, and how Ivan and Boris disappeared. I want you three present, ready for trouble, but first you’ve got to promise that whatever it is you’ll keep it a secret.”

“Deal.” Ariel smiled, shrugging at the other two because she’d spoken quickly, without thinking. “I decided when we went and got her sister. I’ll have Catherine’s back, always, no matter what.” After thinking about it, and Catherine assuring them she didn’t already have the answer, the other two agreed. Whatever Sylvester was remained a secret among the four of them—unless Catherine decided different.

* * *

He wasn’t sure why Catherine wanted to talk, but as soon as he came in, Sylvester knew it wasn’t something small. He was sure all three of the women watching him would kill him like a bug if it was necessary. They seemed even keener today, poised to pull the trigger. When he sat down, two shotgun barrels drifted down. He knew why because Sylvester had thought long and hard about Patton’s injuries. He couldn’t move his feet and stand up at the same time—even if he threw himself sideways he’d use thrust from his legs. That meant his shins had to stay in place long enough to pull a trigger. Today the third shotgun stayed centred on his chest.

When he looked at Catherine, Sylvester nearly made a break for it. Her hand was near that hideout gun, and all the usual relaxation had gone. There’d been too many holes in that slaver story, but he’d hoped the guns and recruits would distract her. There was no point trying to guess what had tripped him up. “What did I do wrong?”

“We aren’t sure about wrong, just that there are too many unanswered questions. We like the result or you’d be dead.” There wasn’t a trace of humour in that. “I suggest you be totally truthful.”

“Dead, not chasing rats?” Sylvester tried for levity—it fell flat.

“You are too dangerous to play games with. Also, you might say the wrong thing once the pain got too much.” When Catherine took a deep breath, Sylvester braced himself to try and roll aside. “Who are you working for?”

The question caught Sylvester by surprise, froze him for much too long to laugh it off. Too late he remembered what he kept warning himself—Catherine was too smart. “Who do you think?”

“Next time you try that sort of evasion, Vixen will shoot you in the shin. It will heal if the rest of your answers are truthful, though you might be left with a limp.” Catherine’s eyes pinned him, waiting, and Sylvester believed her.* * *

Finally saying it out loud came as a relief, even if it might be the last thing he ever said. “A man called Control, who I believe works for our government. I honestly don’t know for sure.” Sylvester had to know what had tipped her off, and how many others might have spotted it. “What did it, what tripped me up?”

“You helped Conan butcher innocents, helped him stay in power while he kept me chained—you even threatened nuns with mass rape. Then you backed me after Conan died, arranged my studs and suggested swapping out voluntary prostitutes for the others. Now you’ve given me an easy victory, three machine guns, weapons to bribe the two remaining warband leaders, and a chance to stop the last of the rapes in the brothels.” Catherine’s eyes narrowed. “The slaver thing just doesn’t add up, and I’m convinced you also had something to do with Ivan and Python disappearing. I just can’t figure out how. I wondered if that’s where the armour and weapons came from, but none of us recognise any of it.”

The short laugh made Sylvester jump. He didn’t smile back because Catherine wasn’t amused. “You are either a raving schizophrenic psychopath, or obeying orders. Why do you obey Control?”

There wasn’t any point in lying, but Sylvester wasn’t sure Catherine would believe him. “If I don’t, people I care about will be hurt, they might die. Despite that I’d have refused if it would have stopped Conan, but they’d have just put someone else in, so I tried to make a difference. Yes, I have innocent blood on my hands, though where I could I steered him towards gangs who needed killing. Most of the time Control gave me the target—no options.”

When Sylvester smiled, there wasn’t any pretence. “I tried to persuade Control that Garth would be better, easier led, but the bastard wouldn’t send a sniper. Conan is what he wanted, the right person to make sure that when the Army attack, eventually, they’ll have no qualms about shelling enclaves and shooting the residents of our fair city. I’d have accepted anyone, even Boris because he’d be easier to lead, to guide, and then I got you.”

Just for a moment, a real smile flickered on Catherine’s lips, and Sylvester dared to hope he would live. “So what does Control think of me?”

“You killed Conan with a knife, walk around almost naked in front of four hundred horny gangsters, and made Patton’s men beat him to death. Then there’s the rat hole joke.” Sylvester laughed because it really was funny, though some was definitely relief at still being alive. “Control thinks you’re a female Conan, possibly worse. I encourage him.”

“Ivan and Python?”

“Opportunity.” Sylvester was still smiling—this really was liberating. “Control wanted men who would charge an enemy then, if they had covering fire to make contact, do real damage. He also took the decent fighters from the Dudes and all the surviving slavers. He probably took the slavers first, then the others when they attacked. The soldiers used gas and darts, then loaded them into buses and lorries.” He almost shrugged, remembering how he’d been trying to find a way out of the mess, but he daren’t until Vixen stopped scowling. “Then I thought what the hell, go for broke. I made up the rest on the fly. Control will probably have me shot.”

“Not if we see him first.” When Sylvester’s head jerked up, Vixen had bared her teeth. “He kept that animal in charge all those years, so if you don’t mind, I’ll go to the next meeting. I’ll try to bring him back alive of course, then we can show him what it looks like from the victim’s side.”

Sylvester was relieved—at least she wasn’t mad at him. “Thank you for the offer, and I really do wish you could. It won’t work. He has an overwatch of some sort, snipers or drones. If someone follows me, or if an innocent passer-by gets too close?” He wouldn’t relax until he knew, so he asked straight out. “So what happens now?”

“We, just us four, will talk about what you said. Run if you like. I’m guessing you will make it out alive.” Catherine’s smile had just enough warmth to show she meant that. “We owe you that much. Or you don’t tell Control, then we keep fooling him right up to the last minute. Find something small I can do that suggests you have some influence. Not a lot, so he knows you can’t really steer me, but enough so you are useful to him.” She reached down, picked up a bottle of beer, and threw it to him. “Regardless of the name, I can’t taste berries.”

* * *

Sylvester tried not to think about how many people would know who he really was, or what they’d want him to do. He realised there might be an upside, a solution to one problem before some asshole tripped over a hidden armoury. “Do you want a transit van full of weapons and armour? The downside is that someone might wonder why Ivan’s and Python’s men dumped it before they left.”

“How much?” Catherine was thinking hard, mentally checking through what they’d just scored.

“Personalised firearms, blades and armour, anything I thought might be recognised.” Sylvester met her eyes. “Probably enough to expand the Bitch-pack by another fifty.”

“Dealer.” Ariel grinned, truly amused. “Sell him some of it, then swear he sold us the rest. He doesn’t talk to anyone else, or say where he buys stock.”

“Meet him at the Dude’s place. Arrange for him to pick the van up on the way here but keep the contents out of sight. We’ll take the equivalent in weapons, gear and medicine.” Sandra sniggered, then her eyes met Sylvester’s. They narrowed just enough to let him know he wasn’t safe yet. “What do you want for your cut?”

“My life, and you four never breathe a word about this conversation, or selling that gear?” Sylvester almost shrugged but Sandra had just proved the guards weren’t that relaxed.

“I’ll tell two or three more—that’s all.” Even though Catherine had moved her hand away from her hide-out, there was a message in the look. “In case us four have a sudden suspicious accident. Now while you drink your beer, we’ll work out how to make sure Khan is onside when we shut down all the other brothels. I’m going to release the rest of the involuntary women.”

“The randy shits can wait in line if they have to, or we can fix it so they don’t need a woman.” The anticipation in Vixen’s voice would have cured any impatience if the men had heard it.

“After that, you’ll need to find a good reason for this meeting. Can’t have anyone suspecting what we’ve really talked about.” The flick of Ariel’s eyes down to her shotgun and back to Sylvester suggested any leak would be a bad idea. “One option is shooting you. That’s your incentive for coming up with a really good idea.”

“I’m as keen as you are to keep this quiet. I can’t be certain there isn’t another agent, a survivor from someone like the Kinks. They’ll pass on any rumour to make sure Control doesn’t decide they are redundant.” Sylvester tried to think about Khan and abused women, not easy while he was worrying about something slipping when the weapons were sold or traded. Then his mind rearranged the problems. “I’ll tell Khan if he backs you, his warband gets extra weapons, good stuff like you gave Garth’s men. That stash includes the personal gear and weapons from Python, Ivan, their top men and the top Dudes, so Dealer can be generous.”

The rest fell into place after that. Between the five of them, they’d probably identified the only seventeen who would actually object. Others might mutter in private but they’d suck it up. The casual but confident suggestion that Sylvester shouldn’t worry about them confirmed a suspicion. Some of the men who’d left the Barbarians had only got as far as an anonymous grave.

“Now we really do need a reason for spending so much time together.” Sandra raised an eyebrow and stuck out her hip, then jerked her shotgun enough to notice. “Hinting it was an orgy could be unwise.” Humour with a bloody edge—the guards were all practicing.

* * *

Sylvester had something that needed discussion. “There’s one real problem we should sort out. You need a way to back off the neighbours. Some will be nervous, but others might look at the reduced numbers and get greedy.”

“Maybe we should raid one of the greedy ones for women, then give them guns and put them on that border?” When Sylvester glanced at Vixen he wasn’t sure if that was serious.

“We just need them all to pause long enough to count all those new guns and your personal recruits.” Sylvester concentrated on Catherine. “Tell your men to pass the word you want recruits. That’ll cost all the gangs a few men, good fighters, possibly their best. Then you need some way to scare the rest, or make them cautious at least.” He couldn’t help smiling. “Without turning up with no shirt and waving a machete.” Catherine was wearing a shirt and jeans, as she usually did when talking to him in private.

“I don’t mind not wearing a shirt as long as the meetings are at midday, in the sunshine.” Catherine’s smile was the real thing this time, totally natural, which was a huge relief for Sylvester.

Vixen laughed. “So we’re back to raiding for women.” This time the other three women smiled. Sylvester realised it was going to happen, so he settled down to try and persuade them not to make it obvious who launched the raid—or it would turn into a war. Hints weren’t a problem—that was the idea.

* * *

Sylvester spread the word among the surrounding gangs, and Dealer visited early. He took the transit, then two days later turned up for some trading, allegedly because he’d bought some weapons and knew the Barbarians had loot to trade from the Dudes.

The following day word spread through the Barbarians—Garth and Khan were bringing their brothels back to the main enclave.

“Damn, what did you say to them?” Bitch kept her voice down, but the women climbing out of the vans were a real shock. They were definitely dressed sexy, and smiling and waving to the watching men. Her eyes narrowed as she counted them up. “Is this all of them?”

“In a way. The rest are being dropped off round the back of the nuns’ place. You might get a couple of recruits, but most just want a quiet life.” Garth grinned at her. It wasn’t always a good idea to surprise Catherine, but he was sure she’d like this one. “If you agree I’ll call Victor. He’ll get the brothel here to come out and welcome them. These horny sods will be too busy leering to count up.”

Catherine smiled and winked at him. “There’s hope for you yet, Garth. You might even survive.”

He hesitated, then Garth confessed. “Not totally my idea. I met Susan for a beer and a natter, and talked to her about it.” He looked embarrassed at the quizzical look. “I trust her.”

“Definitely hope for you. What about Khan?” She couldn’t help it, Catherine had to have a dig. “Did he talk to Susan?”

“No! Um, no. He said if I asked, and it worked, he’d drop his off so they mixed with the rest.” The sound of engines provided the perfect opportunity. “That’ll be him.” Garth went off to meet Khan, relieved to get away. He’d no idea why Susan had agreed to meet him, but definitely didn’t want Catherine getting involved.

“We might not have to shoot him, come the day.” Ariel sounded almost whimsical. “Paying attention to a woman is definitely a good sign.”

“I reckon he’s been paying attention to her for a while. He just hasn’t realised before.” Vixen narrowed her eyes, then relaxed. “I was going to suggest recruiting her, but there’s no need.”

“Forget Garth, we’d better do something or there’ll be an orgy in the square.” Sandra sniggered and pointed towards the grass. “Or we just supply the beer and let them get on with it?” She turned and beckoned. “Atlas, organise some beer will you, and music? Tell everyone it’s a welcome party, so they can all meet the women while they’re dressed and standing up.”

Catherine watched Atlas as he headed off. He’d put fringing on his jeans, and was wearing a tied-down holster. “I’m not sure about him.”

“You heard what he said to Patton. All the warbands offered him a job, but he chose yours.” Vixen patted her shotgun. “Not that I actually trust him, but he’s not one of those who are always eyeing us up.”

“Step back or be trampled.” Sandra was laughing because it wasn’t quite that bad, but the crowd had definitely surged when Khan’s vans pulled up. Sure enough the women who got out were smiling, though some looked relieved when they saw all the other women waiting to greet them. She turned to the male bodyguards. “Better get some clubs, Studs, to break up the fights.”

The men laughed, but one ran off to get baseball bats and the rest of the Studs. Most of them were still hopeful, but they’d realised it could be a while before they got lucky with Catherine or her pack. None of them were lonely in the interim. Most already had a volunteer before Bitch took over, and the extra prestige and spare coupons meant the rest were now fixed up.

Khan was looking her way, so Catherine pointed to one side of the square and held up a pistol. He got the message—his warband lined up three deep. Vixen and Ariel made a path through the crowd, by which time most were paying attention. The men were even more interested when two Studs pushed wheelbarrows containing firearms and machetes over to Khan. Catherine turned around and raised her hands for silence, and almost got it. “Khan’s men aren’t as well-armed as some of you, which doesn’t seem right. I’ve done some extra trading, and spent those coupons I won, so I can put that right.”

More wheelbarrows brought plated jackets, more blades and helmets. “No need to rub me, Khan, you still get three wishes.” She waited until the offers to rub her died away. “Old jackets for new, same with weapons, then I can use your old stuff for recruits. There’s thirty good pistols with spare clips, Khan, but you choose who gets them.” She handed Khan a pump-action twelve-bore with fancy inlay then stepped back, gesturing. “Dig in lads, but don’t take long or there’ll be no dance partners left.”

Behind her a rousing cheer announced the arrival of beer, and music, and the first attempts at dancing. None of the revellers noticed the vans heading out for Python’s and Ivan’s old enclaves, to collect the rest of the women.

* * *

As the Barbarians tried to work through the aftermath of the Cabal’s recruitment drive, other gangs in other cities were working on similar problems. Nearly two thousand men had been snatched in a few weeks. They were being beaten into shape but none would ever be remotely military—not really a problem as none were expected to live more than another two months.

Their trainers concentrated on making sure they would attack when told, and only the targets, then that they were fit and had plenty of machete practice. Even the most optimistic trainers expected the survivors to disappear into the ruins after the attack. They’d still provide plenty of disruption, while any drone sightings could be used as propaganda.

Chapter 10
Onslaught

London:

After two months of concentrated effort, the Cabal had collected enough spares and ammunition—and some military vehicles—from the coast of Europe. The mercenary armour was repaired, as well as possible, and the continental mercenaries, Specials and kamikaze gangsters had all been boosted by both willing and unwilling recruits from the continent. The conscripted gangsters from the cities were now fitter than ever, and had been mixed up to stop old loyalties interfering. Two months after the fall of the Gatwick Salient, the Cabal launched their attack on London itself.

The Specials with armour led the assault, along with almost two thousand undisciplined, violent gangsters who had two options. They could attack when told, or the armoured vehicles would kill them. Despite the offer of medical care if they were wounded, and rewards when London was cleared, most of the gangsters had no intention of coming back. If they survived they’d disappear into the ruins, then start looking for a gang or loot.

Their controllers more or less expected that, though the Specials were told to try and stop desertions if they could. The Cabal intended using any atrocities the escapees committed as propaganda. With luck, that would persuade the British Army to obey when they were ordered to attack.

Behind the gangsters, the Specials hoped the assholes cleared the way through the first defences. The half-trained contractors knew they would be fortifying any positions taken—they were just hoping they didn’t have to actually take them. The mercenaries were relieved that this time someone else would take the first hit.

The continental forces had used the spares, ammo and some replacement armoured vehicles to bring units back up to strength. There hadn’t been time to retrain the new recruits back into first class soldiers, though they were familiar with military weaponry, orders and basic tactics. All of them could shoot, so they would boost the defence if the rebels counter-attacked.

Around the rest of the London perimeter, rumours were spreading about infiltration of the government and military command or freedom fighters. One name or pair of names in particular kept coming up, although the authorities tried to quash the rumours. Their big problem was that nobody could prove Soldier Boy or Killer Queen had been killed. The Squaddies, the common soldiers, liked the idea that one of theirs was sticking it to the government, while some of their commanders might actually be encouraging the proliferating flag or shirt wearers.

Unfortunately for the defenders inside London, rumours couldn’t stop armour, or the artillery that crashed down just after dawn on the first of June.

* * *

London Defence:

The drone picture, from a small plastic recreational model, was grainy, but those watching the bulldozer tanks knew exactly what was happening. Methuselah of the London Defence Committee frowned. “This is the same approach as last time, except there are more personnel carriers and only one column. It’s as if they expect to break through to release their ground troops, but surely they know what will happen? The lead tanks are older Challengers, still operational and better than many other tanks. They are definitely too valuable to throw away. This was even the obvious place to attack, so we’re missing something.”

“There’ll be sniffers under the front of the tanks to pick up any shallow explosives, but we expected that so most of it is deep. All those personnel carriers might mean they’re going to go after our people in the rubble?” The slight woman known as Thor was in overall control of the rocket mortars and the few heavy weapons, including some anti-tank missiles captured in the Tower. “If the troops jump out and charge, they’ll be clear of the rockets. Then we can’t retarget or we’ll hit our own.”

“Nearly every vehicle has a plate across the front, to move light rubble from roads, so they’re expecting a breakthrough.” Intel tapped the picture. “There’s more vehicles crossing no-man’s land, following the front runners. Only the first four troop carriers are proper personnel carriers with armour and tracks. The rest are just vans with steel plate fastened to the sides and top.” Larger vehicles came into view—lorries with the same steel plating. “That’s a lot of soldiers. We can stop their transport with the rockets, blow the tyres, but that won’t touch whoever is inside. You’re right; that’s got to be it.”

“I’ll get some of the rockets retargeted to cover the rubble each side of the road.” Thor glanced at El Cid. “If your people are overrun, or pull back, we’ll try to catch their men in the open.”

“In that case I’ll warn our people to be ready.” El Cid had a Mediterranean code name and look, but his family were second-generation Londoners. “If the soldiers want to mix it, rifles and bayonets against machetes at close quarters, we’ll bleed them badly. If there are too many, I’ll tell our people to pull back into the tunnels. We’ll need the rockets as fast as possible if that happens?” Thor nodded, heading for a radio to organise her ‘artillery,’ while El Cid turned to Ronin, the explosives man. “When are you going to stop them, the tanks?”

“The killing ground. We’ll bleed the infantry coming through the rubble, but that’s where we’ll stop them.” Everyone in the room smiled because if the attackers wanted an infantry battle, that was the best place. “I’ve sent Grasshopper in case we have to improvise.”

The proposed killing ground was a huge, multi-exit roundabout. Before the crash the usual central island had been a spacious oval park with lawns, flower beds, trees, paths and seats, popular with the locals. Enough of them spent time there—despite the encircling traffic—for the council to provide safer access, pedestrian underpasses. After the crash, the flower beds had become veggie plots while the trees turned into firewood or charcoal. As a result, the seven-lane circular road and garden plots in the centre created a wide area with absolutely no cover.

* * *

The spectators had started back towards their desks, then Methuselah paused. “Hold on. They’ve barely started clearing rubble, but the column has stopped.” Everyone crowded around the screen again. “The dozer blades have lifted—though not much. Why?”

El Cid pointed. “There, I swear the rubble moved a little in front of them.” Soon afterwards an explosion fountained rubble four paces in front of the lead tanks. “We didn’t have any explosives that near the perimeter, did we?”

Methuselah shook her head. “Too much chance we’d be spotted putting them in. Now the column has started again.”

The third time the column stopped, Intel, their spymaster, got it. “Has someone got that map of all the drains and ducts under the roads?” Methuselah brought one from her desk; she’d been using them to work out the placement of strongpoints. Intel spread it out, then pointed. “What’s the betting those explosions were exactly here, here and here?”

“The first three pipes we might have filled with explosives? The government will definitely have these maps.” Methuselah turned to look at the screen, frowning. “That’s it. A charge to punch down far enough, then if it doesn’t trigger anything, a sniffer to detect any traces of explosive. That’s why the dozer blades lift, so the operator can extend a steel bar, no, tube to place explosive. Then another one has the sniffer.” She sighed heavily. “It’ll be slow and take a lot of charges, but it’ll work.”

“They’ll still have to cross the explosives somehow.” El Cid had seen the results when industrial explosives were pumped into a drainage pipe and detonated.

“They’ll set a row of bigger shaped charges if the sniffers detect explosives. That will either detonate them, or blow them apart so we can’t set them off.” Ronin, their demolition expert, looked despondent. “Then those tanks bulldoze rubble into the trench or holes, and the whole column keeps coming.”

As the day progressed, that was exactly what happened. The advance was slow, but didn’t cost a single man or vehicle. Eventually, the invasion was passing between the pre-positioned squads meant to take advantage of damage caused by the mines. The local defenders conferred with the defence committee, and triggered the camouflage and distractions before drones brought down artillery or air strikes. Even so, the squads had to stay in hiding, impotent unless the vehicles were stopped and hopefully damaged.

* * *

Specials and Auxiliaries:

Army personnel were overseeing the Specials, by radio, while the Specials directly controlled the new close-quarters troops, the auxiliaries. The Army controllers thought the new troops were contractors who had trained for hand-to-hand against machetes, so they expected terrible casualties. Normally, the officers would never have launched such an attack, but they had orders to allow the Specials to do so. At the moment those overseeing the attack were doing the same as their opposite numbers—watching screens.

“The second low-flying drone has been shot down sir. At least three rifles from among the ruins, as soon as it crossed the border. Should we send another?” The operator was almost sure of the answer, and sure enough an officer shook his head.

“No point just yet. Have one waiting, ready to move in when the infantry sweep the ruins. Those rifles will be busy trying to survive.” The officer moved to look at another screen, transmitted from a high-flying drone.

“The rebels should have had to reposition to meet the attack, once they knew where it would be launched, but we’ve seen no sign. They may have already guessed, because the next reaction must have already been in place.” The advance had crossed some sort of invisible line, and now the whole area was dotted with smoky fires which degraded optical surveillance. The hot spots were about the right size for a human.

The overhead optics had actually seen a group of burning objects being towed over the rubble by a runner, so even movement wasn’t a conclusive indicator. The rebels used radios, though many of the scattered transmitters would be more decoys, just a radio with no operator. Those had been deployed around Gatwick to use up ammunition and keep gunners and pilots distracted. The same tactics had worked better the first time, though even now the surveillance couldn’t give definite numbers or positions.

“There will be tunnels.” As the group looked at the maps, the woman clarified. “In the rubble so they won’t be recorded anywhere. There were a lot of them around Gatwick.”

“Lead tanks reporting they’ve reached that wide open area sir, hardly any rubble. They’re asking which exit, because there’s solid barricades across them all.” This operator was consulting a map. “The operators are concerned about mines in the cultivated ground.”

The officers had already made that decision, if the bulldozers hadn’t been stopped by now. “Since the rebels have no trouble mining roads, that’s highly likely. Tell them the explosives won’t be as deep, so the detectors might pick it up. If not, they’ll only lose tracks, and out in the open we can stop the rebels getting close enough for shaped charges.”

Another officer gave instructions to those in touch with the rest of the column. “Send the bulldozer tanks forward, far enough to clear the junction for other traffic. Give them covering fire if they lose tracks. Keep the rest back until there’s a clear exit. We don’t want the softer vehicles stopped out in the open—easy targets.”

After a short pause, the officer continued in a more thoughtful voice. “Though we should tell the column to prepare, rearrange to give the personnel carriers a clear run to the front of the column. If the rebels defend all those barricades, this could be the perfect spot for the proposed infantry engagement. Use smoke to cover the movement.”

* * *

London Defence:

There were fewer buildings and therefore less rubble along this stretch of the border, so the berm was lower, and the Londoners had always expected an attack sooner or later. The ruins just behind the wide open area, another obvious weakness, had been fortified. There were a lot of eyes watching as the two Challengers advanced, side-by-side with angled blades across the front, pushing the last of the rubble aside. Before they could move into the open, Ronin, the London Defence Committee’s demolition expert, murmured, “Now we’ll see if it works.”

As the column crept closer, there’d been some frantic work underground. Explosives had been placed to the sides, in case the tanks turned. Then if they extended their probes, rifles in the fortifications would target the charges or equipment. Instead, the tanks moved forward, planted their charge and then tested. The blades dropped as the Challengers moved forward again. Once the tracks were moving over the place they’d blown up, the defenders triggered the backup.

The explosives in the pipes were in tubes with small wheels underneath. Now small charges propelled them down the drain towards each other. When they collided, both detonated, with the expected results. A trench was torn across the tarmac, stopping both Challengers with broken tracks. The tanks just behind the leaders lashed the nearest rubble with their machine guns, to deter any attempt to place charges. That had happened around Gatwick, but this time the armour was too far from any cover for the defenders to follow up.

Even as they fired, the next four tanks moved forward, pushing the disabled vehicles further into the open, off the tarmac and onto the cultivated area. With no way to place more charges, the defenders could only watch. Instead of pushing further, the four tanks behind came up each side of the cripples, six wide so they shielded the following column. Behind the line of armour, the first armoured personnel carriers turned to the sides, spreading out. Back along the column there were explosions. Despite the smoke spreading across the column, no rebels were reporting they’d attacked or caused damage.

“It’s the column, they’re laying down smoke while they move vehicles up.” Machine gun fire, followed by several explosions, sounded from the drone monitor. El Cid looked at the phone. “The squad who sent the message were spotted. They reported lorries and vans heading forward, so the Specials are bringing up infantry.”

“The rocket-mortars will stop trucks.” Even as Thor spoke, the local defenders made the same decision. Explosives rained down along the whole length of the column, while spotters used the distraction to get closer. “The vans and lorries are armoured, just steel sheets on the outside but our mortars aren’t meant to pierce armour. The vehicles must have gel-filled tyres, they aren’t stopping. The local commanders are going to send in the suicide squads.”

“They were…” Ronin tailed off because if there were no damaged vehicles, there’d be no vulnerable personnel or open hatches. The defence committee waited in silence as the local defenders came to the same conclusion. Groups of fighters closed with the column, throwing explosives under the vehicles or onto the bonnets of trucks. Less than half reached an objective—even fewer stopped one.

Some didn’t try to stop a vehicle, they put the charges against the sides of the lorries. Those had more effect, though the smoke prevented any observation. If the spotters had seen the carnage inside those lorries, they would have re-directed all the shaped charges. Instead, all the defenders could see was that most of the lorries kept moving forward.

Following orders, and reviewed operational procedure, the lorries and armour pushed or towed damaged vehicles to the right, while infantry vehicles kept moving along the cleared left lane. The armour, still undamaged, was now all on the right—this convoy had been double-spaced so there was space for the damaged lorries. Despite the sounds of combat, vans were now driving out onto the open ground, and behind them the tops of lorries showed through the smoke.

* * *

In the rubble each side the spotters were blinded by smoke so the squads stayed poised, ready to run and attack the men getting out of any disabled vehicles. At the other side of the open space, the defenders were baffled. “I’ve got reports of lorries still moving. Why aren’t the rockets or the blown vehicles stopping the column?”

“The damaged ones are being pulled out of line. There’s a lot of them arriving at the front, must be for an infantry attack.” The woman on the field telephone hesitated. “The fighters on the other end of this line are pushing for a decision. We’ve got to either use our ambush squads now or pull them back. Damn, that’s what they’re doing, those troops are to clear the rubble each side while the armour hits our defences.”

The fighters on one side of the column were keen, not suicidal. “If we attack the armour to get at the damaged vehicles, we’ll get slaughtered. The tanks are buttoned down and they’re aiming their weapons at the rubble, waiting for us.”

“Wait for a better chance.” Before the woman could say more, a shout from behind brought her head round.

A man was pointing at a drone screen—horrified. “There’s hundreds of fighters, charging from the wire across no-man’s land—onto the rubble either side of the column. Not soldiers, they’ve got machetes and plated jackets and they’re running right up the rubble, the berm. There’s only spotters out there to stop them, then they’ll hit our people from the flank, and they’ll be a lot harder to stop than soldiers.”

A voice on the line screamed in the woman’s ear. “The sides of the damaged vans and trucks are dropping. They’re full of fighters with machetes and they’re coming for us, straight into the rubble.” Explosions and shooting followed, then the sound of steel on steel before the line went dead.

A messenger ran into the local control centre. “There’s a line of lorries and vans coming out into the open and charging the barricades. Soft lead isn’t stopping them, but we haven’t got enough armour-piercing for these numbers.”

“Those six tanks have opened up. They’re targeting the defenders on the barricades with everything they’ve got!”

A voice bellowed above the rest, cutting through the rising panic. “Tell everyone the lorries are full of fighters, proper ones with plated jackets and machetes. Try to stop them before they reach the barricades. If not, shoot into the back part until they get nearer, try to kill some of the passengers, then pull back. Give up the barricades if necessary. Move back so there’s open ground, somewhere they can use guns to thin them out once they’re out of the transport.” All around the room, men and women shouted into radios and phones, while messengers raced off in all directions.

All but one man, speaking quietly into a phone. “Don’t shoot yet, even if there’s a target. Ignore the lorries, save them for armour. Make sure the barrels are rigged for demolition; we don’t want anyone to figure out what we did.” He listened for a while, then sighed. “It’s up to the crews. If they leave it too late they won’t get away. Get most of the ammo clear now, fast as you can, and hope we get another chance.”

* * *

Three hours later, the attack had finally petered out, though none of the London Defence Committee were celebrating. El Cid summed it up. “If they do that again they’ll reach the Thames, cut northern London in half. Then they’ll hit one section with everything they’ve got. We’ll lose a quarter of London and two more quarters will be flanked.”

“They’d have done it this time without the tanks and missiles we captured from the Tower.” Judge bowed his head for a moment. “They stopped the main thrust, though now we’ve got no armour so we can’t rely on doing that again. Unless we can get suicide bombers to the tanks, the next attack will just keep going.”

The tall slim man known as Intel shook his head. “I doubt it. We’ll set up for the armour, and stop it, because there won’t be an infantry assault like that. According to a few deserters, those shock troops were from gangs in other cities, kidnapped and given two options—attack or die. Our best estimates are about two thousand of them. We must have killed at least a half.”

Ronin looked around, as if he could see across the battered city. “There’s a lot more that are badly injured, so they’re out of it for months. A good few disappeared into the ruins. We’ll pull fighters from places like Sin Palace and Heathrow to comb the ruins, hunt them down, but in the meanwhile none of those will be in an assault. That leaves a maximum of five hundred who might hit us again. Next time we’ll have the right ammo to stop the trucks, so that’s not enough fighters to break through.”

“They won’t have any air support either, not after using their helicopters to kill our armour.” El Cid’s savage smile was echoed by the rest. “No gunships anyway, and the planes will be wary about getting low enough for accuracy.”

“That used up most of our modern missiles, but they don’t know that and we still have the Reiver solution, barrages of dumb rockets. That uses up explosives faster than we can make them.” Thor sighed heavily—those tanks and missiles were meant to be saved for a counter-attack if necessary.

Methuselah gestured to the quiet man in the corner. “Geordie was right, concrete pipes can be used to fire 120-millimetre anti-tank rounds—they scored before the barricades were overrun and the installations had to be blown. We’re already setting up more of them at strategic choke points, steel or concrete tubes to fire the ammo taken from tanks during the Gatwick attack. HE as well as anti-tank, which will deal with some of those trucks, and their passengers.”

She tapped the map in several places. “These buildings can stand a lot of artillery and bombs, so we’re fortifying the lower floors. Eventually the mercenaries will have to use armour and troops to take them. If they’ll give us another week, we’ll have those approaches covered as well.”

Thor pointed to the thick red lines on a map. “We’ve still got a hole through four lines of what should be interlocking, mutually supportive defences. Both flanks of this hole are vulnerable, but we’ve lost too many personnel and weapons to reinforce all that extra front line. We’ve also used up too many of the mortar-rockets. I can pull them from elsewhere, if we dare risk it?”

“Pull back the left flank. That will widen the breach a little but then the reservoirs will defend the flank, so we won’t need many fighters.” El Cid tapped the string of long blue shapes on the map. “Some of the Reiver-style rockets will stop any boats.”

“That depends on relocating rockets, again.” Thor turned to the tall, thin, pale man. “Intel, can you be sure there isn’t another force waiting for a chance to do this again?”

Intel never hesitated. “Not straight away. All the available mercenaries and armour were right here, backing up those Specials and exploiting the breach. That’s why they got so far, but the mercenaries stopped once the human shields were used up and they lost some of their own armour. They had more armour than expected, which must mean the government have been recruiting on the continent.”

He paced up and down thinking hard, then nodded once. “I’m certain this is everything available, with two provisos. The government might pull contractors away from guarding the other cities, Mart guards without real military training so they won’t be like these veteran Specials. They might pull the response forces instead, Specials meant to deal with a breakout, but then there’s no real fighters sealing the cities. The rest of the trained Specials, along with their armour and artillery, are guarding the Scottish border and can’t be moved. Redeploy your rockets to defend the breach.”

His shoulders slumped and he sighed. “The other unknown is the British Army. If they are ordered forward, we can only hope there’s some sort of mutiny because we’ll never stop them.”

“If we can find that Soldier Boy, the Army might join us.” Ronin laughed, the first sign of humour since the attack started. “That’s if he exists.”

Intel smiled now, his mood improving. “He won a medal in the Army so he’s real, or was, and if he’s dead he’s a very lively ghost. There’s reports of him popping up all over the place.” His face straightened as he turned to Judge. “Maybe you should add that to the broadcasts. Ask Soldier Boy and his Killer Queen to come and help out. Even if he’s a ghost or ignores us, that might attract other fighters.”

“I think it’s time to start full-time broadcasting, even if it means losing personnel and transmitters. We’ll repeat all the old messages as well, those asking for friends.” Judge swept an arm out to indicate the blockade around London. “We might get a few more soldiers—which would provide some solid intel for Intel.”

“I think it’s time we interrupted the BBC as well.” Methuselah had a nasty edge to her smile. “A few clips of the attackers their government are using should cause indigestion, maybe some awkward questions.”

Intel pointed at their own screens. “There’ll be enough surveillance that was passed back here and recorded. Gangsters with machetes attacking alongside British tanks, the same maniacs they’ve been policing for years? That still might not be enough to tip the Army over the edge, but I’ll settle for keeping them in place. We’d better make it good though, because the government will make damn sure we can’t get into their TV channel again.”

“Meantime I’m heading for our new front line. Geordie will be helping me check the sites for the tank killers.” Methuselah sounded sombre—the survival rate hadn’t been good so far. The first two had knocked out two Challengers—then the positions had been overrun by the assault. The crews had set off the demolition charges rather than let any attacker see how it was done, but only two people got out alive.

* * *

Cabal:

The mood among most of the attackers—and the Cabal—was much happier. Video of the assault was running on the wallscreen as the other members were congratulating Joshua. The chairman, Owen, pointed to maniacs with machetes swarming over a barricade. “When can we do that again, Joshua? Another push like that will reach the Thames. Then we can take back the Tower and that cannon.”

“It’ll take a while, unless we bring up more Specials. Even then I doubt we have enough because they can’t fight like that, hand-to-hand.” Joshua passed out thin folders. “Gerard, can we recruit more gangsters? We only have eight hundred left, half of them wounded too badly to fight. I’ll need a decision about them as soon as possible. Do we use up medicinal supplies or shoot them? After all, it’ll be three months minimum before they are combat ready.”

“We don’t care if they limp into the attack or only have one arm working. Any of the scum who are too badly wounded to do that, shoot them now.” Grace shrugged at a couple of cautious looks. “We won’t need them in three months, so why waste medicine? I’ll put up recruitment posters in the work camps; see if I can find you a few volunteers, Joshua.” A nasty smile tugged at her mouth. “I won’t explain exactly what they’ll be doing.”

“It will take time to extract more fighters from the cities.” Gerard shuffled papers in front of him, looking worried. “I’ve just taken over from Henry, but at first glance he snapped up all the easy ones. We need some nutcases left in there to encourage the Army when the time comes.”

“We need your agents to start doing their job, diverting some of the nutcases still in the cities to stop the likes of these.” Ivy switched the screen to a view of a column of vehicles and fighters flying the Union Flag. “The Sexual Liberation Juggernaut—they trample over anyone guilty of sexual abuse. More to the point, they’re uniting the enclaves and wiping out the most violent. We don’t want to be trying to clear a united population, especially if there’s no atrocities to encourage the Army.”

“Send in the RAF—blow them to pieces.” Grace sneered at Faraz. “I am presuming the RAF still obey the government?”

“Not necessarily. I kept telling you to stop using fire on civilians, and this is why.” Faraz called up closeups of the fighters. “At least a third are young, happy females. Unless they actually attack the wire, try to break out, most of the pilots will have malfunctions preventing weapons release or miss entirely.” The RAF liaison turning to Grace. “We can’t even condemn the Juggernaut. Their leaders claim they’re fighting for Soldier Boy, doing what he would if he was there, killing murderers and rapists. In other words, they are wiping out exactly the sort of gangs that we have been encouraging.”

Grace gestured for the control, changing the picture to one of a man in underwear with the Union Flag cut into his forehead. The picture flipped to a BBC report showing women shooting at obvious gangsters, then came back to the first one. “Soldier Boy himself—or near enough at night—and those women were seen on BBC reports. Doesn’t torturing a soldier count as a crime?”

“A contractor, not a soldier. Half the Army would put all three up for a medal. With the quality of the lighting and the camo on his face, it’s not even a firm ID, but if it is him at least he’s not in a city starting a rebellion. If he does show up anywhere, send a sniper.” Owen turned to Joshua. “If your Special Forces can snatch a couple of these copy-cats we’ll put them on the TV, prove that it’s all just rumours. Grace, if we get a solid lead on the right one, send your snipers. Going by past performance, the Specials will never catch him, but a bullet from a mile away might.” The chairman held out his hand for the controls. “Just make sure the Specials wipe that picture from their phones, immediately.”

“Maybe not. If I may?” Gerard intercepted the control, flicking to a close-up of a dark figure. In the next clip it had been enhanced. “It seems he or his doppelgänger is using child soldiers. If we advertise that fact, it will knock some of the gloss off the legend.”

“Don’t do that.” Grace’s face was twisted in a sneer. “Those animals out there will adopt the idea. It’ll be like Northern Ireland back in the troubles, ten-year-olds with guns. The soldiers will hesitate too long, especially if it’s a little girl like that, dressed in a pretty frock.” She pointed at the child. “I’ll put her on the sniper list, then the idea won’t spread. Now how about we concentrate on London? Once that’s sorted out, we can use those mercenaries to chase ghosts through one city at a time—with armour. Whoever is on that picture, he’ll run out of holes to hide eventually.”

* * *

Army Cordon – London:

Wiping the pictures from every phone held by a Special was probably impossible, and would be too late to stop the picture spreading. On the Army blockade around London, a lieutenant from 40 Commando handed a phone to a Captain Kernow. “A mutual friend sent this. We would really like a firm ID on the people in the last picture. Not the one in his underwear—he’s a contractor guarding the Leeds perimeter. We’re interested in the one behind him.” The lieutenant moved slightly so a passing soldier didn’t see the phone or get a clear look at his face. “The rest of the pictures, including the skulls, are genuine and taken in the Hope Valley.”

He smiled at the sudden interest in the captain’s eyes. There were a lot of rumours mentioning the Hope Valley—the lieutenant had helped spread some of them. “The facilities were manned by Specials. An old friend of one of your sergeants killed quite a few, then decommissioned the place with explosives.”

“Which sergeant?” Captain Kernow smiled suddenly. “Explosives and dead Specials?” His face fell again as he glanced down at the phone, then slid it into his pocket. “Is this anything to do with a picture of a flag on garage? I heard that was your people.”

“It was. This picture was taken much later, which is why we need the definite ID. Just don’t tell everyone what you see.” The lieutenant nodded gently at the enquiring look. “I’d like to shout it from a rooftop, but we have to get set first. There’s too many people who have more than one master, which is why my unit badges are a bit grubby. I’m not here, and I’m not talking to you. I’m guessing you’ll show Tolly, just be very careful before going further.”

“I’ll be very careful how I let our mutual friend know if I get a firm ID on anyone in the picture.” Captain Kernow nodded, then looked past the lieutenant and stiffened. “I suggest you walk past me and keep going. We’ve had a few reinforcements, one or two of them the type with two masters.” The two exchanged salutes, then the captain disguised a smile as the approaching soldier paused, trying to make out the muddied numbers and letters on the Land Rover as it drove away.

* * *

There was no hint of a smile three days later, as Captain Kernow and one of his lieutenants stood in a forward observation post, allegedly inspecting the rebel positions. “Definite ID sir. All of them except the man in underwear.”

“He’s a contractor, Tully, a captive. Sergeant Stokes is absolutely certain?” The captain bent to look through fixed binoculars.

“Harold, Patty and Doll, or Soldier Boy, Demon and Gunslinger. He reckons that faint one in the background could be Daisy, Harold’s niece. She’s about nine, but she’s wearing an armoured vest and has a knife.” There was the faintest hint of a question at the end.

“Maybe that’s just a precaution. Did you show him the rest?” The captain stood, pointing at nothing, so the lieutenant bent to aim the big binoculars at the same nothing.

“He had the same reaction as me; start shooting Specials and whoever gives them orders. How long will we have to sit on it?” The quiet chuckle was unexpected. “Tell Sergeant Stokes as soon as you can. He’ll want to bring his squad—most of them. I think the replacement for young Meredith will fall under a lorry, several times.”

“As long as he keeps it quiet until then.” Captain Kernow sighed, because he didn’t want to wait either. “Be very, very careful who you tell. Now we’d better go back and tell those lads what a wonderful job they made of this place.”

The two officers had watched the soldiers build the new position, to make sure there were no extra wires. Both were getting increasingly paranoid, and TV pictures of lunatics with machetes attacking alongside Chieftain tanks didn’t help. The announcement that the transmission had been from hackers was probably true—neither believed the scenes had been faked.

* * *

Soldier Boy:

On the fifth of June, Harold finally bit the bullet. He’d put it off by taking the new recruits on more missions, carrying the pictures through the wire around every city except Liverpool, Birmingham and Edinburgh. There was too much road traffic around Liverpool, while Edinburgh was just too far. He’d deal with Birmingham when he went home. The new recruits were ready, or as ready as they would be, and a deadline was coming up.

A woman’s voice broke into his thoughts. “If you put it off any longer, Emmy will go on her own.”

“I know, but some of these people will get killed. We still might find armour guarding the place.” Harold just didn’t want to send young women to face guns, not again.

His dreams were still full of people he’d failed to save, or led to their deaths, and most were women. The dreams about Mercedes were worse, the ones where she reminded him of his promise—they both lived or they both died.

“Whoever hacked the BBC said those tanks were manned by Specials, so the chances are they came from Evesham. Now tell Emmy we’re going to get her hubby, make a Bad Girl happy.” Sharyn, his big sister, patted Harold on the back. “Just think of the trouble you’ll cause when those guards go home.”

“Unless their officers shoot them.” Harold braced himself, then went to spread the news. He wanted to bust that work camp wide open before the nineteenth, so everyone he freed could take the ashfield pictures with them. With a bit of luck, at least one would head home to every city, a backup release.

* * *

Two nights later, a convoy of Army lorries led by an armoured car thundered south down the A1(M) Motorway. Although soldiers in uniform manned the weapons mounted above the lorry cabs, most of the people hidden in the back wore plated jackets and carried swords as well as firearms. Less than an hour later the convoy pulled into a motorway service area, driving around to the back of the hundreds of lorries already parked there.

Harold jumped down from the Fox reconnaissance vehicle as twelve unarmed men were escorted from a lorry. Despite a few friendly calls from the other lorries, they all looked apprehensive.

Harold knew why, so he smiled. “Don’t worry, we really are going to let you go. You’ll be driven off down a side road, then your guards will take two wheels off your transport and smash the radio. By the time you’ve put them back on, got back to the motorway and flagged down a convoy, we’ll be long gone.”

The lieutenant, even if he didn’t look like one in jeans and a shirt, still looked worried. “We’ll have to tell the authorities who you are—all of you. Numbers, weapons, all that sort of thing.”

“Tell the truth. Don’t try to shade it or one of you will make a mistake, then you’ll all be in trouble.” Harold pointed up at a nearby lorry. “Stripes wants them all to know, the Specials and their bosses, that she’s coming for them.”

“Too damn true. Patty and Harold are teaching me to shoot a big rifle, in case I can’t get near enough for a knife.” The young woman’s smile looked hideous, especially now she’d coloured the four scars down her cheeks bright red, and added blue and white stripes. “Here.” She threw a phone down. “I can’t really disguise myself, so they may as well get the full impact.”

Harold waited as one man caught the phone. “If you get a chance, I’d like you to let Orchard Close know we are alive. We’ll get there sooner or later, so don’t take too many risks. Just let any soldiers know—our war is with the Specials and they started it.”

“We’ll pass that on, but can’t be sure it will get further than whoever picks us up.” The lieutenant was climbing into a different lorry when he stopped. “This one is still half loaded.”

“Empty Berry Beer bottles, we know the brewer. She’ll appreciate getting them back. There’s even enough diesel in the lorry for you to reach Hampton in Arden, so you could deliver them.” He laughed as the men exchanged nervous glances. “I know you won’t. A pity, as that would give us a bit longer to get to our destination, off the motorways.” Harold left it at that, watching in silence as the men climbed aboard and the two lorries set off. The second one would bring the guards back.

* * *

As soon as the two lorries were out of sight, the whole convoy burst into action. People poured out of the vehicles, spreading out to pre-selected lorries, none of them Army. Most of the food and clothing was already here, taken down the motorway in several small convoys. The rest was quickly transferred, then the Army vehicles were split up, moved to different parts of the lorry park and covered in tarpaulins.

Heavy timbers were pushed from the rear of one lorry to form a ramp for the Fox. It drove up carefully, stopping once it was completely inside, safely out of sight. Chocks were fitted using the holes already drilled in the floor, with ropes so they could be yanked free in an emergency. The sides of the lorry had been weakened, so they could be dropped if the big gun was needed really quickly.

Two low-loaders already had vehicles aboard, diesel tankers, though their shape was hidden beneath a frame and tarpaulins. One had come from the last lorry park, one from this, both almost full despite the alleged fuel shortages. Presumably the diesel was there in case the authorities needed some of the lorries, or a convoy ran short of fuel. If Harold could get the tankers inside the wire, they held enough fuel to keep the Orchard Close alliance going for years.

The fixed weapons had been stripped from all the Army lorries. Now some were fitted to civilian lorries, those with the fixtures, while others were set up inside closed wagons. The thin sides wouldn’t even slow up bullets, while people with hatchets were poised to cut aiming slits.

By the time the Army lorry came back, reporting they’d taken off two wheels, the rest of the convoy had assembled. “We threw the wheel nuts over the hedge. They’ll find them, or enough of them, but it will slow the job up.” Henry, wearing a contractor’s almost-Army uniform, saluted before laughing. “I know, it’s a rubbish salute. Is Liz in the right lorry? She didn’t decide she wanted a different colour?” When Harold shook his head, Henry ran off to take up the gunner’s position on the lorry carrying his wife and her forge.

Harold watched him go with a totally genuine smile. All seventy-five of them were like that, excited, laughing and joking, because the training was over—they were finally going on a real mission. The smile died because Mercedes would have loved this, a raid on a work camp. Even if the released contractors never spread the news, in a few days the whole country would know Soldier Boy was alive and well. “All clear?”

The two women on top of a lorry lowered their binoculars. “No convoys coming either way, Harold.” When he beckoned they slid down ropes before running to their transport.

* * *

Harold climbed into the leading lorry. “Wagons roll, Robin Hood.”

The driver, Wayne, shook his head as Doll laughed. She had her blonde hair stuffed in a soldier’s helmet so she could sit in the cab. “He’s still resisting and I’m enjoying persuading him. If I ever get fed up I’ll give him the full treatment.”

Harold laughed; he had too. “Don’t do that, he’ll have no brain cells left.” He looked in the passenger-side wing mirror as the lorry picked up speed. “Headlights on, Wayne, we’re a peaceful, legal convoy tonight.” He stood up, his head and shoulders outside the cab, and swivelled the machine gun. This lorry had one of the two fifty-calibre weapons, hopefully enough to blast anyone suspicious before they could raise the alarm. At the very least it should keep any opposition busy until the rest could join in.

“Do you think the Specials will be vewwy, vewwy cwoss when they find they’ve been looking for the wrong lorries?” Wayne sniggered because the next part really amused him. “Disappearing an armoured car will probably make them bloody nervous at least.”

Despite the hilarity, everyone kept a watch for interested aircraft, or any passing convoys slowing for a better look. If the convoy got into a fight, they’d be lucky to get clear before aircraft arrived. Some of the tension eased when the convoy left the M1 motorway, taking the M69 and then the A46 south-west to avoid Birmingham. He’d been tempted to take a detour, drop off the non-combatants, but daren’t risk it. Hints persuaded the captives he was heading for London, but if the government realised he wasn’t, they’d put checkpoints on every road.

Everyone was on edge again as the lorries followed the bypasses skirting the wastelands that had been Coventry, Kenilworth and Warwick. Most of the buildings had been levelled, and large areas had been totally cleared, leaving the battlements of Warwick Castle looming over the desolation. The fortification was obviously in use, with windows lit up and floodlights illuminating a wide area around the walls, clearly visible as everything in the intervening mile-wide strip had been levelled.

South of Warwick the dual carriageway petered out, but so did the traffic. The few convoys heading the other way were too close for comfort, but all Harold’s drivers and gunners were wearing uniform. Doll flipped through the channels on the radio but there was no alarm, not yet. Stratford-upon-Avon was still being demolished. Their road, the A46, skipped past all the activity before turning west, heading across open countryside.

An hour and a half after setting off, four miles from the work camp and the remains of Evesham, the lorries pulled off into an abandoned industrial estate. The vehicles reversed into the larger units, in some cases after a section of wall had been dropped, then the tyre marks were covered in dirt and debris. The delay for training had allowed for some scouting and extensive planning, so the fighters quickly set up lookouts, swathed in thermal curtains and blankets to hide their body heat.

The water was still on, as was the electricity but that was left strictly alone. There’d be no lights and everyone would stay under cover where their heat wouldn’t be noticed. Offices quickly became living quarters, though it was all temporary.

There’d be more scouting now—to be certain all the armour had left the work camp. If the tanks had gone, there were still two weeks for scouting, though Harold didn’t intend waiting that long. Hopefully the patrols could be snapped up just before the attack, to give them more time to find Curtis and liberate the rest of the camp. The Orchard Close contingent were determined to have Emmy’s hubby back inside Birmingham in time for the big reveal. For tonight everyone slept as well as they could.

* * *

The next morning, while Harold was having his breakfast, one of the new recruits disturbed him. “Hello Sarah, what’s so urgent?”

She held out the sheet of paper, written copies of the messages being broadcast from London. “They’ve been broadcasting a lot more the last few days, but this morning there’s new ones, including this one. Do you think they’re serious?”

Patty came in behind her, looking over her shoulder. “Very serious, they’d love to get Soldier Boy in there to attract recruits. Then they’d stick him on the front line to get a recruitment video, and one of those snipers would kill him.” Her voice was voting against that idea. “Though I’ve got another message, Harold. Your surname is Miller, isn’t it?”

“Yes, you know it is.” Harold stopped as he remembered they all knew from his wedding, to Mercedes. He couldn’t speak through the lump in his throat.

Patty didn’t realise why he’d stopped. “Liz reckoned you called yourself Harry, not Harold, when she first knew you.” Her voice had some humour in it now, so she’d found something funny. “So does Harry Corporal Miller mean anything, with some references to a broom cupboard and a sin palace?”

Harold came to his feet. “Cynthia. What does it say?”

It must have been his tone of voice because Patty pushed Sarah aside, coming into the room. “No Harold, you can’t! The bastards will carpet bomb the place if you turn up.”

“I can’t not, Patty. I set up Cynthia in the library, the Cyn Palace, tried to give them a safe place. I thought they’d have been overrun by scroats years ago.” Harold heaved a big sigh, because now he had an answer—he could defend Cyn Palace until the tanks rolled over it. That would deal with all his dreams, his ghosts, his memories and his promise to Mercedes.

Characters in
Fall of the Cities VIII
Legends Never Die

Silent Running aka SR: 31 escapees,

Harold (Harry) Miller: 25: ex Corporal pay clerk. CGC Conspicuous Gallantry Cross. Enclave leader: aka Soldier Boy, or ’Arold to Mercedes. Rifle marksman who learned sword fighting as a joke, when his SAS friend gave him a swordstick

Ava: 21: Ex Hot Rods slave: Cooper’s victim, Demon/Sneaky Squad

Casper: 25: big well-muscled gay man, short-sighted, bodyguard

Cherie: 13: Charger’s daughter

Curtis: 29: short, stout gardener, Emmy’s bloke, now in a government work camp

Daisy: 9: Harold’s niece: hyperactive - leader of Mini Squad

Doll: Dolly: 24: aka Gunslinger, blue-eyed blonde: Head gunslinger, now a Demon

Edward: 8: Eddie: Little Ed: Tessa’s son - wants to join Mini Squad

Elise: 16: Groomed by Trev, helped execute him, now training as Demon, Radio repairer

Emmy: 26: aka Bad Girl, Jamaican: tall, signature hair (half cropped), sniper, head gnome, Demon, Tammy’s mum, Curtis’s gartered wench

Fergie: 23: Attractive, outgoing, refugee: Riot Squad, Ski’s girlfriend, Demon

Gulab: 6: Ruhika’s daughter

Henry: 28: aka Hammer, Riot Squad, Liz’s heavy hammer husband, Demon

Lily: Charger’s wife, Cherie’s mum

Liz: 27: 5’ 11” ex-artiste blacksmith, slim but very strong, Henry’s wife

Louise: 34: quiet graphic designer, gay, Barbie Chandra’s ex, pinned/braced thigh bone

Mack: Big Mack: (Albert) wife Marge: 7 foot bodyguard: Caddi then Harold

Margaret: Marge: Small Asian woman. Big Mack’s wife from pre-Crash

Mercedes aka Killer Queen: 20: Harold’s wife - assassin and spy, trains sneaky-squad

Patricia Elliot: 31: Trainee nurse. Now experienced especially with wounds

Patty: 29: aka Demon - demon knitter: crossbow Queen, sniper, leads Demons (fighters) - self-appointed Harold’s enforcer, lost 2.5 fingers left hand, Vulcan’s girlfriend

Roxanne: aka Blue, was Amelia: ex-Geek sniper bait, blue stripe in hair, Demon, Sneaky-Squad

Ru: Ruhika: 24: aka Aneka Myrtyua - many deaths, small feisty Asian woman, sniper, Demon, Gulab’s mum

Sharyn: 30: Harold’s sister: Army widow: Daisy and Wills mother

Ski: 19: ex-Barbie, but left to marry Fergie, was called Dorothy, Demon

Tammy: 3: Emmy and Curtis’s daughter, born after Curtis left

Tessa: 27: aka Apprentice, Eddie’s mum, Harold’s friend & gun apprentice

Thien or Ly Thien: Vietnamese, Umeko’s friend, Wellington’s involuntary nurse, now his widow

Umeko: 21: aka Cobra, Demon, sniper - Asian, ex-Geeks brothel, now has boyfriend, Marcos

Wamil: 29: tall, quiet Asian woman, deadly keep-fit techniques, Ru’s friend, still healing

Wayne: ex-GOFS - survivalist - sneaky and good with bow

Wills: 7: Sharyn’s son, Harold’s nephew

Doberman/Labrador crosses: Amber, black and tan: Angel, gold

Sarah: wounded arm, survived one melee

Nicky, Danica: two long gashes down each cheek, punishment - volunteered as bedwarmer then tried to kill him

Mark: Survived the arena once but his girlfriend died

* * *

Tunnel Rats:

Twelve survivors in the cave system near the Hope Valley, includes Stewart, Tish, Wade and Wellington

Grimalkin, Sharyn’s black cat and Rocket Man, New Zealand White stud rabbit

ORCHARD CLOSE ENCLAVE

(Split into Allotment and Farm, but still sign in as Orchard Close on the coupon bus)

ALLOTMENT: Almost 120 people including:

Callum: fifty-ish man, one of leaders, guards entrance.

Millicent: older single woman respected by the rest

Abigail: 27: quiet nervous woman once sex slave, with son used as control - Allotment

Conn: 27: short slim man, prematurely bald, Lillian’s ‘widower’ - Allotment

Gayle: 23: Trainee, now practiced dentist & anaesthetist - ‘The ninja Dentist’ - Allotment

Joey: 11: Pippa and Robert’s son - Mini Squad - Allotment

Louie: 23: notched ear from bullet - Suzie’s husband - Allotment

Pippa: 30: Genius baker: wooden right hand and forearm - Allotment

Robert: 31: Pippa’s husband - Allotment

Rory: 6: Abigail’s son - Allotment

Sukie: 9: Suzie’s daughter, loves having a new dad, Louie - Mini Squad - Allotment

Suzie: 26: Asian - Sukie’s cheeky, cheerful Mum, sister died fighting - Louie’s wife - Allotment

Violet: 3: Abigail’s baby girl, first child born in Orchard Close - Allotment also a substantial number of young women recovering from abuse after rescue from gangs

* * *

FARM: Well over 200 people in repaired houses with defensive wall and stockyard

Abraham: 54: oldest refugee: Stately Gnome - gardener

Alicia: 26: Grieving for Barry - bomb maker

Bridie: 20: a rescue who is a natural with a rifle and spent all summer practicing

Frederick: 41: amateur carpenter: Kathleen’s husband - Rosalyn’s dad

Galileo: ex-Geek manager: engineer, makes crossbows, ballistae and catapults

Gemma: 20: Riot Squad: ex-Murphies ‘brothel’- stays to guard abused women

Georgina: 12: Olive’s daughter, Mini Squad

Jackie: 22: tall, slim, black, ex-Bloods, wears miniskirts because she can, and it isn’t an invitation

John’s Pat: 40: Religious Christian, wife of Pat’s John, counsels abused women

Julie: sniper bait- Garden Gnome (Gnome is where the heart is)

June : 42: ex-trophy wife, trainee teacher and nurse, blind left eye

Kathleen: 37: Fredrick’s wife, Rosalyn’s mum

Marcy: ex-Geek sex slave, became Tell’s voluntary woman, then fiancée

Maryam: 44: rabbit breeder. Refugee from General, George’s widow

Mathias: ex- Geek soldier: sweet on Gayle but understands she’s not interested

Max: 24: Fighter refugee - stays to protect rescued women

Mia: widow - quiet, Millie’s mum

Millie: 8: Mia’s daughter, member of Mini Squad

Nate: 20: ex-Murphies - grieving for Beverley, determined to protect other women

Olive: 34: Zach’s widow, Georgina’s Mum

Olivia: 24: Riot Squad, stayed to protect the young women

Pat’s John: 41: now Christian lay preacher, trying to counsel young women

Rosalyn: 15: Fredrick’s daughter

Sarah: 18: aka Fantasia, very pretty ex-Hot Rod victim

Sorcha: 21: Amateur engraver, has the kit

Tell: aka William Tell: ex-Geek manager: gang bowyer & archer

Theo: 30: Roy’s friend, experienced fighter, stays to guard young women

Tim: 27: Refugee with nothing but his fiancée, now wife, Toyah

Toyah: 24: Refugee with nothing but Tim, now husband

includes 37 ex-Geeks who disagree with gang policy on women

and the most traumatised refugees with their mastiff Thandia, and alarm dog Sooty

OTHERS

Captain Kernow: Captain overseeing the section of Birmingham perimeter including Orchard Close. Has met Harold, Sharyn, Mercedes and Tessa. This unit is now part of the blockade around London

Sergeant Stokes: was charge of the Army troops guarding the bypass near Orchard Close, where he got to know Harold and Mercedes. His unit is now blockading London

Private Lionel Vaughn: Army wouldn’t let him marry Rihannon (Orchard Close), then she was killed

Tolly: Lieutenant: Sgt. Stokes’ usual liaison with Captain Kernow

Dealer: travelling salesman with bulletproof cars, trades ammunition, propellant, gun repairs, live animals and fish, fresh meat, and almost anything else in return for scavenged valuables, enclave products, or coupons

David: one of twelve guards with automatics, personal bodyguard during trading

Supply: The warehouse manager supplying the Dealers in each enclosed city

The Cabal

Owen: Chairman: tall, greying, distinguished, confident: old money

Boris: Foreign Office: small, slim, dark-haired, wants best enclaves kept alive to transplant into Europe, once the Cabal invade

Faraz: RAF liaison: wiry, intense Asian. Frustrated by pilot ‘intransigence’ over burning civilians

Gerard: Youngest of cabal leaders: organises transport incl. distribution of food

Grace: tall spare grey-haired woman, aristocrat, runs work camps, considers occupants scum

Henry: Portly man with thick black hair and beard, farming, wants to rescue best enclaves

Ivy: Stout middle-aged redhead in charge of food storage and sale, liaison with Marts

Joshua: Army liaison. Spare, balding man, proud of the Army, dislikes paramilitaries

Keris: Falklands operation, especially the refinery, doesn’t visit UK

Maurice: Spymaster, bland, unassuming, mousy-haired, medium size and build. Enjoys manipulating gangs to destroy each other, and the profits from spy network and loot

Vanna: tall Asian woman dealing with special facilities and private military forces, hard-line, wants all ‘undesirables’ dead. Has a cut of spying and looting profits

Victor: Navy liaison: smart, impeccably groomed career naval officer

IN THE CITY

Hot Rods: ex car thieves: neighbouring gang to the south of Orchard Close:

ET: E-Type: joint leader

Roller: joint leader

Spanky: ET’s woman, voluntary: ex-victim of gang boss

Virginia: Roller’s voluntary woman

GOFS: Gods of Fire and Steel: gang to the west, good smith so plenty of metal weapons, live in fortified girl’s boarding school called The Castle

Gofannon: gang boss

Vulcan: senior GOFS: warchief: was courting Patty, old-style

Wayland: senior GOFS: superb blacksmith

Hephaestus: Heff: senior GOFS

Ogou: senior GOFS

Cyclops: senior GOFS who wears diver’s face mask to protect spectacles

Cy: GOFS soldier who survives Barbie doctoring, trained to shoot by Harold and Emmy, has pics with Emmy, Doll, Patty, Mercedes, Umeko

Brighid: a GOFS woman

Henrietta: ‘Head Girl’: Gofannon’s woman, wears schoolgirl short uniform, carries hockey stick

Charlie: 34: home appliance repair man, builds windmills for generators - from OC

Hilda: 46: ex clerical worker, dog Mischief. Switchboard operator - from OC

Isiah: 39: Kerry’s hubby: reclusive, lame ex-telephone engineer, built switchboard - from OC

Kerry: 36: Shy: Isiah’s wife: seamstress and embroiderer, has many trainees - from OC

Kharon: 52: from the Murphies: clock repairer: makes grenade mechanisms - from OC

Pricilla: 16: Elizabeth’s daughter, now an orphan, moves in with Veronica - from OC

Veronica: 19: quiet daughter of Isiah and Kerry, Pricilla’s friend, library, switchboard - from OC

Geek Freeks: ex- shop assistants: gang to the north, treat women as slaves, worst recently assassinated by Umeko hit squad

Hawkins: gang boss: senior manager

Marconi: manager: radio man: still angry over being caned in Orchard Close

Nobel: manager: chemistry student: bomb maker

Warchief, Wellington, and his new wife, Thien, just left with breakout

Barbie Girls: all-female gang founded by escaped prisoners, notoriously savage. Based in ‘Beth’s’ aka The Queen Elizabeth II Shopping Centre, west of the GOFS. Their elite wear blonde wigs and adopt the name and style of a Barbie Doll

Malibu: Senior Barbie : business suit, pearls & weapons: ex prisoner

Christie: Senior Barbie: African ethnicity but wears blonde wig: ex prisoner

Ken: Senior Barbie: Large and dresses as a man: warchief: ex prisoner

Chandra: Elite: Asian: dress slit right up both sides: ex prisoner, Louise’s girlfriend

Cherry Pie: Elite: Heavily tattooed: dresses as American farm girl: ex prisoner

Beach Beetch: Elite: genuine blonde (allegedly): leather swimsuit: ex prisoner

Zahara: new elite: mixed ethnicity: bright colours, big Afro, short blonde wig

Skipper: Operates Barbie Radio: Wears striped top and socks, carries transistor

Mia: Barbie soldier, their shooter, then Umeko trained her properly

Vinnie: Barbie fighter, she bought Splash the Staffy X: ex prisoner

Splash: Staffy X sold to Barbies

Maggie: Dobermann cross bought from Orchard Close: guard dog

Aaron: 29: Roy’s friend, experienced fighter - smashed hip - from OC

Jilli: 17: Jillian, taken in trade: musical genius, now live on radio & making CDs - from OC

Logan: 28: Tall, muscular refugee: Beach Beetch’s doggy & husband - from OC

Rob: 41: Plumber, lost both feet and half right leg - Susan’s husband - from OC

Susan: 36: divorcee: Rob’s gartered wench - from OC

Mix of Riot Squad and most aggressive rescued women - from OC

The Pub: The only one, near the Barbies for protection

Berry: 21: recent orphan, dog Barley, tall, strong, runs The Pub. Seth’s wife - near Beth’s

Seth: 27: trainee brewer, Berry’s husband, carries sawn-off shotgun - near Beth’s

Genoa: New name for ex-Julius enclave as their men are now mercenary soldiers, earning their freedom after being captured. Enclave run by Barbies/GOFS/Riot Squad

Julius (Caesar): prisoner, because he led his men to fight for the General.

Spitting Sid: Gun repairer and currently the only Genoa resident Harold Trusts.

Professors: mixed race and mixed sex leaders: mostly ex-University tutors. Leads alliance with SIMs, Benny’s Boys, and Goths

Prof: Leader: an old professor in a suit and robe

Celeste: Dance teacher, now organises physical training of skirmishers and trade with neighbouring gangs.

Chad: Rugby team captain, now leads fighters

Benny’s Boys: less violent and aggressive after allying with the Professors, SIMs and Goths

Benny: gang boss

Dumbo: Madman in a fight, but not a deep thinker

SIMs: democratic commune: invaded by General. Escapees settled next to the Professors and Benny’s Boys, and allied. One survivor, Michelle, brought the secret of their vicious, accurate short-range rockets

Michelle: led the escape: now the spokesperson for the survivors.

Julie: surviving rocket maker

Stevie: squad leader: now rocket squad

Maisie: kidnapped, forced to build rockets for the General - rescued and returned by OC

Goths: gang south of the Professors, now allied. Gang names taken from songs by The Cure

Caterpillar: Gang boss: Mid-twenties woman wearing Victorian-style black dress

Spiderman: gang boss: Man wearing black tee, jeans and boots with lots of buckles

Lovecat: gang boss: late teens woman in torn black minidress, tights, and knee-high black boots.

Keepers: small dual enclave linked by canal tunnel under Toppers, based in Dudley Zoo: use animal tranquilliser darts (lethal) and canal boats: joined by Precinct 19 and Sikhs

Teddy: ex manager: Imogen’s fella

Imogen: ex under-Keeper, Teddy’s partner

Inga: Flamboyant ex tropical bird keeper, has captured David the policeman

Ivor: Bison and buffalo keeper

Mia: Deer keeper

Stephanie: ex big cat keeper, tranquilliser gun expert

Takato: refugee who brought firearms (ex-big-game hunter). Tans skins and pelts.

Precinct 19: small enclave led by ex-police, join Keepers and Sikhs, used numbers but slowly dropping them

Sarge: No. 33: retired police sergeant: now the leader

Sergeant Koos: No. 15: senior fighter, ex police firearms squad

David: No. 613: constable leading a squad of ten, entranced by Inga

Javed: No. 229: constable leading a squad of ten

Simeon: No. 814: constable leading a squad of ten

Benny: No. 518: marksman

Samuel: No. 277: marksman

Sue: Sarge’s granddaughter - 15

Sikhs: A small enclave of mostly Sikhs, who escaped the Barbarians and have joined the Keepers

Mahaan: Leader: Ex-military: Sikh weapons instructor

Fauja: 15, trained, armed and wants to fight

Curly and Bonny: leaders of two gangs between the Zoo and the Mart who trade with the Keepers

Toppers: gang between halves of the Keepers’ enclave. Small quiet gang trying to trade for a milk animal or to join Keepers. Leaders dress in tails and top hats from a looted hire shop.

Toff: Leader

Spiv: Lieutenant

Barbarians: very violent gang to NW of city, encouraged by Cabal agent to conquer other enclaves

Conan: leader: Physically very big and strong. Bearded, paranoid, abusive, psychopath likes to break women, physically and mentally. Frustrated because current slave won’t break. Currently recovering after she almost killed him

Garth: Warband leader (100 fighters)

Ivan: Warband leader (100 fighters)

Boris: Warband leader (100 fighters)

Python: Warband leader - (100 fighters)

Cool Hand: Warband leader - (100 fighters)

Khan: Latest Warband leader (100 fighters) surplus from other warbands

Sylvester: Conan’s spymaster, a Cabal agent

Catherine: aka The Bitch: Conan’s slave woman, still defiant despite horrific abuse

Victor: Vic: fighter who helped Garth kill his boss, and is now his spy

Sister Meredith: leader of the nun medics

Sutton Park Alliance: Northern third of city. Five gangs, mixed sex and ethnicity, conquered the whole park. Tolerant of conquered, rely on ex-park keepers to keep food coming, being secretly steered to combine and fight better by group of park keepers, secretly ex-Gurkhas, who volunteer as scouts

Vikings: Odin

Valkyries: Angel

Yakuza: Hangaku

Skins: Shiner

Hard School: Headmaster

Chelle: Shiner’s ‘wife’

Frenchy: ‘French’ mistress, Hard School elite and Thor’s lover.

Jer: ex-park warden

Asif: ex-park warden

Nosy: new member with long facial scar, caught spying for mystery someone

Newbies: New refugees who are allowed to settle if they provide fighters for the combined gangs.

Kabir, Gaje, Ganju, Prakash, Kamal: more park wardens, part of an inner group. The wardens are allowed to organise themselves as long as there’s fresh veg, fish and meat for the gangs.

Children of Cain: large gang to the East of the Sutton Park alliance, violent rapists and murderers led by religious fanatic

The Last Prophet: leader: wears sacking: believes God wants him to conquer and cleanse the city

Jehoram: elder son: Host commander - overall commander of all Hosts

Herod: elder son: Host commander

Jephthat: elder son: Host commander

Lot: elder son: Host commander

Lilith: woman in a sacking robe: seer who ‘interprets’ the signs from God to steer Prophet

Patton: now an elder son: survivor from General’s defeat, 33 Bloods, now Prophet’s Host of 120

Atlas: Patton’s second, more brawn than brain

Cyn Palace: London: Sinner’s, Preacher’s, Imam’s, Kermit’s and Eli’s gangs, an alliance around a library and school playing fields in NW of London

Sinner: tall, muscular blond: leads the Sinners: Sin’s bloke

Sin: (Cyn, Cynthia): redhead who founded the gang, in the library: leads the Sinners: Sinner’s woman

Preacher: C of E preacher who leads his enclave: conducts all types of Christian service.

Imam: pre-crash Islamic religious leader, leads his enclave

Kermit: short, stocky black man leading the Muppets

Eli: tall, thin white man leading the Dolists (based in an unemployment office)

Nita aka The Librarian: a founding member of the Sinners, religious, dedicated to protecting her son and Cyn Palace

Marcie: Ex prostitute, a founding member of the Sinners

Davie: soldier who deserts to find Marcie, his one love, bringing weapons

Sally: Dolist who would kill for new underwear, even men’s

Amersham Tube Station (outside M25) to NW of London

London Defence Committee: a group of people co-ordinating groups of gangs to defend their areas when the Army attack. They have experts who can use the remaining stockpiles of industrial water gels and emulsions to create mines and shaped charges

Judge: Chairman, short stout Caucasian man who dresses in dark suits and overcoats

Methuselah: black woman, a civil engineer who will advise on creating tank traps and strongpoints

# Intel, a nameless, tall slim Caucasian man who might be the spymaster

Ronin: a large Asian man who is a demolitions expert, and can build shaped charges

El Cid: possibly Mediterranean man - expert on Infantry tactics

Thor: Slim middle eastern woman with a scarf covering her head and mouth, responsible for rocket artillery, heavy weaponry

The Reivers: Scottish Highlands: founders were 258 survivors from the massacre of Glasgow, now several thousand strong, have just forced Cabal out of most of Scotland

Bruce: leader: ex Black Watch

Angus: ex Black Watch: wife and three bairns killed by artillery, trains fighters

Maeve: Widow who lost an arm fighting, family killed by artillery, now organises supplies

Hamish: Leader of the small fleet of fishing boats helping feed the Reivers.

European Mercenaries: remnants of national armies offered sanctuary if they fight

Klaus: Oberfeldwebel Klaus Huber, sniper, ex German Army with a daughter, Elke

Marie: widow of French sentry killed on Wall of Steel

Lost Lambs: (with main specialisations): remnants of an SAS Troop (sixteen plus officer and some support staff) abandoned in the Middle East by the Cabal during the Crash, tried to walk home with stragglers, but only six left, plus two ‘family members.’

Currently travelling out of the Balkans, heading across the north of Italy

Stones: demolition and heavy weapons: Harold’s best friend before the Crash: Corporal

Dobbin: linguist and heavy weapons: Corporal Ryder

Tez: marksman and logistics: ginger-headed, always complaining, 50 cal rifle, 33 rounds - trooper

Chips: Boat Troop mechanic: trooper Carpenter - broken leg

Static: signals, navigation and AA missiles: FAC (Forward Air Control) trooper

Fakit: (First Aid Kit) Medic and Mobility: Troop mechanic and medic: trooper

Zrina: young Croat woman ‘married’ to Chips

Branka: young Croat woman ‘married’ to Fakit

Ferdy: SAS trooper (shot in the ass book one) Knows Harold and Stones

40 Commando

Wheaton, Lieutenant Colonel: Commander

Royal Anglian Regiment, 2nd Battalion (The Poachers), A (Royal Lincolnshire) Company

Captain Kernow - company commander

Lieutenant Tolman - Tolly - platoon commander

Sergeant Stokes - section leader in Tolly’s platoon

Secure Transport Solutions: Private Contractors bringing supplies to British Army units in combat situations

Saracen Support Ltd: Private Contractors supplying Specials to garrison Tower of London (Cabal-controlled)

Liz’s Rambo: Fighting knife with a seventeen inch blade, widening to three inches before tapering again over the last quarter. One edge is sharpened, as well as the reverse curve back from the point. The back of the blade near the short, wide crosspiece has a notch to catch another blade, and the hilt has a large, heavy, rounded boss, to use as a club

A little smaller than the shortest versions of a Roman Gladius - 20”-22” blade, 3” wide blade, triangular point

Fox Armoured Reconnaissance Vehicle: 4 road wheels, Petrol engine, two man turret, driver with front hatch 30mm L21 RARDEN cannon, 99 rounds in 3-round clips, 2 clips at once, 2,200 yds and 7.62 mm machine gun, 2600 rounds, 600 per minute, 50-round belts, armoured against small arms

Accuracy International AWM: with .338 Lapau Magnum rounds, Sniper rifle used by the British Army, and others, now phased out

SA80: British Army rifle, now replaced as it was designed for urban warfare

L129A1: British Army rifle issued to marksmen (not a sniper rifle). Now replaced

Starscope: Light gathering telescopic sights: excellent visibility in very poor light.

7X64 Rifle: Calibre often used for deer or boar hunting in Europe (Ruhika)

.375 H&H: Holland and Holland originally manufactured this calibre for hunting big game. In parts of Africa big game hunting with anything less is forbidden. (Emmy)

.308 Blaser R8 Professional Success: hunting rifle breaks down for case. 4-shot clip (Harold)

.308: common hunting calibre although not many hunting rifles in UK

.303: old British Army calibre (Alfie)

30-30: Winchester underlever calibre (Patty)

.22 Rifle: small calibre used in many indoor ranges. Suitable for killing small vermin and hunting rabbits. Custom built target rifles can be very accurate up to three hundred yards but are badly affected by wind.

VANCE HUXLEY

Vance Huxley lives out in the countryside in Lincolnshire, England. He has spent a busy life working in many different fields – including the building and rail industries, as a workshop manager, trouble-shooter for an engineering firm, accountancy, cafe proprietor, and graphic artist. He also spent time in other jobs, and is proud of never being dismissed, and only once made redundant.

Eventually he found his Noeline, but unfortunately she died much too young. To help with the aftermath, Vance tried writing though with-out any real structure. As an editor and beta readers explained the differ-ence between words and books, he tried again.

Now he tries to type as often as possible in spite of the assistance of his cats, since his legs no longer work well enough to allow anything more strenuous. An avid reader of sci-fi, fantasy and adventure novels, his writ-ing tends towards those genres.